Bound Of Blood (Part one) Unedited

One day I will move away from these narrow little themes but in the mean time this is the second short story I am attempting.
I am using a different writing style this time the characters are less idealised so the writing is les poetic than the style I used in Vanilla.
This is also a very short draft that will be extended later so if it seems the story line jumps too much please be reminded that this is first draft.

For the first time in his life Sean Jason Rees felt lonely. It was not the kind of lonely he had become accustom to in his long years of solitary travel nor the kind of lonely that crawled into bed with you when the moon is split into pieces by the bars on your window.
No the loneliness that Sean felt today was a much heavier burden even than the chains and shackles that clattered about his feet as he marched in stunted steps along the grey tiles.
It was a loneliness reserved only for those who had known the agony and tenderness of love and as Sean felt the drag of gravity in his shoulders and the cutting stabs of fear and anticipation in his gut Sean feared that it was the loneliness that would last to that bitter end.
He tried to ignore the inhabitants of the cells on his way; they all had that look in their eyes, even those who had not yet become accustomed to their bonds. Like wild animals they paced the floors in their cells swearing revenge and resistance, and others beaten and broken sunken eyes and trodden spirited, cogs of the system.
But today as he clattered passed their bars he could feel them stare with that bitter foreboding penitence.
“Cleanly shaven I see… New fancy haircut I see, that aint gonna do ya no good out there pumpkin!” came the malicious cackle from the cell at the corner of the corridor.
The cell had been christened Toadsburry hall in honor of the grotesque scurvy in mate who claimed it. His name was Henry Killen and the unsightly disease that crusted his skin in welts and warts was how Africa had punished him for his crimes. It had been the trafficking of young tribal beauties to supply whore houses across the world that had won Henry his latest stint in cell block C. but it was the warts that had made this latest incrassation easy in comparison. Killen had suffered no nightly intrusions from “the lipsticks” and other prisoners treated him with the loaded respect one might afford a leaper.
Sean was sickened by the gangly man with his yellow teeth and poky face so he kept his eye fixed on the back of the warden that lead him through the prison like a dog on a leash.
They passed through gates unlocking and locking each as they passed them. They moved in a series of wining hinges and metallic banging.
Passing a priest Sean had refused to see or speak to since his introduction to the population, and now as Sean was lead passed the robed figure he was sure he could see regret in the mans face.
Another short way before they came to a big green steel door.
Sean felt his heart skip a beat as the wardens key found its place in the lock and turned with a loud click.
The interior of the room was starkly lit and sparsely furnished but he’s attention was immediately drawn to the glass wall on his left hand side.
She was there her eyes seemed emotionless….


She was careful not to wake him when she moved her hand from his little shoulder to turn the page. The small rasping sound of his breathing didn’t change as he shifted sleepily on her lap until he’s face was turned up towards her. He wrinkled his nose and she found herself smiling at the Angelic face of her sleeping son.
She had witnessed this sleepy oddity so many times in his childhood and yet it still pulled at her heart strings and made her want to hug him tight to her chest.
The tic tic tic noise from the wall clock filtered into her awareness suddenly and she checked the time almost in habit.
It was late, far past Christian’s bed time and she reprimanded herself for letting him have his way.
“He’s the boss” she thought too herself “and he knows it”
She lifted him gently into her arms and felt him come to slightly as she stood up from the lumpy sofa.
“But mommy I’m not even sleepy” came the groggy little voice close to her ear, and she smiled at how trained the response was.
Not bothering to respond as he had slipped back to sleep just as the words left his mouth she carried him along the hall to the bedroom next to hers to lay him down under the covers of the car shaped bed he had wanted so badly.
She kissed him on the forehead careful not to disturb him and start the argument for a place in her bed.
“I love you mommy” came the groggy little voice again as she moved for the door.

Everybody had said she was crazy when Naomi Silverstone announced that she was pregnant. At 32 she was one of the most sought after marketing executive in the country and there wasn’t a firm or product that wouldn’t jump at the chance to work with Naomi.
She was at the height of her career and yet her personal life had been less than ideal up until now.
A string of misshaped relationships had turned Naomi into a pessimist when it came to love and matters of the heart; and realizing she was not getting any younger Naomi made a visit to a fertility clinic where she chose an anonymous sperm donor and became pregnant by artificial insemination.
She was determined to be a mother and her lack of male companionship would not deter her from her goal.
Her pregnancy was without event and drama, as Naomi settled into a management position with a smaller firm that would afford her normal office hours, a day care facility and a shorter commute from the suburban home she had purchased, refusing to raise her child in the top floor apartment of the smoggy and uncaring city.
He had been born in January by caesarian section, Naomi would have none of the idealized drama that accompanied a natural birth and insisted that only her mother should be present when Christian was born.
Ingrid was possibly the only person who understood her head strong daughter and divined that Naomi’s insistence on privacy and simplicity had much to do with the perceptions outsiders may draw from her unwed status.
Independent and self assured as she was she was under no illusions as to the nature of human beings and would risk no scar on her dazzling professional reputation.
It was until Christian entered her life with little grace and was deposited bawling and wet into Naomi’s arms that everybody in the room realized that Naomi had finally found a man who could make her swoon.

Vanilla (Edited)

So Finally Vanilla is finished and Chaz was kind enough to fix my spelling. Yes I know I cant spell lets get over it.

17:03, the time had seemed odd at first but it had been days since I had first been witness to this intrigue and I had long since stopped pondering its significance.
It was no more than the metallic clatter of a door opening above the din of the evening crowd and she was there.
Back straight and determined she marched….no “strode” across the dimly lit room, undeterred by the feathers of cigar smoke brushing the slight blush on her cheek.
She wore heels as always with her hair swept back into a twist. I divined that it was a skilled accident that escaped the dark fringe from its pins and brought it romantically over her left eye.
Always the left eye.
She did not check her step as she grazed past the waitress tending my table.
Vanilla….. everyday Vanilla.

“Your becoming a regular”
The busty waitress crackled, her voice grated.
Her face was pretty yet marred by hard years. The yellowy shade to the inside of her well formed lips belied years of cigarette smoke. Her eyes were smiling that forced dutiful smile.
Soft on the eye, hard on the heart, possibly trodden dreams of a silver screen like many her age in these parts of Jozi.
Her long blond hair, an impractical style for waiting tables and though her finger nails were clipped short one could see the glossy finish of a clear nail varnish.
Hers were the stories I lived for.
Everyone has a story, everyone has a battle and they wear them on their bodies like patchwork raincoats.
Out on the street a beggar wears the grace and air of a former life. His shoulders square and the fleeting flickers of pride in his sallow face tell of a man who hit the bottom harder because of the distance he fell.

I nodded at the waitress, smiled and drew the glass nearer.
My attention momentarily wandering from the woman cloaked in vanilla to the bubbles bobbing in my beer. It took but a moment for me to find her a place.
I’d type her in tonight.
“She’d like that” I thought to myself, Ill make her an actress or a cabaret singer in a smoky Broadway club.
She disappeared her long hair escaping its bonds as she turned on her heel and headed to the rowdy crowd near the bar.

When I returned to Vanilla she had found her table, deserted as usual, in an uncomfortable corner in the back of the pub.
The light was a smoky amber and for a moment I considered perhaps “the mistress of a gangster” but the thought left as soon as it came, there were no showy pretences of riches about Vanilla she wore a classical class that oozed of pride, she was an effortless sexy but most of all she was mysterious.
And it was this that brought me here every night with the blue collar crowd.

Her poise was not downcast but her chin was tilted only far enough to let the shadows cloak her eyes
Eyes that never scanned the room.
She knew he would come.

Serene I thought as my mind gripped at adjectives to dress Vanilla in.
She sat slightly sideways, her legs comfortably crossed accentuating the curve of her calve.
Nothing about her was anxious or expectant.

7minutes later he entered.
He entered as he always did, allowing himself the slightest pause to drink her in, always the phantom of a smile in his eyes as he spots her in the corner.

Ignorant of my movie star waitress cooing her good evenings at him in syrupy tones he begins the journey towards the back of the bar.
Journey…..
He wears the black linen of a well tailored suit only to mask the beat of his heart, is it anguish, is it fear, that implacable emotion that twitches the sinew in he’s square jaw. Implacable though it may be it’s not the twitch I noticed first.
As he comes shuffling through the crowd past my table I catch a glimpse of it again. Misty gray eyes swallowed in a strong draft of longing and sorrow.
There was no smells or distinctions about this man, tall undoubtedly handsome and yet simple.

If she had sensed his presence, nothing about her belied that. She sat still her chin still tilted hiding her eyes from me.
When he reached her table he pressed his right hand to his left breast pocket, the effort was deliberate but not forced, and it gave me the idea that this man needed to force very little in his life.
Yet he came with intention every night, and night after night his intentions were the things that kept the synapses of my brain firing late into the night.

The waitress was back to clear my glass.
Her body blocked my view of the couple in the corner as she replaced the ashtray and removed the foamy remains of the beer.
I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat, anxious to be rid of the girl.
“Another” the words sounded short and rude as I croaked them at her and I felt the temperature drop
“Please” I added a bit to quickly and forced a smile at her.
With a difficult curl in her lips she shuffled of to the kitchen.
I didn’t notice the gentle sway in her hips as she weaved her way trough the people, my attention was fixed on the story that refused to reveal itself in the back of the bar.

He shifted easily into the small chair across the table from vanilla, it was only then that she lifted her face into the smoggy yellow light and allowed me to see her eyes.
It was the moment I had played out in my mind each night for two weeks, the moment I could not write, single seconds that had afforded me countless rewrites and driven me to the limits of my abilities and instincts.
Something moved in those deep hazel eyes as they settled on the unassuming honest face of the man across the table.
It was torturously implacable and yet so intensely honest.
A remarkable unknown that had driven me to weave, destroy and rethink every web I had built for her.

They did not greet one another.
Not a hand shake nor a hallo passed between them. He simply sat down and met her gaze with his.
It was not a challenge nor was it a scrutiny.
He seemed to settle in her eyes.
Minutes passed and still they had no words for one another just an impenetrable stare.
Around them the pub seemed to heave with end of day relieve.
Some laughed and a group of businessmen near me toasted some recent success. My waitress fought a sea of wandering hands with wavering patience to deposit my beer wordlessly on my table.
And yet Vanilla and the man sat lost in their own place oblivious to the milling push of humanity around them.
The cackle from the large woman in the booth behind them shattered the air and yet passed without a flicker of notice from the dark little table in the corner.

Minuets drew on like this.
Until as suddenly as she had come, she got up and moved for the door
The clatter again and she was gone.
Swallowed up by heavy hot air of Johannesburg’s nocturnal throbbing.

I watched him heave a sigh but it wasn’t relief. Perhaps self loathing.
As if on queue a mousy little waitress appeared at his table with a scotch glass. He nodded and smiled easily at the uninteresting little creature who scampered back to her post behind the bar and left him alone again.
He sloshed the golden liquid and ice around in the glass twice brought it to his lips and swallowed it with a single gulp.
He looked at the drained glass remorsefully as he held it at eye level propped up on his elbow.
I tested the water again and conjured up a world of industrial espionage as he placed the glass and a R50 note on the table. But dismissed it again as he passed me on this way to the door.
Deeper I thought to myself. Human, yes, and honest.
Unchecked unrefined and untapped the story that sat only tables away from me would not be tamed as easily and try as I may she would not let me dress her in the intrigue and flattery of a commercial best.
No Vanilla would be raw.

She was still in my mind when I left the pub. Stepping out into the smothering air I sniffed a futile sniff hoping that her scent my guide me.
But there was nothing.
Nothing more than diesel fumes and noise that crowded the narrow sidewalks of a changing city bursting at its seams with societal contrast.
I would try tomorrow again, but I was starting to fear I was a fool and a brick wall.
I flicked a silver coin at the hobo with air and grace before moving the old Pontiac Barracuda into the snaking traffic.


*******

By 16:30 the view from my office window had changed its face. October rains had thundered down on the tall buildings and dirty streets all day and washed the grime from old jozi leaving her smelling of sun baked tar and sulphurous lightning.
The evening sun was just starting to pierce the bruised clouds and shot shards of red light into the allies and windows of dilapidated buildings.
Street venders and beggars started to emerge from the cities wounds, they oozed from every crevice and unoccupied shelter.
Hobbling up and down the lines of parked German luxuries pleading for the copper stuff that rattles and jangles in the pockets of the bankers and brokers who pour through the turnstiles of the four giants of the economy.
She had come so far and she had seen so much, and yet her inhabitants carried with them the daunting premonition that the beast that stirs below the vibrant surface may wake at any moment.

I stepped out into the streets, considered going for the Pontiac only momentarily before seeing the long line of red tail lights stretched out along Commissioner str.
My city is bleeding I thought to myself and congratulating myself of my poetic flare.
I’ll have to use that somewhere.
At a slightly hurried pace I set of along the bustling sidewalks feeling the city air seep in through my pores.
Today will be the day, I was sure of it, as I had been the thirteen days preceding today.

I ambled along the twisting city blocks lost somewhere in the black and whites of cloak and daggers still to be written, in the humid little cubical I rented from the citizen news paper where I banged out an endless drone of columns and human interests on the old IBM.
It was there but only for a moment.
My mind had not yet had a chance to process the broken pieces of an image and dismissed it almost instantly.
The knock off Rolex on my wrist grew heavier as I realized how late it was.
I quickened my pace and it was as I slipped between the throng and press of human bodies I saw it again.
This time the picture lingered long enough to scrape the confines of comprehension.

Ahead in the street
She was wearing white I recognized the fall of fringe across her left eye and her confident gaunt.
Parts of me wanted to touch her, wanted to dip into the soul of a woman so untouchable yet so painfully honest but parts of me feared that what I may find would tarnish the dazzling reality I had built for her.
I could write her an Olympian goddess in her white linen skirt that blossomed ever so slightly around her knees.
She could be my Aphrodite, an immortal perfection only she could do justice to, a Mary Magdalene perhaps, cloaked in secrets powerful enough to crumble the walls of faith.

No I won’t touch her.
I dare not ripple the cesspool of captivation and poison it with the mundane.
I chose rather to walk in her shadows.
Hers a confident step that parted the pedestrians in her way like Moses parted the waters mine and uncomfortable duck and weave as I struggled to maintain the distance between us.
A distance so close that I could make out the fine hairs in her neck so close that I could smell the vanilla of her skin yet I kept her out of reach willing my finger tips not to reach out to her.

I checked the Knock-off again as the bar on the corner came into sight. 17:02
As I looked up she had stepped off the curb stones onto the steaming tar to cross the street that lay like a ravine between her and amber light pouring through the windows.
The constant rhythm of the clack of her heels on the sidewalk paving quickened as she trotted across the black surface, her white skirts trailing in the evening breeze she was a Lipizzaner in a graceful canter.
Splashed across the city noises.
Trucks ,
Cars,
Voices,
Foot falls
Sirens……sirens.
It was the human fascination with the macabre that dragged my eyes from the goddess in the street and searched the untidy maze of road and stone for the origin of the screeching scull splitting noise.
The damp mob on the pavement in front of me pressed me back as I found the electric blue flash of lights and the screech of tires and metal grew closer.
It showered her face in streaming blue light and for the fist time I saw Vanilla display undisguised emotion but I was pushed further back caught in the retreating press.
I struggle against the bodies

I was afforded only moments to drink her up.
Only moments and I could drown in her eyes
I lived a hundred lives in the fall of her body.
It was seconds and my senses were grappling with the realization of her mortality, but my mind, my mind allowed me the stretch of a life time, one spent imprisoned by her embrace delirious from her sent my mind afforded me a thousand mornings with her a beautiful waste of time


The noise must have been unbearable it was the dull thud that boomed in my mind and paralyzed my body.
The police cars with their white and blue war paint ripped an open wound in the city streets. It was like summer lightning tearing closer to my Vanilla.
It seemed that the city exhaled when the effort to swerve brought the car into a vicious velocity driven slide.
And then the thud.
I had tried to grasp her so many times but it was like trying to catch and hold onto smoke, Perhaps that was why I clung to a bitter hope that she would evaporate ahead of the side long slam that must have broken her back.
But alas she would not be carried away on the chill that swirled among the high buildings.
No wind would sweep her away and perch her out of harms way

Her body was not twisted and contorted into the macabre puppetry of the pain her final moments must have afforded her.
I don’t know why I thought it would be.
The steam that rose from the road had swallowed her up as she fell and swept a curtain of ghostly silver across her face.
Her eyes were closed guarding the onlooker around me from pits of sorrow that swam in her hazel eyes.
And her hands, still warm in mine. Each perfect finger weaved into mine and I was a fool for imagining I could feel the blood pulsing through the fine blue veins underneath her cashmere skin


Peace.
There were no fancy words or flourishes I could bathe her lifeless face in.
Her hair had come loose and the dark tresses framed her beautiful face, the evening light burning red shards into the chocolate colors of her hair.
I understood now why people often revert to such an unimaginative cliché when revering to death.
Moments drew on and I felt the heat in her hands dissipate and I held her tighter willing it to remain just a little longer.
People mulled about her I recall a paramedic check a pulse I knew he would not find.

“Did you know her” it was a shout in a thick African accent from the medic at her other arm.
I don’t know how long it took me to respond because he repeated the barked question before I was able to stutter a reply. Was I crying?
“yes” it was weak and only barely audible over the voices and noises that amplified the horror of the scene.
“tell me her name”
Words that were never there died to dust in my mouth as I searched the angelic face of a woman I’d never known.
I didn’t know her name, and yet I held her hand tighter, willing the reality away trying with my every fibre to hold onto it at as the heat slipped from her hands and the sun kissed glow dissipated from her skin.
In desperation I averted my eyes and searched instead for answers, or sympathy in the dark little face of the medic.
But I found another face nearby. In an ocean of curiosity and fascination he stood. Unassuming and sallow his shoulders were slumped.
It was the current of unmasked pain and open regret in the tearful grey eyes that made me let go of her.
I had intruded. Walked on holy ground

I was faced with the burning bush and nothing in my career or life could have prepared me for what I found in this man.
He had aged a hundred years as he stared down at the cold vessel that was once Vanilla and the sadness that swept him felt like a cold blade flaying the skin on my lips.
It was tangible almost and yet he didn’t cry, he didn’t offer and explanation.
He just stood as if cast from stone watching until she was taken from him.
It was the slightest twitch of his hands as they lifted her to the ambulance that broke my heart.
Had he wanted to touch her?
He never touched her in the bar.

Slowly the crowd wandered off, their blood thirst satisfied.
I sunk then into my own sadness and confusion realizing that I had lost so much more than my hopes of a best seller.
But when I looked up he was gone.

A week had passed since Vanilla had baptized the city I loved so deeply in her blood, and each day I avoided the little corner pub and its crushing memories.
But my absence from the place did not dispel her from my mind.
she was there always flirting with my sanity, in crowds on the television I smelt her hands in mine despite the soap and water I used to wash her from me.
I could see her
I could smell her and worst of all I could feel her.
I was no match for vanilla and it was not long before I found myself in the little bar at 17:03 waiting for her….
It seemed that my vanilla had left the place unscathed.
The busty blond waitress with her tray, carting drinks and glasses from table to the bar.
The regulars robust and rowdy in their revelry.
The little table in its uncomfortable corner empty lifeless and my mind conjured up hazy phantoms of her painted in vanilla.

“She’s gone what are you doing here” I scolded myself “get up and leave”
But I didn’t leave
Instead I sat a while longer and watched him shuffle in.
Without ceremony, or bells and whistles. He may have gone unnoticed by the other patrons.
Nobody looked up to notice the sallow look on his face or comment on his sunken eyes framed in that bitter purple color that speaks of sleepless nights.
He’s step was slow and deliberate as he reached the little table and he sat down heavy under the hear ace and despair that covered him like lead.
He was an unfortunate figure as he swallowed the scotch.

I had never been able to approach her, too fragile was my bond with her to dare chance the meeting, and yet there I was my hand on the back rest of her chair across from his sunken dreams prepared suddenly for any eventuality.
I sat down and fixed upon him and yet he did not seem alarmed at my presence not did he move to be rid of me.
I had stepped into his grief uninvited and yet undeterred.

He swallowed again and met my gaze.
“I saw you with her, on the road”
It was not a question, it was not even a statement yet I sensed it was a justification.
“ her name was Eve” he’s voice deep when he mentioned her name.
“I met her here 2 years ago and she made me feel like my life had just begun. I came back every night just to talk to her, just for her to look at me like she sees me”
It was whipped from his face as soon as the tear appeared.
“you see sir, I have lived so much of my life being invisible…..”
There was hesitation in his voice
“and I deserve to be. But with her…. With Eve I had substance”
“I am married you see….” Something about his tone told me that I didn’t see
“but Farah had taken to drinking when our child was still born three years ago. She drank to numb it she drank to forgive herself, she drank to forgive me for not falling as far she did, and after a while she stopped seeing me”
It was not the story I had imagined, but I kept still and watched as it played out across his face
“I came here every night to see Eve and she never presumed anything even when we had fallen so deeply in love that every fiber within me longed to touch her.
She wouldn’t of coarse, I was married and she had too much class to walk that road even if I had the courage to let her.”

He spoke long into the night.
At times he cried.
He had promised her a life together but Farah had taken a fall that night that had put her in a wheel chair.
A fall that had plunged him into the pits of guilt to heavy and sick with it to move.

Finally he finished. Eyes swimming in sorrow and relieve.
My words had no place here so I remained silent and watched him leave.
When I left the bar that night my mind was awash with possibilities.
He never touched her and yet he loved her.
The purity was almost to hard to believe and yet I wanted to with everything in me I wanted to believe and I wanted to tell it.
And I did.
Months latter the little paper back about a woman named vanilla who met a man in a bar every night to hear him say they could be together. About a man bound by guilt to his drunken wife and about a promise that could never be fulfilled hit the shelves under a dark cloud of critic.

“it lacked substance and believability” one said
“an idealistic love story, out of place in its modern setting, more suited for the housewife genre” another had taken printed.
Vanilla never made second edition and while I did not know it at the time but vanilla would be outsold three fold by a glossy commercial about a busty blond waitress who dreams of becoming a movie star.

The sidewalk was grubby and the night air would suffocate you in your sleep, with the newspaper and its hateful remarks tucked under my arm I ambled along the city streets cursing their insolence.
“How dare they”
“How dare they say that about her”
It was bitter as bile in my mouth and I cursed the shadows about me and this city that could not love her as I did.
“I loved her”
When I stepped into the smoggy little room my eyes caught a glimpse of him in the corner. Slumped slightly against the wall.
I had not spoken to him since the night of his confession and now as vanilla fell to the bottom of the must read list I had no intention peppering either of our wounds.
I took a table and ordered a bear intending to wash the hurtful words from my mind with the abrasive bubbles.
The waitress was still a waitress and she was little more than a dull figure in a cookie cutter spell in a book that did not fight me like vanilla did.
She delivered the beer, grinning a crooked grin and her hate of being here.
But there was something wrong.
My view had changed and I noted he was leaning on the wall and not simply slumped to one side.
I hated that he had fallen this far.
He was my hero Adonis in my pages and here he was squandering vanillas place in scotch and cigar smoke.
It angered me and as the horror bubbled up I stood and walked to him.
Deliberately, with intention.


The scotch had been laced with poison.
The police report would confirm.
It would latter be called a murder and I thought it more dignified as I folded the napkin and put it in my breast pocket.
Maybe one day I would write Vanilla again, he had given me my ending.
On the napkin in my pocket, in the scraggly hand of a dying man four simple words that she would never hear
“To be with you”

Vanilla (Concluded)

I was faced with the burning bush and nothing in my career or life could have prepared me for what I found in this man.
He had ages a hundred years as he stared down at the cold vessel that was once vanilla and the sadness that swept him felt like a cold blade flaying the skin on my lips.
It was tangible almost and yet he didn’t cry, he didn’t offer and explanation.
he just stood as if cast from stone watching until she was taken from him.
It was the slightest twitch of his hands as they lifted her to the ambulance that broke my heart.
Had he wanted to touch her?
He never touched her in the bar.

Slowly the crowd wandered of their blood thirst satisfied.
I sunk then into my own sadness and confusion realizing that I had lost so much more than my hopes of a best seller.
But when I looked up he was gone.

A week had passed since vanilla had baptized the city I loved so deeply in her blood, and each day I avoided the little corner pub and its crushing memories.
But my absence from the place did not dispel her from my mind.
she was there always flirting with my sanity, in crowds on the television I smelt her hands in mine despite the soap and water I used to wash her from me.
I could see her
I could smell her and worst of all I could feel her.
I was no match for vanilla and it was not long before I found myself in the little bar at 17:03 waiting for her….
It seemed that my vanilla had left the place unscathed.
The busty blond waitress with her tray, carting drinks and glasses from table to bar.
The regulars robust and rowdy in their revelry.
The little table in its uncomfortable corner empty lifeless and my mind conjured up hazy phantoms of her painted in vanilla.

“She’s gone what are you doing here” I scolded myself “get up and leave”
But I didn’t leave
Instead I sat a while longer and watched him shuffle in.
Without ceremony, or bells and whistles. He may have gone unnoticed by the other patrons.
Nobody looked up to notice the sallow look on his face or comment on his sunken eyes framed in that bitter purple color that speaks of sleepless nights.
He’s step was slow and deliberate as he reached the little table and he sat down heavy under the hear ace and despair that covered him like lead.
He was an unfortunate figure as he swallowed the scotch.

I had never been able to approach her, too fragile was my bond with her to dare chance the meeting, and yet there I was my hand on the back rest of her chair across from his sunken dreams prepared suddenly for any eventuality.
I sat down and fixed upon him and yet he did not seem alarmed at my presence not did he move to be rid of me.
I had stepped into his grief uninvited and yet undeterred.

He swallowed again and met my gaze.
“I saw you with her, on the road”
It was not a question, it was not even a statement yet I sensed it was a justification.
“ her name was Eve” he’s voice deep when he mentioned her name.
“I met her here 2 years ago and she made me feel like my life had just begun. I came back every night just to talk to her, just for her to look at me like she sees me”
It was whipped from his face as soon as the tear appeared.
“you see sir, I have lived so much of my life being invisible…..”
There was hesitation in his voice
“and I deserve to be. But with her…. With Eve I had substance”
“I am married you see….” Something about his tone told me that I didn’t see
“but Farah had taken to drinking when our child was still born three years ago. She drank to numb it she drank to forgive herself, she drank to forgive me for not falling as far she did, and after a while she stopped seeing me”
It was not the story I had imagined, but I kept still and watched as it played out across his face
“I came here every night to see Eve and she never presumed anything even when we had fallen so deeply in love that every fiber within me longed to touch her.
She wouldn’t of coarse, I was married and she had too much class to walk that road even if I had the courage to let her.”

He spoke long into the night.
At times he cried.
He had promised her a life together but Farah had taken a fall that night that had put her in a wheel chair.
A fall that had plunged him into the pits of guilt to heavy and sick with it to move.

Finally he finished. Eyes swimming in sorrow and relieve.
My words had no place here so I remained silent and watched him leave.
When I left the bar that night my mind was awash with possibilities.
He never touched her and yet he loved her.
The purity was almost to hard to believe and yet I wanted to with everything in me I wanted to believe and I wanted to tell it.
And I did.
Months latter the little paper back about a woman named vanilla who met a man in a bar every night to hear him say they could be together. About a man bound by guilt to his drunken wife and about a promise that could never be fulfilled hit the shelves under a dark cloud of critic.

“it lacked substance and believability” one said
“an idealistic love story, out of place in its modern setting, more suited for the housewife genre” another had taken printed.
Vanilla never made second edition and while I did not know it at the time but vanilla would be outsold three fold by a glossy commercial about a busty blond waitress who dreams of becoming a movie star.

The sidewalk was grubby and the night air would suffocate you in your sleep, with the newspaper and its hateful remarks tucked under my arm I ambled along the city streets cursing their insolence.
“How dare they”
“How dare they say that about her”
It was bitter as bile in my mouth and I cursed the shadows about me and this city that could not love her as I did.
“I loved her”
When I stepped into the smoggy little room my eyes caught a glimpse of him in the corner. Slumped slightly against the wall.
I had not spoken to him since the night of his confession and now as vanilla fell to the bottom of the must read list I had no intention peppering either of our wounds.
I took a table and ordered a bear intending to wash the hurtful words from my mind with the abrasive bubbles.
The waitress was still a waitress and she was little more than a dull figure in a cookie cutter spell in a book that did not fight me like vanilla did.
She delivered the beer, grinning a crooked grin and her hate of being here.
But there was something wrong.
My view had changed and I noted he was leaning on the wall and not simply slumped to one side.
I hated that he had fallen this far.
He was my hero Adonis in my pages and here he was squandering vanillas place in scotch and cigar smoke.
It angered me and as the horror bubbled up I stood and walked to him.
Deliberately, with intention.


The scotch had been laced with poison.
The police report would confirm.
It would latter be called a murder and I thought it more dignified as I folded the napkin and put it in my breast pocket.
Maybe one day I would write Vanilla again, he had given me my ending.
On the napkin in my pocket, in the scraggly hand of a dying man four simple words that she would never hear
“To be with you”

Men, Woman and Orgasms

You probably thought there was something wrong with you, or that you were doing something wrong.
You’ve learnt to fake it like a professional and now you’re lying in the wet spot trying to imagine what it would be like to actually experience the ultimate high.
You have never told him and you have never told your girlfriends, because ultimately you think you’re dysfunctional.
If your adventurist you may have tried some sort of cream or stimulant and you’ve probably had no luck.
I know this because this is how I felt. I know this because I am just like you and it wasn’t until I admitted it loud and clear without shame on this blog and to many of my friends that other woman started to come out and admit that they too lived with the frustration.
I realized that I wasn’t the exception, but rather the norm, and I was gob-smacked by how well woman have been able to keep this under wraps.
It’s the best kept secret known to man (and yes I do mean man).
Each one of them is a Casanova in his own mind. The original Mr. Lover Lover and not one of them is privy to the fact that you (and 90% of the other woman his been with) stopped paying attention after the first 10minutes and were more than likely pondering the lineup in the TV guide for the rest of it.

My revelation is not an exaggeration.
A little while ago I used this blog to admit to the world that “I can’t orgasm during sex”.
I admit it was candidly and well hidden at best but it was picked up by a few people.
The men were dumbfounded naturally.
But it was the response from woman that got all my mental bells ringing.
Each conversation was understandably hushed but all sounded the same.
“Neither can I” they would say “I don’t know what’s wrong with me”.
I was a woman on a mission and I did as one tends to do in such situations. I googled it!
I was even more surprised to find ,literally hundreds upon thousands of questions about this problem on web sites devoted to woman.
But it was not until a male friend of mine mentioned something quite true to me that I was driven to discuss it with the world.

“This is false advertising” he said.
“All you woman are the same. You’re crazy in bed for the first few months and then all of a sudden it comes to an abrupt halt”
It hit me like a tone of bricks.
Like a sumo wrestler on a scooter on a downhill.
We’ve been keeping a secret that has and is damaging our relationships and destroying our sex lives.
You’ve had too many martini’s (may I suggest News café rose martini) and before you know it your telling your girlfriends that “he’s just not as in tune with me as he used to be”
He screws his secretary at the office party and justifies it with “a man has needs”

I believe that for the most part these problems can be solved if woman come clean.

I can see some conservative hackles being raised right now, and I can understand that after centuries of marginalization in the department of female sexual satisfaction that broaching a subject such as this is as comfortable as a chainsaw enema.
But ladies and gentlemen (and all those of ulterior persuasion) bear with me long enough to consider my point.

We call it the honeymoon period, the touchy feelies, the warm and fuzzies. It’s the first couple of months or weeks of a relationship and apart from the chase it is the most exciting time you will have together. Everything is new and hence exciting.
In a space of weeks you have driven each other to the limits of your physical capabilities you have an intimate knowledge of the grain of tile on his kitchen floor, the durability of the shower head and only the two of you know how that lamp really got knocked of the grand piano.
It’s intense and you are willing the excitement of exploring his body and simply being with him distracts you from the fact that you just can’t get there.
The point is that the thrill of the unknown that keeps you in bed till 14:00 in the afternoon without a care for your real mundane life and the happenings of the world.
For him it’s that and the marathon of mind blowing orgasms you afford him.

However fast-forward 8 or 9 months when the “do not disturb” sign has been taken down and real life intrudes on your sexy little existence.
The vanity has worn of.
He doesn’t put his laundry in the hamper.
He farts in bed.
And the mole on his left butt check is starting to resemble a tick more and more every day.
The girl who promised you she was immune to PMS is a fork tongued basilisk with smoke coming out of her ass 29 days a month.
The obsessive tidiness and inability to unwind is driving you insane.
And to crown it all she is picking up weight (leaving you in that oh-so dangerous territory of the “do I look fat in these jeans?” question)
The realization that both of you are little more than human beings with your own set of hang-ups and idiosyncrasies is slowly seeping in through the cracks of your matrix and as it does the lust at fire that once burnt between you seems to dwindle.

Its at this point where you loose interest.
Her payoff used to be the adrenaline rush spiked by the excitement of a new man, and since the vanity has long since warn of you are left with very few selling points when it comes to the bedroom.
He on the other hand may have slipped into the sexual rut but there is still a pay-off in the end.
That lucid orgasm that he can achieve and you can’t.
And since you never shared the truth about the matter with him, you’re still faking it and he has no reason to believe that your lacking libido has anything to do with him.

He settles for taking what he can get when he can get it and reserves the right to complain to his golfing buddies that you’re frigid.

Now consider for a moment that it was common knowledge that the female orgasm is an endangered species.
In the interest of preserving the life span of his all important sex life men will not only put more effort into satisfying you sexually but will also anticipate the fall of your libido and will be more willing to and more prepared to bolster the lack of excitement with either sweet seduction or the implementation of various tools.
He will understand that you may not be able to climax during sex but that you may be more susceptible to the stimulus during foreplay and will thus pay more attention to this department or whatever the case may be.

At the end of the day, not only will you see a huge improvement in the quality of your love making but you will be communicating about sex and it is my personal feeling that couples don’t do that enough.
We are more comfortable communicating to our friends what we are not getting from our sexual relationships than what we are communicating these same feelings to our partners.

Now Ladies to get to the question that you are all mumbling at me.
“What makes you think a man cares enough about what I’m getting out of it to make the effort?”
Well the answer is quite simple.
It’s a cardinal truth about men that you should never forget.
There are fair few things in this life that men are willing to go all out for while his sex life is one of them his ego is the other.
He wants you to tell your friends that he rocked your world.
He wants you to go to work smiling like a fool
He wants you to believe that he is a sex god because that is good for his ego (and of coarse the alteration it brings to the way other people perceive him doesn’t hurt).
He is also willing to go the extra mile to achieve this.

Its just a thought.
Mull it over
Use it don’t use it.

Vanilla (Part 2)

Ahead in the street
She was wearing white I recognized the fall of fringe across her left eye and her confident gaint.
Parts of me wanted to touch her, wanted to dip into the soul of a woman so untouchable yet so painfully honest but parts of me feared that what I may find would tarnish the dazzling reality I had built for her.
I could write her an Olympian goddess in her white linen skirt that blossomed ever so slightly around her knees.
She could be my afrodity, an immortal perfection only she could do justice to, a Marry Magdalene perhaps, cloaked in secrets powerful enough to crumble the walls of faith.

No I would not touch her.
I dare not ripple the cesspool of captivation and poison it with the mundane.
I chose rather to walk in her shadows.
Hers a confident step that parted the pedestrians in her way like Moses parted the waters mine and uncomfortable duck and weave as I struggled to maintain the distance between us.
A distance so close that I could make out the fine hairs in her neck so close that I could smell the vanilla of her skin yet I kept her out of reach willing my finger tips not to reach out to her.

I checked the Knock-off again as the bar on the corner came into sight. 17:02
As I looked up she had stepped off the kirb stones onto the steaming tar to cross the street that lay like a ravine between her and amber light pouring through the windows.
The constant rhythem of the clack of her heals on the sidewalk paving quickened as she trotted across the black surface her white skirts trailing in the evening breeze she was a liposaner in a gracefull canter.
Splashed across the city noises.
Trucks
Cars
Voices
Foot falls
Sirens……sirens.
It was the human fascination with the macabre that dragged my eyes from the goddess in the street and searched the untidy maze of road and stone for the origin of the screeching scull splitting noise.
The damp mob on the pavement in front of me pressed me back as I found the electric blue flash of lights and the screech of tires and metal grew closer.
It showered her face in streaming blue light and for the fist time I saw vanilla display undisguised emotion but I was pushed further back caught in the retreating press.
I struggle against the bodies

I was afforded only moments to drink her up.
Only moments and I could drown in her eyes
I lived a hundred lives in the fall of her body.
It was seconds and my senses were grappling with the realization of her mortality, but my mind, my mind allowed me the stretch of a life time, one spent imprisoned by her embrace delirious from her sent my mind afforded me a thousand mornings with her a beautiful waste of time


The noise must have been unbearable it was the dull thud that boomed in my mind and paralyzed my body.
The police cars with their white and blue war paint ripped an open wound in the city streets. It was like summer lightning tearing closer to my vanilla.
It seemed that the city exhaled when the effort to swerve brought the car into a vicious velocity driven slide.
And then the thud.
I had tried to grasp her so many times but it was like trying to catch and hold onto smoke, perhaps that was why I clung to a bitter hope that she would evaporate ahead of the side long slam that must have broken her back.
But alas she would not be carried away on the chill that swirled among the high buildings.
No wind would sweep her away and perch her out of harms way

Her body was not twisted and contorted into the macabre puppetry of the pain her final moments must have afforded her.
I don’t know why I thought it would be.
The steam that rose from the road had swallowed her up as she fell and swept a curtain of ghostly silver across her face.
Her eyes were closed guarding the onlooker around me from pits of sorrow that swam in her hazel eyes.
And her hands, still warm in mine. Each perfect finger weaved into mine and I was a fool for imagining I could feel the blood pulsing through the fine blue veins underneath her cashmere skin


Peace.
There were no fancy words or flourishes I could bath her lifeless face in.
Her hair had come loose and the dark tresses framed her beautiful face the evening light burning red shards into the chocolate colors of her hair.
I understood now why people often revert to such an unimaginative cliché when revering to death.
Moments drew on and I felt the heat her hands dissipate and I held her tighter willing it to remain just a little longer.
People mulled about her I recall a paramedic check a pulls I knew he would not find.

“did you know her” it was a shout in a thick African accent from the medic at her other arm.
I don’t know how long it took me to respond because he repeated the barked question before I was able to stutter a reply. Was I crying?
“yes” it was weak and only barely audible over the voices and noises that amplified the horror of the scene.
“tell me her name”
Words that were never there died to dust in my mouth as I searched the Angelique face of a woman I’d never known.
I didn’t know her name, and yet I held her hand tighter willing the reality away trying with my every fiber to hold onto it at as the heat slipped from her hands and the sun kissed glow dissipated from her skin .
In desperation I reverted my eyes and searched instead for answers, or sympathy in the dark little face of the medic.
But I found another face nearby. In an ocean of curiosity and fascination he stood. Unassuming and sallow his shoulders were slumped.
It was the current of unmasked pain and open regret in the tearful grey eyes that made me let go of her.
I had intruded. Walked on holey ground

Vanilla (part 1)

Its strange how a great lie can be a great romance
how I can respect you more for your rejection.
and how your braver for not fighting for it.
this is vanilla

17:03 the time had seemed odd at first but it had been weeks since I hade first been witness to this intrigue and I had long since stopped pondering its significance.
It was no more than the metallic clatter of a door opening above the din of the evening crowd and she was there.
Back straight and determined she marched….no strode across the dimly lit room undeterred by the feathers of cigar smoke brushing the slight blush on her check.
She wore heels as always with her hair swept back into a twist, I divined that it was a skilled accidents that escaped the dark fringe from its pins and brought it romantically over her left eye.
Always the left eye.
She did not check her step as she grazed past the waitress tending my table.
Vanilla everyday vanilla.

“Your becoming a regular”
The busty waitress crackled, her voice grated.
Her face was pretty yet marred by hard years. The yellowy shade to the inside of her well formed lips belied years of cigarette smoke. Her eyes were smiling that forced dutiful smile.
Soft on the eye, hard on the heart, possibly trodden dreams of a silver screen like many her age in these parts of jozi.
Her long blond hair and impractical style for waiting tables and though her finger nails were clipped short one could see the glossy finish of a clear nail varnish.
Hers were the stories I lived for.
Everyone has a story, everyone has a battle and they wear them on their bodies like patchwork raincoats.
Out on the street a beggar wears the grace and air of a former life. His shoulders square and the fleeting flickers of pride in his sallow face tell of a man who hit the bottom harder because of the distance he fell.

I nodded at the waitress smiled and drew the glass nearer.
My attention momentarily wandering from the woman cloaked in vanilla to the bubbles bobbing in my beer. It took but a moment for me to find her a place.
Id type her in tonight.
Shed like that I thought to myself, Ill make her an actress or a cabaret singer in a smoky Broadway club.
She disappeared her long hair escaping its bonds as she turned on her heal and headed to the rowdy crowd near the bar.

When I returned to vanilla she had found her table, deserted as usual in an uncomfortable corner in the back of the pub.
The light was a smoky amber and for a moment I considered perhaps “the mistress of a gangster” but the thought left as soon as it came, their were no showy pretences of riches about vanilla she wore a classical class that oozed of pride, she was an effortlessly sexy but most of all she was mysterious.
And it was this brought me here every night with the blue collar crowd.

Her poise was not downcast but her chin was tilted only far enough to let the shadows cloak her eyes
Eyes that never scanned the room.
She knew he would come.

Serene I thought as my mind gripped at adjectives to dress vanilla in
She sat slightly sideways her legs comfortably crossed accentuating the curve of her calve.
Nothing about her was anxious or expectant.

7minutes latter he entered.
He entered as he always did, allowing himself the slightest pause to drink her in, always the phantom of a smile in his eyes as he spots her in the corner.

Ignorant of my movie star waitress cooing her good evenings at him in syrupy tones he begins the journey towards the back of the bar.
Journey…..
He wears the black linen of a well tailored suit only to mask the beat of his heart, is it anguish, is it fear, that implacable emotion that twitches the sinew in he’s square jaw. Implacable though it may be its not the twitch I noticed first.
As he comes shuffling through the crowd past my table I catch a glimpse of it again. Misty gray eyes swallowed in a strong draft of longing and sorrow.
There was no smells or distinctions about this man, tall undoubtedly handsome but simple.

If she had sensed his presence noting about her belied that. She sat still her chin still tilted hiding her eyes from me.
When he reached her table he pressed his right hand to his left breast pocket the effort was deliberate but not forced, and it gave me the idée that this man needed to force very little in his life.
Yet he came her with intention every night and night after night his intentions were the things that kept the synapses of my brain firing late into the night.

The waitress was back to clear my glass.
her body blocked my few of the couple in the corner as she replaced the ashtray and removed the foamy remains of the beer.
I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat, anxious be rid of the girl.
“another” the words sounded short and rude as I croaked them at her and I felt the temperature drop
“please” I added a bit to quickly and forced a smile at her.
With a difficult curl in her lips she shuffled of to the kitchen.
I didn’t notice the gentle sway in her hips as she weaved through the people in her way my attention was fixed on the story that refused to reveal itself in the back of the bar.

He shifted easily into the small chair across the table from vanilla, it was only then that she lifted her face into the smoggy yellow light and allowed me to see her eyes.
It was the moment I had played out in my mind each night for two weeks, the moment I could not write, single seconds that had afforded me countless rewrites and driven me to the limits of my abilities and instincts.
Something moved in those deep hazel eyes as they settled on the unassuming honest face of the man across the table.
It was torturously implacable and yet so intensely honest.
A remarkable unknown that had driven me to weave, destroy and rethink every web I had built for her.

They did not greet one another.
Not a hand shake nor a hallo passed between them. He simply sat down and met her gaze with his.
It was not a challenge nor was it a scrutiny.
He seemed to settle in her eyes.
Minutes passed and still they had no words for one another just an impenetrable stare.
Around them the pub seemed to heave with end of day relieve.
Some laughed and a group of businessmen near me toasted some recent success. My waitress fought a see of wondering hands with wavering patience to deposited my beer wordlessly on my table.
And yet Vanilla and the man sat lost in their own place oblivious to the milling push of humanity around them.
The cackle from the large woman in the booth behind them shattered the air and yet passed without a flicker of notice from the dark little table in the corner.

Minuets drew on like this.
Until as suddenly as she had come, she got up and moved for the door
The clatter again and she was gone.
Swallowed up by heavy hot air of Johannesburg’s nocturnal throbbing.

I watched him heave a sigh but it wasn’t relief. Perhaps self loathing.
As if on queue a mousy little waitress appeared at his table with a scotch glass. He nodded and smiled easily at the uninteresting little creature who scampered back to her post behind the bar and left him alone again.
He sloshed the golden liquid and ice around in the glass twice brought it to his lips and swallowed it with a single gulp.
He looked at the drained glass remorsefully as he held it at eye level propped up on his elbow.
I tested the water again and conjured up a world of industrial espionage as he placed the glass and a R50 note on the table. But dismissed it again as he passed me on this way to the door.
Deeper I thought to myself. Human, yes, and honest.
Unchecked unrefined and untapped the story that sat only tables away from me would not be tamed as easily and try as I may she would not let me dress her in the intrigue and flattery of a commercial best.
No Vanilla would be raw.

She was still in my mind when I left the pub. Stepping out into the smothering air I sniffed a futile sniff hoping that her scent my guide me.
But there was nothing.
Nothing more than diesel fumes and noise that crowded the narrow sidewalks of a changing city bursting at its seems with societal contrast.
I would try tomorrow again but I was starting to fear I was a fool and a brick wall.
I flicked a silver coin at the hobo with air and grace before moving the old Pontiac barracuda into the snaking traffic.


*******

By 16:30 the view from my office window had changed its face. October rains had thundered down on the tall buildings and dirty streets all day and washed the grime from old jozi leaving her smelling of sun baked tar and sulphurus lightning.
The evening sun was just starting to pierce the bruised clouds and shot shards of red light into the allies and windows of dilapidated buildings.
Street venders and beggars started to emerge from the cities wounds, they oozed from every crevice and unoccupied shelter.
Hobbling up and down the lines of parked German luxuries pleading for the copper stuff that rattles and jangles in the pockets of the bankers and brokers who poor through the turnstiles of the four giants of the economy.
She had come so far and she had seen so much, and yet her inhabitants carried with them the daunting premonition that the beast that stirrs below the vibrant surface may wake at any moment.

I stepped out into the streets, considered going for the Pontiac only momentarily before seeing the long line of red tail lights stretched out along commissioner str.
My city is bleeding I thought to myself and congratulating myself of my poetic flare.
Ill have to use that somewhere.
At a slightly hurried pace I set of along the bustling sidewalks feeling the city air seep in through my pores.
Today will be the day I was sure of it as I had been the thirteen days preceding today.

It was there but only for a moment.
My mind had not yet had a chance to process the broken pieces of an image and dismissed it almost instantly.
The knock off Rolex on my wrist grew heavier as I realized how late it was.
I quickened my pace and it was as I slipped between the throng and press of human bodies I saw it again.
This time the picture lingered long enough to scrape the confines of comprehension.

Ahead in the street
She was wearing white I recognized the fall of fringe across her left eye and her confident gaint.

why men and woman dont work

I want you to look out of your window just for a moment and marvel at wonders of nature. Pay attention to how every part of our world performs all its functions like clockwork as it should each day.
There are no flaws in the engineering no glitches in the production line.
Now sit back down, because I’m about to ruin it for you.

There are few reasons I firmly believe in Darwin’s evolutionist theories most of which I won’t get into now because I have a point to prove and a very short attention span to do it in.
What was I saying……?
Oh yes evolution.
I believe in evolution because it is my only hope for mankind.
In stark contrast to the smooth flawless workings of the rest of nature, mankind sticks out as a project that might not have been as well thought out.
Childbirth I believe is glittering example of this flaw in our engineering. (Yes it’s a miracle and we were designed to do that I know, but for crying in a bucket surely there are better design options).

Another example is the relationship between men and woman.
I understand that I have just offended every boy band, soap star, teenage girl, Cosmo reader, hopeless romantic, Emo and self help book writer within a 100mile radius, but before you start torching the stake and waving your pitchforks at me again, give me fair chance to explain my reasoning.

Just like child birth, heterosexual relationships can be equated to trying to get a 70mm bolt through a 30mm nut.
“Iemand gaan sy moer strip”
And so when said nut meets said bolt and instinct dictates that the job needs to be done we begin a process of grinding, banging (granted the banging isn’t that bad), pushing, forcing manipulating, twisting and bitching their way into a fit.
This process is generally referred to a relationship.

Lately I have been a fly on the wall to some rather interesting relationships. Most of these relationships are hanging on by the skin of their knees, some have just started, some have just ended and some are destined to fail.
But all of these misshaped trysts have one thing in common and that is a lack of basic understanding of the person opposite you.

Don’t dare count me an expert, I lack the human compassion I would need to sugar coat my theories with.
However I do have perspective, I am a woman among men. I have fought for my right to be there and thrive among them because I understand them.
I also recently acquired a female friend and am gaining knowledge on what normal woman want out of life.

So here they are….
Things men and woman should know about relationships (AKA. The Moer strip marathon)

Romance:
Guys: Hitch was right, no woman wakes up in the morning hoping not to get swept of her feet. Woman are badly influenced by the Hollywood definition of the right guy.
They want to be doted upon. They want to know that you would go out of your way to make her feel special. If you are not willing to go out of your way for her don’t even bother it’s a bad sign.

Girls: Sit down and shut up!
This is a hard lesson to learn but I’m saving you a lot of disappointment by teaching you this.
You want the guy who is gonna bring you flowers he picked himself, give you the cutest nickname, remember you birthday, and your favorite movie, he’l bring you ice-cream when your sad, and call you huggy bear or something equally as cheesy.
He will profess his undying love to you in public and surprise you for no reason.
Hang on I just threw up in my mouth a bit….

Okay, you have been conditioned to want this because Hollywood told you that real men are like that. Hollywood also created superman and the walking dead.
(quite frankly Id rather hook up with the walking dead)

The reality is that men have not yet evolved that far.
You are looking for the thrills and fuss while he wants someone who he can have a good laugh with.
He wants the hunny who can look killer sexy with a 10min bathroom check. But doesn’t have issues being seen in jeans and a t-shirt with no makeup on.
He wants you to say screw it lets do it.
He wants to laugh at a dirty joke, and get on with his buddies.
The less complicated you are the better.
Men are like dogs in a way, they want a relaxed life and someone to play with their ball every now and then.


Guys: Nature programmed woman to nurture.
Woman are creatures who crave stability, loyalty and devotion.
When she cooks dinner for you that is a sign of love.
Think about it, this is the 21 century she does not have to iron your shirt, cook your dinner or wash your cloths.
It is purely because she cares for your well being.
Believe me we gain nothing from it.
If you come home late without telling her and your dinner is ruined, that my friend is a sign that you don’t appreciate it. Call if your gonna be late.
If she washes your cloths and you leave them on the floor, that is a sign that you are taking her for granted (remember she does not have to do it)
And when she asks you to help her with the dishes don’t mope look at what she’s done out of pure compassion.
Oh and by the way. When your in a fight about how you don’t appreciate her never ever say that you didn’t ask her to do those things because you should have spoke up sooner.

Girls: As much as you want and need stability in your life, you would do well to understand that men were programmed differently.
Every single man regardless of his age or nature is insecure about his manhood. And freedom is not a negotiable in a relationship.
Don’t get me wrong don’t give him too much freedom.
Everything in moderation.
But stand up for yourself. Tell him from the beginning what you are willing to tolerate and what is not allowed. You cannot expect him follow orders that were never given.
But you must understand that he is not your pet. Let him go out with the guys, Guys remind guys that they are guys.
Let him have a hobby, even if its something you don’t care for.
Your not his mother or his warden.
Don’t check up on him, if he feels you don’t trust him he will feel smothered and a smothered man is again like a dog… he will find a hole in the wall no matter how high you build that wall.


GUYS!: This is a big one so listen up!!!!!
Here is the true definition of cheating.
If you are doing something you wouldn’t want her to be doing. You my friend are cheating.
Yes it is end of story.
The fact that you have a dick and the fact that you subscribe to that lame ass excuse that you were born to spread your seeds does not give you more leeway then she gets.


GIRLS by the way the same counts for you.
Don’t ever say that it was because he wasn’t loving you enough.
That just means that you were to spineless and comfortable to leave

GUYS!: a woman with a healthy sex drive and who is self expressive enough to tell you where to get of doesn’t need you, so I can easily see how you might be driven to call her a slut, but be reminded that she doesn’t care

GIRLS: You will not die from dirt, a spanner something you slaughter cows with, Britney spears is not music, “like totally” is not an English expression, one does not wear heels on a fishing trip, nobody cares what your hair looks like and Rugby is not barbaric.
Live a little when your dead youl wish you did.


Guys: those arnt knobs on a TV set Twisting is a big no!!!!!!

Klein vrede vergete

Granted as far as artistic expression is concerned its not a master piece. There is no structure no form, it doesnt fit into a specific genre or even one single language.
But its human, its human expression.
Grief has no form and tact it has no care for art and structure.
This is not a pretty peom, its not a pretty emotion. Its memory as I remember them its things I cant say enough, its me trying to fix a broken soul.
So read it dont judge it.
I am not giving this to the world,Im keeping it for myself it belongs to someone who isnt here to claim it.




“A diamond for every day”
Ek was suikerbekkie met son opkoms
“Burn the flesh from my soul”
“Diesel oil and tyre smoke”
Johantjie slap saggies op die sitkamer bank
Klein vrede vergete
My more is uitgevee
“You’re the ghost of my darkness”
“My heartache my drama my fear”
Baby baby karoolis se kind
Jy’s rolo jy’s jassies jy’s binne jy’s buite
Aan my finger gebind

“I will brand you to my skin”
“Scribble it all so I don’t forget”
Jys my knak weg
My liefdes verhaal
Jys my gister
My more se knal
“I will lock you up”
“I will keep you safe”
“Forget you not in digits and keys”

Jy was daar toe is jy nie
My sonskyn van my weg gesteel
Jy’s die brand in my skuld
Jy’s die bitter in my hart
Jy’s die leeg in my woorde
Wat nooit sal kan verduidelik
‘n liefde so bitter en diep
‘n bond do swaar en hard
Yster en teer konnie verslaan
Wat steeds hier in my brand

Johantjie my babes
Ek pak jou weg in bokse in drome
Kom skuil in ons huisie in kwaste en spinnerakke
“now im on fire”
Onverwacht
Seun van smart
December se kind
Lank verwacht
Totsiens tot latter
Goobaai my tjom
Eks lief vi jou

Battles of dogs and power

Be kind for surely, everybody you meet is fighting a great battle.
I have been given a lot of crackpot advice in my life, and I have gotten on perfectly well by ignoring most of it.
People are always willing to give advice.
Walk up to anybody in the office right now present them with a problem and hear them go.
My reaction to this is always the same.
I listen intently, make agreeable noises, offer a watered down opinion and then go off and do exactly as I please.
My reluctance to listen to the endless drone of people who have no intention of helping you but cant pass up the opportunity to listen to themselves sound superior does however not stop me from taking good advice when it does cross my path.
And the words “be kind for surely, everyone you meat is fighting a great battle” Is good advice.

You might think it an exaggeration.
After all from where you’re standing some battles are barely fights.
But think for a moment, what is the greatest battle in your life at the moment.
It my be coming to terms with a death, fighting an illness, coming to terms with your place in life, an unhappy marriage, financial worries or simply passing an exam.

For some the greatest battle is waking up in the morning.

Few of us realize that it is not the epic proportion that makes our battles and our problems great but rather the power, the energy and emotion that we devote to them.

We hear of crimes of passion every day, we shake our heads roll our eyes and say “it seems a silly thing to kill for”
We blame suicide on the weak selfish attitudes of a person who was unwilling to deal with their problems.
But we never consider how much of themselves these people have given to their problems.

Our new age culture teaches us to be in touch with our emotions without teaching us how to deal with our emotions.
It teaches us how to become more emotionally in tune human beings without warning us about the limitless power our emotions have over us.

Truly our problems are great.
One might do well never to underestimate them.
But we may choose to feed our battles on the fear the anger the heart ace and jealousy that is the casualty of any battle.
Or we may choose to retaliate with compassion optimism and revelation.

So today on “wish I had listened Wednesday” I want to leave you with three pieces of advice that I have been using every day for the past three weeks.
The first being the phrase mentioned above: “be kind for surely, everyone you meet is fighting a great battle”
The seconds is “great power is having the ability ruin you and choosing not to” and the third:
Within us we each have two dogs, one is good and the other is evil, if these to dogs were to attack one another, which dog would win?....the one you fed the most”

Today I want you to be kind because those who hurt you are probably hurting themselves and have been feeding the wrong dog all their lives.

I grew up a sharp tongued, quick witted little vixen. Sensing a persons insecurities and attacking them without remorse or blatantly manipulating them to serve my needs was a technique mastered out of necessity.
A necessity born from the fact that my formative years in grade school were spent at the bottom of the food chain.
Being a perceptive child this fact did not escape my attention especially not when I was humiliated and bullied.
Yes friends bullied, I was bullied.
And the only reason I can admit this today is because I realize the great impact those few years had on my life, I realize that in a big way that was the fire that forged me.

Today strong willed determined and fearless you will often hear me say “do as you please” or “its your life its up to you to live it” or something equally prone to self fulfillment sell motivation and self gratification. And while I advocate this independent way of life the fact that other human beings influence us more than we dare believe.

The fact is easily illustrated too.
I always say that its great to be Lee, cos I just don’t give a fuck.
This for the most part is true but if I really didn’t care what people think I would have a blue streak in my hair tattoos on my hands a nose ring and black nails.
As it stands however I wake up in the morning don the heels and the dress that is most likely to churn the stomachs of my male client base into making me stinking rich.

Our definition of success and happiness are defined by the parameters society sets.
The houses we own the cars we drive the company keep each aspect scrutinized and measured against what is and what isn’t acceptable to everybody other than ourselves

I try hard too keep other people out of my business and not ask for advice.
But when problems start with song lyrics and words like “I don’t know… for the first time in my life I don’t know” Google is very little help

wHEn tHE liGhtNing StRiKES (Smokie)

Ask No questions and you shall hear no lies



It's close to midnight
There's a chill in the air
I long to touch you
but I don't dare
there's a wall between us
there's a storm in the air
though yu're lying beside me
It's like you're not even there
When the lightning strikes
I don't want to be here
when the cold wind bites
I don't want to be here
Ooh it hurts me
though we won't be talking
I hear every word you say
Now the rain is falling
Like a million tears
Coming through my window
To wash away the years
When the lightning strikes...
Oh can you feel it
there's astorm in the air
and it's getting nearer
when the cloud breaks
I don't want to be here
to feel the rain
feel the pain
There's a wall between us
There's a storm in the air
though you're lying beside me
It's like you're not even there
When the lightning strikes
Oh can you feel it
there's a storm in the air
And it's getting nearer
when the cloud breaks
I don't want to be here
to feel the rain
When the lightning strikes...
When the lightning strikes...