Illusions of a Bachelor: Martial Love (2)
By Aaron Aroriza, Uganda:
Up until this point I hadn't noticed the bar had gotten crowded. I had promised myself I would drink only one glass of beer. I kept that promise. Only, Phillip had ensured my glass didn't get empty in the five hours we had so far spent talking.
The music blazed on. A few people danced to it. In the corner to my left, three girls in skimpy outfits – if they could be called outfits at all – screamed and shrieked as they danced. One was bending over, her hands supported on the wall. The one in red short shorts (why are they called so?) that looked like they would burst under the pressure of her gyrating hips and bum anytime stood behind the bent over girl rub-a-dubbing her. Apart from her red short shorts the only other cloth on her body was the top that barely covered her extravagant bust. One wouldn't be blamed for thinking it was a bra. Now that I think about it, maybe it was a bra. Compared to the third girl who stood behind her completing a devilishly erotic rub-a dub sandwich, the red short shorts-el-bra girl was over dressed.
In the corner of my eye, I spied Phillip watching me with a smirk that turned into a grin when I turned to fully face him. The laugh lines under his eyes were something I had never seen in his childhood. He seemed to always be sad back then. He even had wrinkles on his forehead as a kid and two sad lines that stretched from either side of his nose to his lips making him look like an 'over-stayed in power' octogenarian African dictator. The sad lines had now become happy lines – perhaps because part of the lines was covered by his over grown beard and the wrinkles just added character to his face. He was now a movie star. “They are part of my cast,” he said, nodding his head toward the direction of the skimpily undressed three girls. I had already made up my mind; these girls were more undressed than they were dressed.
I didn't see her coming. Phillip must have called her somehow while I sipped on my one glass of beer wondering how many bottles had been poured in there so far. I should have promised myself I would drink only one bottle not one glass. The red short shorts-el-bra girl leaned towards me, her extravagant boobs almost dropping in my beer: Not that I minded it at all. Her eyes looked beady and had a certain devilish pull to them. Or was it just my lust? If you've lost count of beers you've taken, you can't be sure you can still account for your judgment. But green eyes on an African girl? Now that's something. Oh, contact lenses; now that could explain it.
“Phillip says you need company,” her husky voice was almost manly but it was still sweet – especially in a bar setting – most especially for someone who had lost count of how many beers. She suddenly stood erect, ferociously swinging her dreadlocks. Her eyes widened, slowly forming into a sweet smile. “I know this guy,” she turned to Phillip. And for the next ten minutes she narrated a story that painted me wacky and made Phillip happy.
“…that's how I ended up with this guy in his car while my best friend rode with his friend. But he was so high he forgot the way to his home and instead followed the other car till we ended up in his friend's compound. His friend laughed his head off as he helped him out of the car, wondering how he had even been able to drive at all. All four of us shared the same bed but the moment this guy got onto bed he blacked out. No matter how much I tried to jump start him, I never succeeded. The other couple had all the fun while I had a sleepless spectator night-mstcheeeew, useless man. You would imagine he would make up for it when he woke up in the morning. But waa…when he woke up and found himself in bed with two naked girls, he just jumped out screaming like a little girl. That's when I confirmed he wasn't a real man. Perhaps even the whole black-out thing was just an act…” Red short shorts el bra narrated on and on, graphically describing every detail much to Phillips glee while I sought to flee.