The sign on the mahogany door of Wati’s condo says “Unit 888”. I jab the doorbell button but there’s no sound. Sheesh, the doorbell is on the fritz. I rap my knuckles on the door and wait a tick but silence again greets me. An exasperated inhale and exhale rasp through my nostrils. The air in the corridor is cool and moist but not stale. Impatience grabs me by the throat and I grab the copper knob and twist it to open the door.
“Hello, Wati?” I holler as I step inside the foyer. “Hello…” My calls bounce off the walls of the living room.
Last night, I had gone to Hot Legs Nightclub with Chow Kah and Hussein. We had a fabulous time singing karaoke, dining and guzzling the hard stuff. When I got home, I discovered that I had left my Samsung mobile phone in the KTV room. Immediately, I had called Mummy Lulu from my land line and she said she had passed my mobile to Wati as she lived nearest to me. Speaking through Mummy’s phone, Wati told me I could go over to collect my Samsung any time in the afternoon.
I kick my black Oxfords off and close the door behind me. Four long strides bring me to the living room. It is exquisitely furnished with rugs and paintings and is illuminated by the soft light of shaded wall lamps whose yellow richness creates a romantic ambiance. My eyes span wider. Oh, my God! Wati is lying on the leather sofa and masturbating! A pair of spectacles is perched on the bridge of her nose and her eyes are closed. I stand rooted on the spot as she continues the act for a minute or so. Then, she moans, arches her back and releases a heave of satisfaction. Opening her eyes, she casts a sideway gaze at me.
“Oh, it’s you, Ewe.” Her voice is devoid of shame or embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you knock. I just wanted to get rid of sexual tension.” She turns sideways and rests her elbows on the arm top of the sofa. “Have a seat, please.” She takes a few deep breaths and manoeuvres to a sitting position. I can see the vulnerable place where her pulse thrums in her throat, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. The tight furls of her nipples against the silk negligee heats my blood. “Oh-la-la! That was nice!” Lips curled in a grin, Wati presses a palm to one side of her face. “Phew! The after-glow has made my face hot!” Her eyes are huge now, copper-brown rings around massive pools of black.
I sink into a tub chair opposite Wati. “You always masturbate?”
Puckering her lips, Wati makes a fist, jerks her thumb towards her mouth and I nod. “Only when I need it.” She rises and heads for the credenza at a corner where upon its top sits a tray containing two flute glasses and a bottle of Noughty Sparkling Wine. She brings the tray to the coffee table and clunks the two glasses and bottle on its volcanic-stone top before sagging into the sofa.
I lean forward and unplug the cork of the bottle. “Allow me, please,” I say, as I fill the two glasses with wine. I slide one glass towards Wati. “When do you need to masturbate?”
Wati adjusts her spectacles. “Usually, after I read an erotic novel, I need to do it.” She bends forward and pulls out a paperback from the bottom shelf of the coffee table. “This novel’s hot.” She holds the book upright to show me the front cover. “Fixed on You by Laurelin Page. A while ago, I just finished reading it, lots of explicit sex scenes.”
I grab the book, turn to its back cover and read the blurb. “I see, it’s the first book in a trilogy: Fixed on You, Found in You and Forever with You. Wow, Fixed on You is a USA Today bestseller.” I toss the novel on the coffee table which lands with a soft thud. “Erotic novels are not my cup of tea. Men are visually stimulated, so given a choice between movie and book, I’d prefer an erotic movie.”
“In fact, masturbation is good for women.”
I run a hand through my thatch of thinning hair. “Says who?”
“Says Dr. Lauren Streicher, an associate professor of obstetrics and Gynecology at Northwestern University. She’s the author of and Sex Rx: Hormones, Health, And Your Best Sex Ever.”
I sip at my drink, blink at its flavour, and sip again. “What benefits does the book say?” A slight buzz hums through my veins. The sparkling wine's excellent.
Wati raises her drink and downs a big swallow. I’m transfixed on her mouth as her tongue darts out to clean her pink lips. Gee, they look so yummy. Her eyes capture mine for a moment. “An orgasm releases dopamine and oxytocin, which creates a positive mood.”
“In other words, it makes you feel good—noted.”
“Masturbation makes you understand your body more, makes you more confident when having sex with a man.” Wati crosses her legs. The slinky black material creeps up and gives me a glimpse of olive skin, smooth and athletic.
I gulp. “What else is good about masturbation?”
“An orgasm relieves tension, both physically and emotionally. So you fall asleep faster and enjoy deeper sleep. Of course, you wake up more refreshed.”
“The same applies to men.”
Wati removes her spectacle and nibbles on one temple tip in thought. “Masturbation also relieves cramps during your menstrual period. A uterine contraction caused by masturbation helps menstrual blood come out faster, so cramps are lessened.”
I glug a few swallows of sparkling wine. “Apart from erotic novels, what turns you on to masturbate?” I refill my glass to the brim.
“A few other things.” Wati’s serious eyes study my face for a moment. “Watching a sexy movie, talking dirty with a hunk on the webcam, and feeling an overwhelming connection by a loving act by my boyfriend, for instance, receiving a delivered bunch of roses. At that moment, I masturbate since he’s not around for hugs and kisses.”
“Nothing unusual.”
“I know something unusual.” Wati’s kohl-lined eyes twinkle like a child’s in a toy store. “Do you know that a man in Iran was sentenced to death for masturbating while reading the Koran?”
https://www.ripplesnigeria.com/man-sentenced-death-masturbating-reading-quran/
“Holy cow!” My eyes shudder as shards of shock slice through my gut. I take another swallow of my drink and a tiny ember of thought springs to life. “Has anyone been caught masturbating while reading the Bible?”
I scratch the back of my head. “Who’s David Peel?”
“A New York City musician. He wrote the song 'The Pope Smokes Dope’, released in 1972.” Wati spreads her hands, like someone feeling for rain. “He wasn’t even threatened by any Catholic fanatic. That’s one thing I like about the USA, total freedom of expression.” She sweeps strands of stray hair from her forehead with a solemn gaze and a gentle hand. “The song ends with ‘The Pope’s getting higher, higher, higher…' ” A smile slithers across her lips.
“Time I get going.” I jackknife to my feet and smoothen the creases in my pants. “Can I have my mobile, please?”
Wati rises from the sofa, waddles with a sexy sway of hips to the credenza and retrieves my mobile from a drawer. She strides to my spot and hands me my Samsung. “See you at the nightclub tomorrow?”
“Sure, I’ll order a Macallan 18 Year Old Sherry Oak for everyone to share.” I slip my Samsung into my trouser pocket. “Thanks, sis.”
/end
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