I’ve always thought of how it feels for a girl to kiss a girl. Cherry lips kissing blood red lips. One’s lips are strawberry flavored while the other’s have some chocolatey infused goodness with hints of mint. Is there an explosion of taste in one’s mouth? How exactly does it start out? Especially the very first time. Did she kiss a girl and she liked it? Were they listening to Katy Perry as they did it? Was it a dare? How long is it okay to kiss before dropping one hand below the waistline? 10 seconds, or 10 minutes? Did she want more? More of what? So many questions, so few answers.
I bet its better than kissing a man though. Brothers never put some oil on their lips. Is that something we can encourage the men to do…. please.
Enter Zainab; with her double portions of God’s goodness. When you look at her, your faith in God disappears. If God existed, he would be fair. And there’s no fairness in the way this girl is built.
She has kissed a girl and liked it. Probably a bit too much. Which is why she keeps kissing them. Or just one at least…for now. Apparently girls kiss better, they know how to use their tongues. Using just the tip to push away at your lips, your facial lips *wink.* Men are more aggressive, almost choking you in their attempt to push in their unoiled lips down your throat. They make terrible lovers. Her words not mine. How else would I know that men are terrible at kissing? She refuses to gives me some tips on how to kiss better. I beg, I’ll take even a theory lesson. She insists, there can be no theoretical lessons in the art of trading saliva. “So how about a practical one?” I retort. I am expertly brushed off. She has a story, and I am excited to hear it. Once upon a time, there was a girl….
Gang meet Zainab, Zainab the gang….enjoy!
You probably expect me to tell you when I found out I was gay or a lesbian. Perhaps even, tell you why I choose to kiss girls…everywhere. Some of you already have decided I’m on the highway to hell. There’s little that can be done to save me. You want to know if and when I told my parents. Came out of the proverbial closet. Preferably with guns blazing. As if my story is not worthy of the gentle softness of every love story. Worthy of the simple tragedies that scar every heart that desires another. You want to know, on the day of judgement. When I stand before God and the saints. The accuser standing at the left of the seat of judgement. Will it have been worth it. Will none of you stand up, and shout. “You are righteous Zainab.”
Most of you will sit just next to Ezekiel Mutua. You huddle a little closer to him. Poke him a bit and ask him to speak. He will not. None of us is blameless.
She was a strangely haired human, her hair simply refused the multiple caresses of any comb. She would insist, her hair was a flag. It was never meant to bow to any one.
Have you met these humans who live only for themselves? She was selfish. And not in that cute childish sort of way. She wanted it for herself and she wanted it all. I think this is why I was drawn to her. Her selfishness, a natural compliment to my giving nature. She was everything I was not.
We started off as a cliche. A story often repeated. I did it on a dare. Alcohol was just the convenient scapegoat. My faculties were intact. I don’t quite remember who dared me to do it. My memory decided long ago that they were not important to my story. So I took the strangely haired human. And I kissed her. In gentle bursts at first, then life happened. My tongue somehow found the back of her throat. It was disgustingly delicious. I would like to tell you that I was rebelling from my strict parents. But my dad is the gentlest soul of the planet. If God sends his angels here, he has one in dad. I have no explanation for that kiss. Kisses should require no explanations.
That strangely haired human is long gone. A quickly receding set of back-lights in the side mirror of my life. She left me for a boy. He was not particularly cute. She never did quite find out what that simple kiss; in a dark campus dorm room, witnessed by 11 freshmen, some weed, a fluorescent light and a case of beer did for me. It was for the best.
I’m about to head to an interview today. It is perhaps why I felt the need to write this. The organization is religious in nature. They want someone who personifies the values of the prophet in the position. They will ask me if I can recite the “Shahada” I will. They will ask when and if I attended the madrasa, I have. They will ask why, I have not yet been married, I have. But to my books, a cat and a startling sense of freedom. I will not tell them that. Instead, I will cook up a story on my deep desire to build my community. A truth, wrapped in a lie, an honest lie.
My answers will satisfy them. They will give me the contract with a hefty pay rise, I will sign it. In meetings, they will no doubt extol my virtues. “All young women should be as you are, Zainab.”
But at night as some of the men, rush home to their wives. As they say their duas for their children. I will be at a bar. Sipping something that bites my tongue ferociously, I will enjoy it. The other men, will be with me in the bar. Working desperately to get into my panties. I will ignore them. Instead I will look and maybe find another strangely haired girl. With lips that are colored in blood and taste like chocolate with hints of mint. As I kiss her I will think only of you, dear reader, in heaven. Standing on the right side of God, shouting.
“You are righteous Zainab!”
I will kiss her again. I will like it.
Searching for this blog’s featured images has been an experience. I learnt that searching for “black people kissing sensually” is not a good idea when on Company WiFi. Do make better decisions this week. Meanwhile, SUBSCRIBE, and share the story with friends…or an ex who was a bad kisser!😂😂😂😂