A Proudly Zimbabwean Story by Rozalyn Munemo

A Proudly Zimbabwean story by Rozalliny Munemo
There’s always been something about the naiveté of young girls that makes my blood boil. When I’m standing in the midst of them I can’t help but feel like a king. Never have I felt so superior. I failed completely at being in the same league as other men so until then I shall reside amongst the fairer sex to ease my undeserving ego.
Some nights are better than others and at worst, I must pay for my female companionship. Nothing soothes the feeling of being the failure that I am than a prostitute looking at me as her lifeline. I zip up my pants and whip out my wallet and bargain for a discount. It’s only fair as I am a regular client. It’s not like she’s running out of stock or whatever. I left plenty of her to go around.
I am living the Disney dream, the erotic version where the damsel in distress must pay me in kind. You want a job? Yeah sure, put a ‘blow’ in front of it and consider yourself hired. My dream has been built on the tears of many. Lord, I hope they never stop crying. Other men make the money and I go asking for handouts.
But man am I pathetic. I don’t know if I need an exorcism or psychiatric help. There is no greater challenge than a woman who snubs my advances. It’s like she’s taunting me, asking me to prove my manhood. I must have her under me. In my grip. Unable to move nor manouvre. I must feel her body wriggling and struggling under my weight until she can’t struggle no more and only then will I barricade her and reward myself to the climax. Her soft sobs and tears are just an added bonus. A small voice like in Mortal Kombat says to me, “FINISH HER!” I cover her teary eyes with my hand and send little explosions pulsating through her body. She will never be the same again, and she will always know who I am.
I replay such moments over and over in my head. It’s like role-play. I assume the role of myself and my hand plays the leading lady. I am a ‘man’ it’s only right that my appetite be insatiable. Of what use are women if not for pleasuring me? Bringing up memories of my wife. Oh my wife, my beautiful wife. She ceased to be my wife the moment our marital bed became sorely for sleeping. It’s her fault I’m a mess. So what if I’m a bad father who can’t provide. Her services to me should be for free. “The only time we’ll have kids,” she says, “is when test tubes and syringes are involved!”
She must learn to respect me. And man does she respect me when she is lying on the floor, bleeding to death and begging for her life. I almost feel like a god, having her life in the palm of my hand and being able to turn out her lights if I so wish. Unfortunately, she’s the only satisfaction I don’t have to pay for. So being the economist that I am, I will let her live for the sake of those cold nights when my wallet is empty and a rental is beyond my reach.
I honestly deserve a fate worse than death. I must be incarcerated in a maximum security prison with hard Ghananian men. Karma coming back to make all deliveries in the rear and man do they come. The Bible says, “If the right hand causes you to sin, cut it off.” That sounds just about right as she lunges at me with a machete for my impending castration. I guess the punishment fits the crime. Now I shall be the pussy I’ve always been.
http://www.twitter.com/@romunem

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