The Cry Of Orgasm

She was a Mauritius woman
who sold spicy grocery at Leeds
open market and spoke demotic English
even on the phone that evening
she told me to come over for a chat.
I won't tell you exactly where but
just know it was somewhere in Headingly.

The lights were on to show me the window
of her house and her door. On all fours,
furs erect, like a Yorkshire cat starved
of pudding for two years, I crept in.
The door purred, closed quietly
so as not to wake the neighbours.

She said her husband had a timetable
for beating her, so they were now separated.
We watched Ruby Wax on the coloured
TV for three minutes then went upstairs,
her blue sleeping gown spiralling behind her
like my lust. Up there, in that grey bedroom,

It was sweet, it was swell, it was juicy;
la crème de la crème, her olive thighs
squeezing honey on my ever-green cucumber
and, inch-by-inch, devouring it, enjoying it,
relishing it. Dear Reader, I won't tell you a lie,
it was sweet, I lay there, on my back, furs erect,
pawing the air, a lucky cat dissolving in ecstacy,
crystals of sugar forming in my mouth, my brain,

my heart. But just as the tremors were coming,
the tremors of our earthquake, memories
of her husband rippled through her mind, and,
suddenly, like an olive leaf, she wilted.
Instead of a cry of orgasm, she swallowed
and sighed; her eyes scanning the room and
windows  with fear. The fear got into me too
as she climbed off like a disheartened jockey
who had failed to win the prize at the races

While I lay there, an empty saddle, with no foot
In the stirrup and no kick at the side to spur me on.
Since that day, the condom of our love
Has been broken. And now when I go to the market
I avoid her stall of spices and go to another
Laden with peaches and fresh strawberries
All of which are red and also very sweet.



© 2002 Esiaba Irobi