Why I am Still Single

Because he might lick my face.

 

For real.

 

The Devil Box made its way back into my home last month.  Too broke to afford Pay TV, I am at the mercy of Uganda’s free-to-air channels that offer a combination of poorly shot Ugandan music videos, cheap Nollywood movies, air headed entertainment magazine presenters and Latin American telenovelas with the worst voice overs ever.

 

Enter El Cuerpo del Deseo, which literally means “The Crap of the Deranged.”  Okay, that’s not what it means, but that’s what it should mean.  El Crapo, like many telenovelas, has an extremely preposterous storyline.  From the three episodes I have watched, I’ve figured that it has something to do with someone dying, someone coming back to life, someone’s in love with someone who’s in love with someone else and there’s a butler and a wicked aunt and a maid and a forest and a dog.

 

Anyhoo, on Thursday last week, needing to numb my mind after frustrating day, I turned on the Devil Box.  El Crapo was on NTV.  A woman – long hair, skinny waist, plump lips, breasts a-heaving – was calling out a man’s name.  “Salvador, Salvador, blahblahblah I need you.”  Salvador, repulsed her kisses and told her something or the other about her cheating on her fiancé. “But Salvador,” breasts a-heaving even more, “Salvador.”  He said, “NO!” and then …

 

… he licked her face.

 

As in tongue-stuck-out in thirsty rabid dog style, one long wet slobber from her chin to her nose.  She didn’t cry out or slap him or vomit, as commonsense would have required her to do.  Instead she touched the saliva on her face tenderly and whispered a breathless “Salvador.”

 

And I remembered why I am still single.

 

A year ago I met a man whom I believed to be worthy of my affections.  Actually, that is slightly disingenuous considering I regularly and freely offer my affections to Pretty Boy, Buff Body and Company Limited.  Nevertheless.  This man, Mr. G, I’ll call him, was different.  I’ve had an extremely hard time getting over What’sHisFace and Mr. G had that certain special something that appealed to me.

 

Mr. G said he liked me.  I badly needed to be liked. He pressed all the right buttons.  I felt beautiful, I felt desired and I felt … what the heck, loved.

 

Mr. G and I had a wonderful time together.  He challenged me intellectually, he appreciated my lame off-beat humor, he read the same books as I and he wanted the same things out of life that I do.  Those were two weeks of bliss.

 

Yes, yes, just two weeks.

 

You see, I have a two week test to see whether I like a man.  If I do, it’s kissy time!

 

The time came.  Kissy time, that is.  You know all the signs.  The guy looks at you with those ‘ooh baby’ eyes and you smile seductively (incidentally, I practiced my seductive smile in front of my mirror the other day and I looked extremely creepy.  Perhaps that is why I’m still single).  He pulled me close and leaned in. I reached up, puckerd up and he went straight for my ear.

 

I thought, “Weird, but whatever … maybe he knows what he’s doing … that’s odd, but I’ll just go with the floooFRICK!  FRICK!”

 

“What?  What is it Tumwi?” he asked, shocked and concerned.

 

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

 

“What am I doing what?  I’m loving you,” he replied, sounding like someone out of an Ebonies’ play.

 

I thought, let’s try this again.  I looked at him apologetically, pouted my lips and thrust out my chest to help him get the groove on, reached up.  Again he went straight for my ear!  He literally stuck his tongue into my ear and begun to lick-lick and stab-stap inside it.  It felt like someone was filling my ear with slimy tepid water using a wad of old cotton wool.

 

“Stop that!”  I shouted, pulling away.

 

Mr. G looked hurt.  Very hurt.  I couldn’t care less.

 

“That’s disgusting!  What are you doing?  Trying to suck all my ear wax?”

 

“I thought girls liked that,” Mr. G said.

 

“What girls?  Girl chimpanzees?” I retorted.

 

“You don’t have to be rude,” he said.

 

I felt bad, but only a little.

 

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t think it will work out.”

 

“Why?  I can change.  You can teach me,” he pleaded.

 

I hurried away, fumbling in my bag for a tissue to dry up the muck.

 

I saw Mr. G on Saturday.  He looked very handsome in his Valentine’s date garb and on his arm was a tall, elegant girl.  “Poor idiot,” I thought to myself, “she doesn’t know of the horror to come.”

 

In retrospect, Mr. G wasn’t the worst.  There was CJM, the smoker, who constantly cleared his throat in the middle of a kiss.  There was PK who liked to kiss in front of a mirror so he could assess his work as he did the deed.  Then there was the boyfriend of earlier this month (yes, Dee, that one) who was so boring, I actually fell asleep during a make out session.

 

Then again, none of them tried to lick my face.

 

But they might.  And that’s why I’m still single.