Lagos is a good place for sluts to flourish. Perhaps it is the general hypocrisy that lives in the average Nigerian that shields them from truly seeing its state of filth but she sees it as clear as day. And she basks in it. Maybe that is why December is her favourite month to live in the wretched city. Once the first two weeks are out of the way, everyone enters into a frantic state of frenzy with the goal to be as horny and sinful as possible.
The city’s patterns become peculiar in a way that she identifies and goes after. Everything feels more intense, an excitable rush saturating the air. The pool of potential dicks doubles, and the nights promise to go on to be longer and blurrier, the chemistry between lovers more sensual and passionate – everything is heightened.
Everything aligns, creating several unique outcomes that She weighs depending on how she’s feeling. You see she’s not just some passive enjoyer, nothing like the persona she’s been assigned by a society that thrives on her subdual. She doesn’t wait for fun to fall into her lap, she seeks it out. To her, it is almost like a sacred ritual, the way she prepares for the events that would lead to the climax she seeks. She shops, and crafts a stellar wardrobe selection because she understands her body, and knows the colours that make the hue of her skin honeygold. She is creating herself, the excitement thrumming beneath her skin.
She relishes the attention she gets. From her debut outing at an outdoor wedding to the numerous house parties, she’s amassed quite the list of admirers and she relishes in their attempts to gain her attention and acknowledgement. They offer her gifts, compliments, time, and even more gifts. She enjoys them, it’s all a part of the flow of the rhythm, but sometimes they bore her because they’re given like obvious bait to strip her of her ability to choose.
And choose, she does. She chooses because it gives her a strong sense of control, knowing she holds the reins completely allows her to vet her options. Maybe that’s the reason she’s drawn to the cute guy with the gold-rimmed glasses that she meets at a concert. His first words to her were a comment on the shade of green of her dress and how well it suited her. It’s easy flirting but he’s sweet and shy in a way that makes her feel big, confident and worthy of the unabashed admiration in his eyes. She leans into the giddy feeling that he brings out of her. She knows nothing can come out of it, even though he looks at her with an openness that makes her fluster, she knows anything extra would get in the way of her fun. So, she pulls him in and he’s drawn in by her allure, dances to her tune, and follows the rhythm of her body until they’re tangled up in the sheets, just how she planned it. She sees the adoration and awe in his eyes as he kisses down the valley of her breasts, he worships her body, his lips quivering in reverent prayer. She guides him down the path of discovery and he follows. He’s eager to please, he discovers the places that make her whine and pant and he goes after them. It feels good to be so desired but it brings out a rawness in her that startles her, upsets her balance and she doesn’t like that. So she gathers herself and moves to safer territory.
Some random IJGB she meets at a lavish pool party. He’s pretty in the way they often are and he knows it. She spends more time laughing at him than she does admiring him because he’s so empty it’s comical. She lets him chase after her. She’s lithe on her feet as she manoeuvres her way around him, letting him get close before she slips out of his reach. It’s fun in a way that makes her feel light-headed. She doesn’t think too much about it. He’s self-absorbed and has no personality aside from being a peng London boy, but he’s pretty and tall and the urge to rub on him like a cat grows too strong for her to ignore. It’s a different type of fun – wild and electrifying. She controls the pacing, controls his movements, and he likes his ego stroked but she doesn’t give him that. She takes what she wants from him. Pleased with the looks of surprise and pleasure on his face, she takes as much pleasure as she wants because she knows this will be the last time.
Along the line, somewhere in the middle of her carefully crafted calendar, she’s thrown into a state of limbo, a deep sense of dissatisfaction, something is missing. She craves familiarity and is quite frankly tired of this endless process of discovery. She contemplates and agonizes over it. She swore to break the cycle, she’d done so well but she is a slave to her inhibitions, she gets weak in the knees when he’s around. He knows her, more than she knows herself. She makes the call, aware that there will be regrets, she understands the progress she’s made from prioritizing herself and maintaining her mental health and stability but she’s bitten her lip hard enough to bruise. She hates the swiftness of his response, even though it sends a tingle of excitement down her spine. She dislikes her response to the sight of him, how the image of him walking up to her in his all-black ensemble makes her immediately feel small and insecure as she grips the strap of her bag for dear life. How eager she is to fall into his lap and lose herself in his intoxicating aura as he eases whatever lingering inhibitions she might have with gentle kisses that graduate into a soul-sucking kiss that makes her forget everything except the feeling of his weight on her body. He’s comfortable, he’s familiar, the perfect embodiment of the thing she’d been missing. He leads and she follows because he knows her, in a way that the others do not. She lets him bend her body at will, lets him test her limits, lets him mould her into an image that her body knows all too well. It’s a wonder, it’s the climax, the spinning move of the dance. But it dissipates the morning after when the reality of what she’s done hits her, there’s no one else to blame but herself. He begs her to stay, it’s tempting. The problem has never been staying, it’s what they do to each other, what he does to her, the person she becomes to herself because of him. It’s why she so desperately clings to the shred of will that makes her walk away.
The year draws to a close, the dance reaching its end and she feels hollow, stretched thin, grateful that the long horrid year is finally coming to its close. The dance of December is a sensual dance between the youth of Lagos and the city. Following the rhythm of an inaudible tune that often leaves them alone and confused, beneath the surface of festivity and enjoyment, there are many reasons lovers like herself embark on the routine choreography. Some do it to make memories that transcend time, some for self-validation, others to escape but one thing they all share in common is the need for companionship. The dance is to soothe the crippling feeling of loneliness. A lousy attempt at filling up the holes in their hearts, gotten from living the reality of collapsed dreams, subjugation and disappointment. The dance is a ritual to usher in the new year in high spirits and her spirits are anything but high but still, she lets herself sway and move, dancing, because why not?
