When I was thirteen, in secondary school form two and I had to manage a tin of milo for an entire month, I made a solemn promise to myself. I decided that when I grew up, and I had my own money I will drink at least five cups of thick milo everyday, waste one full tin of ideal milk in every cup, spread planta margarine in a loaf of hot tea bread and eat my heart out.
Twenty two years on, I earn Ghc4,735 a month after taxes, I drive a 2013 Toyota Corolla, I live in a beautiful house in East Legon, I travel business class at least once every year but I hate bread. I prefer tea with one cube sugar. Black.
So this particular night I am staring at my husband and wondering what happened to all those cravings I used to have for him when we first married five years ago. Because like my lack of hunger for thick milo, bread and butter I had no sexual desires whatsoever for this guy who once gave me multiple orgasms under ten minutes in the shower.
We were having our usual Friday girl’s hang out at our favorite restaurant. Serwaa Boateng had the floor. She was on her fifth glass of red wine, had let down her long natural locks and was not nearly done spewing her guts.
Luckily we had booked the private room on Monday so we had the space to ourselves. Five girls, all in our mid thirties, gainfully employed, two mothers, two wives, one divorcee, all in thriving relationships with attractive successful African men, all sexually frustrated.
‘For the second time in a row this week I had to imagine myself being hammered by a faceless dirty looking plumber to reach org*sm whiles my husband worked his skills on top of me’ Serwaa blurted out again. She was tipsy. Anytime now she was going to trip over her shoes lying nearby and succumb to gravity. I went to her and led her back to her seat. She laughed her frustration and asked for more wine.
Before Serwaa, most of the girls in the room had vented.
Obviously there were a lot more questions than answers. We were wondering why the cravings had changed. Why Fanta didn’t taste as good anymore? Why chicken and rice was nothing special at Christmas and why the hell did Piccadilly Biscuits tasted like chalk?
Or was it us? Had we changed too? Could this be a clear case of wanting little in the mist of plenty?
We all loved our black men but somehow the spark was gone. Their kisses didn’t taste as sweet; in fact one girl said it annoyed the hell out of her when her boyfriend sucked her lower lip. It was painful or something not particularly pleasant. She can’t remember exactly when it started getting annoying but she knows he never used to kiss her like that. So suddenly the boyfriend of three years had become a bad kisser?
Oh Jennifer, the only mother of three among us insisted that her husband was becoming too heavy for her to carry in bed. Kwabena kept a toned body and for as long as I had known him he seemed to maintain the same weight. In fact I can swear he looked leaner so what was the problem there? After three kids Jennifer was the slimmest among us. She maintained a good diet and worked out religiously and Kwabena had kept up too. She said she could only manage one love making session a week and even that she had told Kwabena to support himself on one arm so she doesn’t crush under his weight.
Back in the day, when these men came along, still in this private dinning room, we used to talk endlessly about how large, broad and beautiful their attachments were. Some actually said these little gods spoke their names and knew their needs like no other deity. Akos actually wore her boyfriend’s supporters to one of our hangouts. She said it made her feel closer to him, and he found it incredibly sexy when she donned it.
‘They are too big and I feel like I am carrying the world on my ass ’ Akosua had announced earlier.
Mine was with the sleeping positions. I had woken up twice this week to see him on my pillow and crossed over to my side of the bed. It pissed the hell out of me. I woke him up and gave the poor guy a lecture. ‘This is my side, this is your side…’ he stared at me like I was crazy and went back to sleep. At 4am his hand which I had seen scratching his balls earlier on in the night was in my mouth. When he tried to get all cozy in the morning, your guess was as good as mine I fobbed him off. Sex was the last thing on my mind. I was still reeling from the taste of balls in my mouth.
I left the girls and headed for the bathroom. As I reached the corridor I spotted them. Her tongue was all the way down his throat and she was forcing his hands down her pants. He was a young attractive guy and she couldn’t just get enough of him.
I saw me, a few years ago. I would make out with my boyfriend in a public toilet and loved it. Today I had a huge problem with him lying on my pillow.
I decided that there was still a thirteen year old in a secondary school somewhere who thought the world of thick milo, bread and butter.
My girls and I, we probably just had a little too much.
“Thelma Louis” is a GhanaCelebrities.Com weekly column with no borders on the speed and distance it will take your imagination, while tackling some of our everyday issues—in reality and in fantasy.
All Thelma Louis’ write up will be filed under her name column-Thelma Louis.