recipe:
I love movies, but there is one genre of movies that I cannot stand, I call it ‘the john Claude’. You know that one where the girl goes on a self-finding, mind searching mission, on a trip/ cruise around the world where she meets this exotic guy usually French or Spanish. Who can barely speak English, has a defined six pack, an annoying pony tail and Antonio Banderas sexy voice. She falls in love with him, lives care free for about 6 months then later returns to her boring old pencil pushing life with a new grip on life.
Well, I met my john-Claude two months ago. He took me through my own version of eat, pray, love. He still remains the only man who ever came into my life, used and abused me (as was the norm) and yet left me whole.
I loved him with my entire self; it was the purest kind of love that I had ever known. I wasn’t sad when he left, never over joyed when he returned, I just relished in the moments we had together. They were few, but monumental; and even now if he came and beckoned me I would willingly drop everything, go to him and let him eat , pray, love me one more time.
I loved him with my entire self.
My body loved him. Everything he did to me; the way he looked at me, touched me, the hunger with which he would grab at me; mishandle and manhandle me for what seemed an hour then when he had his fill of my body, he would lay me on my back, gently kiss every spot on my body, from my lips to my vagina, then he would stay there with just his tongue and his lips, licking away every trace of sexual sin that had ever crossed my being and implanting his own orgasmic evil.
My heart loved him. He taught me how to love, to show love and above all, to accept love and to feel it. There was no promise of forever with him, there needed not be for i don’t even think my body could handle the kind of passion he had to offer. He was a story teller, and we all know that story tellers are just dreamers with an abundance of words. He would tell me tales of women he had loved, those that had slipped away, those he had to push away, and the one he kept in a place he called home, where he would go back to when he was done with the rest and I. I listened; more carefully than i wanted to, with the kind of attention i imagine i gave my mother when she first held me. i listened without the slightest hint of jealousy, just an unfathomable understanding of why every one of those women had agreed to play the role i was now starring in. i could picture them lying there naked, while he drew patterns with his fingers on their backs and bellies, not the same pattern he was tracing on me right now, something just different enough that each of us felt slightly unique, special even.
My mind loved... no, my mind had no place there. There was no room for thought or reason; otherwise i would never have ended up there in the first place. But had my mind been present, it would have loved his wit, and his knowledge of practically everything. He knew his music, his art, his wines, and his food. he could talk science, he could talk arts, he played instruments, he danced the waltz, the rhumba,any dance, name it he could step to it... but he couldn’t sing... he wasn’t perfect, but even his imperfection was beautiful; for he would hum and whistle in my ear as he tried to teach me how to sway to Michael buble's swing jazz tunes.
But as every good movie/novel dictates, there are no forevers with john Claude just passionate summers at the beach or in the vineyard, or cuddled up winters in the Alps. Mine was just a month with the Russian stranger who lived up my street, who called himself a 'mtoto demon' and everyone else 'vipi bwana’, who loved to drink Johannesburg Porto wine and Kenyan tusker malt, who listened to jazz, trance and the illest riddims, who longed for rainy Sunday afternoons spent in underground jazz bars sipping on expensive gentleman’s whiskey, who loved the Caribbean clear blue waters and their feisty women but spent his life travelling the world and fucking his way to the end of days.
