A PanAfricanist Queer Womanist Collective
By Tosin Otitoju
I am starting to like it in India. The local girls seem to have not a care in the world. They skip-skip-skip in the shade of a tree. They talk, with a lot of moving of hands and hips and eyes. Now they are laughing. I notice this girl. Her stomach is a ripe color. Not caramel. Lighter. Irish crème. But yellower. Ah, I don’t know my colours, but it is marvelous, this thing that stretches like a gourd between the two halves of her clothes.
It moves, a testament to God. There is such a thing as perfection. Perfection: not tiny, as though the guts had been removed. No. At the base it is sturdy and fleshy. Ripe. But where it starts, it is long and lean. Her torso is lean and flexible as she hop, skips and stops, her body engrossed in her dance-steps. She knows how to move, this girl. Imagine a belly dancer and a hip-hop dancer combined, but all that executed in this soft, sweat-less cadence. Imagine a temple dancer.
Later, when I sit down to dinner next door, guess who swank-swank-swanks across the floor with my order? It’s the same milky gourd as before. It’s lean, yet far from bony. This time, however, its boundaries are lined with a different fabric – the cloth is yellow, but also looks red (as I said I don’t know my colours.) On her navel, there is a tattoo that looks like the sun surrounded by a star, like the picture in that fable about the sun and the wind.
The food seems to taste so wholesomely good.
The girl reappears to clear my dishes. “What are those bells?” I ask her. She says nothing, she only smiles, and I lean closer to inspect the bells she is wearing. I want to kiss her, but my courage fails me.
Soon, she places her lips on mine and kisses me. Me. God. She is beautiful. She kisses me again. She licks over my lips and glides in through the corner. She explores my mouth – teeth, roof, teeth – I feel her moving, now she’s moving over my tongue. It’s regular, it’s predictable, it glides like viloo.
Enough of this taunting. I get in the ring too. No more smooth viloo, vilooo – it’s chaos! I’m not gentle – I’m mad. I want her tongue. I want her body very tightly against me. I’m holding her to me now. I’m pushing her bottom up and in towards me. She is too.
Oh I want to breathe, but not until I’m out of breath. I’m taking it all from her – her tongue, her air. She stops, and turns her eyes up into mine, and smiles. We laugh, sort of breathe and laugh, and she kisses me again. I start to kiss her. We know the drill now. I am not gentle. I could bite her, but I don’t. I only pretend.
We’re moving together now. I remember the first time I moved like this – first it had been lovely, then a fat baton sprung between us in his jeans. Today it’s a girl. I’m kissing a lovely girl. I’ve always wanted to do this, but my courage…my courage has always failed me.
She puts her hand in my shorts and finds my vulva. The smile on her face – I think she likes shaved clean. I can tell. God, I am beautiful. By the time her finger slides inside me, I am a ball of pleasure. To keep from moaning, I grab her earlobe with my lips.
Suddenly she starts shouting something I don’t understand and springs away from me. It takes me a moment to return to my senses, thoroughly disappointed. Only a moment later do I see what the girl had seen: an elderly man in dhoti looming at the door.
She could be in trouble.