POLITICAL
SCIENCE
I see there
is a competition for a short fiction story about sex and sensuality. I love writing and can write screeds of
things about human rights, psychology and philosophy, but have never written
anything that lived only in my imagination.
In fact, I have only ever read three or four fiction novels, preferring
to read non-fiction. But the lure of
the prize money for the “Adults Only” short sharp stories as one of the events
at the National Arts Festival for next year is too tantalising to ignore.
I have been
sitting for days, thinking about how to even begin a story that incorporates the
requirements of sex/sensuality/culture and South Africa. I really want to write a good story, but am
stuck on how to make this story one that will not only win the competition, but
will also turn the reader on; one that will make the reader feel horny.
I have asked
all my friends for ideas, I put a request onto Facebook to ask what my Facebook
friend’s sexual fantasies are, but was bitterly disappointed that the only
responses I got are different words and variations of the same
activity…cunnilingus. Bearing in mind
that I have always thought that the perfect man has a ten inch tongue, and can
breathe through his ears, I don’t find that any of my friends can assist me in
this writing task. I have to find a
plot, and then I have to have some raunchy sex thrown in with a good sprinkling
of cross-cultural South Africa. Here
goes:
She looked across the room at him and felt a flutter
in her stomach. How many times had she
looked at him when she was sure he was otherwise occupied, and she could
continue with her secret life with him? The sun was catching the silver strands of
grey around his ears, as he stood at the podium, delivering another one of his
political discourses. He was the sole
reason she had changed from psychology to political science as a major. In
every way he was wrong for her. He was
clearly an atheist, an older man, married, her professor, and with different
cultural roots. The oddest thing about
him was his impeccable English, as though he has been to Public School in
England, with surname like Malan. She
had been brought up to believe that anything vaguely white was the enemy. Surnames like Botha, Malan or Van der Merwe
were to be more feared than others with a more English sounding surname. An Afrikaans surname depicted the worst
brutality of the enemy.
Her mind drifted to the stories she had been told of
the sacrifice of her parents, and their friends, made during the struggle for
freedom for South Africa. The very
thought of telling her mother of her complete fascination with one of the
enemy, sent shivers down her spine. But those shivers only enhanced the desire
to be held in his arms. What was the
saying about forbidden fruit being more enticing than that which you could
have? Was the yearning for this
professor only because he was forbidden fruit?
It could not be. Most of the
girls spoke about him between lectures, many speaking of his charisma, and his
undeniable sexiness. Were they also only
interested because he was “forbidden fruit”?
How often had she fantasised that he was making love
to her, gently and urgently; every moment of the love-making deliciously
imagined. She watches her day dreams that take her from
the hunger that drives her to jump into his arms, her legs wrapped around his
waist; to the soft nibble of his teeth on her lips until she responds to the
hunger by her pushing her tongue into his mouth. Their tongues collide in a never-ending
feeling of exquisite delight; the desire to consume one another bordering on
pain.
Would he even notice her, one of almost 500 students
sitting in the lecture hall? How would
she be able to satiate her hunger and lust for this man who represents
everything that she cannot, and should not have? If
thoughts are behind everything created, as she had heard in philosophy class,
then he would make contact with her. She
held the desire in her mind and used affirmations all day. “He wants me…he wants me…he wants me…”, she
repeated to herself quietly. She was sure that he would deliberately pick
her out of the students sitting in front of him and speak directly to her. She would make a special effort to see if he
would smile at her, if she smiled at him.
That would be the moment that she would know for certain that there was
‘something’ between the two of them.
Before she could start on her experiment the lecture was over, and the
students were walking out. He was still
at his desk, packing away the overhead projector and rolling up the electrical
cord, putting each piece of equipment into the space provided by the sculptured
Styrofoam.
She squirmed in her seat, rubbing
the tops of her legs together. The delicious
feeling between her legs was becoming a wanton craving to feel ‘his’ hands on
her. Her vagina started tingling as she
felt herself get wet. Heavens, she had never
been so horny in her life!
She watched the last few students leave the lecture
hall. His bags were packed, and he was starting to
walk out when he turned his head. His
eyes fell upon her and he smiled. As their eyes met, her heart started to race.
“Did you want to see me?” he asked. “Come on down here”, he invited, beckoning to
her.
“Um…yes…I was
just thinking…”, she stammered as she tried to hastily pack her books and pen
into her shoulder bag, all the time watching him. One book slid down the outside of the
shoulder bag, and she bent down to pick it up, fumbling and dropping it a few
more times on the floor. Her pen
slipped out her hand and rolled down the aisle. She could feel the heat moving from her chest
to her face, her ears ringing from the furious beating of her heart. Embarrassed by her awkwardness, she wondered
what on earth she could say to him. After months of dreaming of him, she was
suddenly confronted not only by his smile, but by the invitation to come
towards him. In her haste to get to him,
she tripped against the chair leg, dropping her books for the umpteenth
time. The pen is left to continue its roll towards
the front of the hall.
She stumbled and then with super-human effort, picked
up all her belongings, and walked sedately down the aisle, swinging her hips;
towards her the object of her day and night dreams.
Now how do I
get from here in the story to the sex part? I sit staring at the computer
screen while visualising different options and nothing I can think of makes the
story real. A friend pops in for a cuppa
and I tell her my problem.
She points to my book shelf and says, “There is a book that will give
you some ideas”, as she gets up and fetches the book. She opens it. “The New Sexuality, written by
Dr BJ Cox”, she squeals with laughter, repeating the word ‘cox’ over and over.
“That isn’t going to help me”, I respond. “That book must be about fifty years
old”. I am right. It was printed in 1968. I flip through the pages and see some pencil
drawings of various postures that can be used during sex. All the drawings are of fat females but the
men are drawn with well-defined muscles and bodies. It is a medical book that covers anatomy and
the female/male sexual response. There
are more strange chapters such as incontinence during sex and the ideal coital
positions for couples during pregnancy.
I mean honestly, do people still use words like coital, like copulating,
and suffusing. Not much help from that
book. I also don’t want to hear the
Bible’s definition of marital sex, which my friend wants to tell me about. “That Bible stuff will never make the reader
horny”, I tell her. But even before I
get to the sex part of the story, I have got to get her and the professor to
actually touch one another and it must be plausible. Who on
earth gets turned on by reading about vaginas and penis’s? Perhaps
I should use the words common to all or at least the words that are used in my
family. Would anyone know what an umthondo or an ibenze is? Family words that
every African would understand. Or should I use words such as dick and pussy?
Dirty talk turns people on, so I guess I will be using the latter
terminology. I try again.
She walked up to him, completely flustered.
“How can I
help you?” he asked again.
And before
she can gather her thoughts into a coherent whole, she hears herself telling
him, “I can’t get you out of my head”.
With that one sentence, it all comes tumbling out. “I can’t study. I can’t eat.
I can’t sleep. I can think of
nothing but you. I dream about you at night. I fantasise about you during the day. I want to feel your arms around me. I want to kiss you and I want you to kiss me
back … and I…”
She stops to catch her breath as he walked around and
behind her towards the door. She stood
still, shocked at what she had just confessed.
He reached the door and pulled it shut.
The Yale locks clicked loudly into place. Slowly he turned to look at her, smiling and
opening his arms to receive her. She
walked towards him, and suddenly she was in his arms. She inhaled his aftershave as she put her
face into his neck, her arms reaching up as she clung on for dear life. There was no way she was going to let him
get away from her now. She wanted him,
and she wanted him badly. She wanted to
feel his dick sliding into her pussy. He
started kissing her, his lips playing gently over hers; his tongue pushing her
teeth apart and entering her mouth. The
delicious sensation in her lower belly intensified. She responded with uninhibited movement of
her tongue winding around his; nibbling, tasting, and feeling until he pulled
away, and started licking and biting gently from her neck to her ear and back
down again. The shivers ran up and down
her spine. She wanted more, much…much
more. She pulled him down towards her so
that she could reciprocate with her own tongue on his neck, breathing in the
musky smell of his aftershave, sticking her tongue into his ear. Their breathing become faster and more
ragged…their movements more frantic.
Their hands moved wildly up and down one another’s body. Not a word was spoken, although there were
sounds of lust, heavy breathing and little sighs of contentment.
The clothing was inhibiting their need to be
closer. He pulled at her t-shirt and
lifted it over her head. In less than ten
seconds he had her bra unhooked and was pulling the straps down her arms. At the same time, she was attempting to
loosen the buttons of his shirt, but her fingers where clumsy.
Oh,
fuck! I have just seen that this competition
has to be in by next week. I do not have,
what I thought was months, to enter. The
pressure is on to get to the sex part now.
How I wish I had had a varied and interesting sex life so that I could
fill the pages with the how it feels and what I did and what he did.
He stepped back smiling, and started removing his own
shirt. She was by now standing naked
from the waist up. With a great deal of
urgency, she started undoing the buttons on his Levi jeans, the belt already
loosened. She pulled his jeans down where
they fell loosely around his ankles.
Grabbing his boxer shorts, she pulled them down where they folded upon
the jeans that were still around his ankles.
She dropped to her knees. Her
face was level of his penis.
No, ‘penis’
does not sound right, and ‘umthondo’ sounds even more foreign. I will have to change that last sentence with
a different description of that part of his anatomy.
Her face was now level with his cock. She attentively and gently cupped his scrotum
in her left hand, slowly moving the skin between her thumb and forefinger. With her right hand, she took his shaft (now that is another description – maybe I
could have used “trophy”) in her hand, and was stunned and flabbergasted at
how flaccid it was. This had never
happened to her before. All her previous
partners had hard-on’s by the time she had got to this part of the process. Somewhat shocked, but undaunted, she slowly
took his flaccid dick into her mouth and started sucking gently, alternating by
moving her tongue around the glans; (that
is another word that won’t make someone horny) flicking the underside of
his dick with her tongue. With equal
slowness, she took the whole of his dick in her mouth and sucked first gently
and then with some vigour. There was no
corresponding response to her ministrations.
She sucked harder and changed tack with her free hand by rolling each
ball, one over the other, between her fingers.
There was just no response. She
was shocked that his dick was not behaving as it should. She did not have that much experience in
oral sex, but the three men she had been with were already erect by the time
she got her mouth anywhere near their ‘umthondo’s’. His dick was so soft and floppy that she
could suck the entire thing right up to his belly, and hold it all in her
mouth. Her cheeks started getting
painful from the amount of sucking she was doing. Instead of being focused on the sexual act,
she could feel the hard surface of the floor on her knees. It was too distracting for her to
continue. So in desperation, she stood
up and pulled her panties off.
She grabbed his hand and directed it towards her wet
pussy. He opened the pussy lips with
his fingers. With shock, she realized
that he had slid not one, but two fingers into her vaginal canal. She squirmed, trying to move back and away
from his hand, extracting his fingers with her own hand. Quick as a flash, his hand moved back to
her pussy and again he opened up the pussy lips. He started rubbing her clit roughly with a
back and forward movement. She enjoyed
soft, rhythmic and circular movements on her clip but what he was doing was bringing
her down from horny heaven. To make
matters worse, he was shaking with excitement or fear. She could not be sure why he was fumbling and
shaking. In this dream come true, she
remembered an old joke. Why do women
love old gynaecologists? Because their hands shake! No, it was not funny. She did not find it funny at all. She would never tell that joke again. His continual rough scouring of her clit,
in-between the shakes and trembling only served to make her clitoris
over-sensitive and painful. It did not feel good nor did it remotely turn
her on. With some irritation she moved
away from his probing fingers, and again knelt down to take his member into her
hands. She started sucking his dick,
alternating between soft and hard sucks, moving her mouth up the outside and
then the underside of his dick. There was just no response. Even her jaw was starting to ache.
He reached down and put his hands under her arm, and
lifted her up to her feet. He carried
her over to the desk and put her down so that she is sitting with her legs
hanging over the side of the desk. He
spread her legs, lifting her skirt up around her waist. Fumbling, he took his dick into his hand,
masturbating himself rapidly while at the same time sucking hard on her
nipples. There was nothing gentle or
tender in his attention to her nipples or the fumbling between her legs with
his unoccupied hand. She tried to move
her hips further back on the desk in an attempt to protect herself from his
uncouth treatment of her clitoris. Suddenly,
he grabbed her and pulled her closer to the end of the desk. He lifted her legs and balanced them on his
shoulders, her ankles looking like over-sided earrings on his ears. There was much grunting while he attempted
to stimulate himself by rubbing his dick up and down between her pussy
lips. Only now and again did his dick
even touch her clitoris. By this stage,
she was so not into him, that she started counting the number of times he
rubbed his dick against her. She was
wondering what on earth made her want him in the first place. Her previous lovers were attentive, loving
and they always had a hard-on. Every six
rubs, he attempted to push his penis into her.
Since her pussy was still wet, the situation became rather a slippery
affair. With all the huffing, puffing
and pushing, trying to get his dick into her, she started sliding back on the
smooth wooden desk, making contact between their sexual organs even more
difficult to achieve.
Oh, fuck sake…where
to from here? And don’t tell me that if
I can say “fuck” that this should be an easy story to write. Fornication under the consent of the King! That is where the word “fuck” comes
from. So far, I have the South African culture, the
sex and the plot in the story. All I
have to do now is to find a suitable ending.
One of the things I hate the most about sex is when the man is either
too drunk or too old to get, or even maintain, an erection. It is definitely like trying to push
marshmallows into a piggy bank. I tell
my friends that it is very frustrating when the clock is pointing to six
o’clock and not 12 o’clock. It is not
funny to a white person, but it is very funny to a black; and only in South
Africa. Black South African’s have an
amazing sense of humour when it comes to double meanings when talking about
sex. “Please use your pencil on my
slate…show me your trophy…let me take your temperature”, are sentences all
about sex. Back to the story:
Her one leg kept sliding off his shoulder, causing her
to slide further and further towards the side of the desk. He tried to hold her ankle with his shoulder
bent towards his ear, which made her angry with herself for putting herself in
this position. While all the puffing and
pushing, and trying to hold her legs up in the air, she got to the point where
she has had enough. “Stop please”, she
said to him. He did not hear and
continued with his crazy monkey-like behaviour. “Stop it”, she shouted louder, pushing him
away from her with her hands and her legs.
She got her foot onto his chest, and gave him a mighty shove
backwards. With that, she slid off the
desk onto the floor. He could not
maintain his balance with his pants around his ankles, and fell on top of
her. At that precise moment, the loud
click of the Yale lock, and the banging of the bucket and mop against the door,
sounded a warning that someone was coming.
It was the janitor using his master key.
He saw a white arse between a pair of ebony legs. “Hehake”, he said aloud. The Professor tried to scramble to his feet while
pulling up his trousers. She gathered
her clothes and dressed as fast as she could.
Without a word, she grabbed her bag of books and walked rapidly out the lecture
hall. The embarrassment, the sheer
stupidity, the anger, and the disgust she felt for her lecturer and his stupid,
horrid love-making, replaced every horny thought she had ever had about her
lecturer. How would she be able to
continue going to his lectures after what had just happened?
It was time to change from political science to
law. Now that lecturer was
definitely worth a try.
At last, it
is finished. I have reached three
thousand five hundred and eighteen words.
The story has to be between three and five thousand words. All I have to do now is to clean it up, check
the grammar and punctuation, and submit it.
And then I will dream about what I will spend the prize money on.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
Posts
