Free Twisted Times: Son of Man (Twisted Times Trilogy Book 1) by Vincent de Paul

drugs and whatever else she felt would endanger my life. I did not try to argue with her or show her in the slightest that I was a totally opposite side of the whole quirk of fate. I was a mask, a beautiful mask. I did not want to hurt her she who thought that I was living under her auspices.
    I had an array of lovers Kate topping the list. At the university I had Trizzer, a third year student of accounts, and the other two were working whom we met only when they called for the regular oiling of joints.
    A Strictly No-Strings-Attached sex relationship, the other was a lecturer. I wondered how many young men she had lured to her web and trapped with her charm. But this I must give her – she scooped the gold in bedmington.
    The last of them was a banker working with a leading bank, an MBA, married but available. She never knew of the spinster lecturer, Trizzer and Kate. The good thing about this whole thing was that there was a stipend. But I had to break up with Trizzer. According to her she had observed me over a long period of time and found out that I could not keep away from the skirts, and my hands couldn’t get off titties.
    “For God’s sake, AIDS is real!” She screamed. Well, she was better off without me, for her own sake. That was it – I did not argue. I let go of her . I never loved her anyway, not after knowing that she was a member of a secret sex cult that claimed to be at service to only the Nairobi’s rich men. They used to meet their clients at secret sex dens where everybody was anonymous, hawk her goods for not less than 50K a night, sometimes per hour. Rumour had it that they were dealing in order to have the porn off-the-planet orgasms that made them scream their heads off for as long as their clients wanted to toy with them. Hushed grapevine had it that it was a ritual sex group for some devil worship sect frequented mostly by politicians. What about AIDS is real to her? Furthermore, she thought that I had a soft spot for Terry.
    From time to time Kate used to visit me at the university. She was studying CPA courses at the Kenya College of Accountancy and she lived nearby, Zimmerman, after convincing her father that it was cheaper, and convenient, to live near the college instead of commuting every day from home. We met occasionally and during one of those visits she told me that it were better that we never see each other again.
    “Why Kate? You know I love you.”
    “We just have to.”
    “Tell me, Kate. What’s wrong?”
    “I will tell you in the morning,” and with that she climbed on top of me and started making love to me. Was it love really? In the morning she did not say much only that she did not want to hurt me. She would never hurt me.
    “But you’d if you just go without…”
    “I feel that I need some time alone. I just need to think over what I want. We need time to breathe.”
    “I see…” I said, but I did not see anything. I was planning on how to get myself another girlfriend already. I did not argue. Wasn’t I cheating on her after all?
    As I saw her off later on she told me to check my mails. Of late I had not been the infomania who used to be. But that day I did check. Peggy Edison, my online lover, had sent me so many messages; the Los Angeles girl claimed that she loved me more than anything else in the world.
    Kate’s message was an E-card from www.lovingyou.com . I read it with the images of the previous night coming back to me. It was a poem by one Terry Malcolm that had been dedicated to his girlfriend Florence Merab Muthoni. I was damn sure that Terry Malcolm was a Kenyan.
     
                                Better Never Again
                                With mist-foggy eyes did she look at me
                            Lips quivering; eyes wide shut kissed me,
                            Perfunctory than never before kissed me.