A blind date loses buzz

Saturday June 6 2020

 

By Philip Matogo

We broke up.
She said I was overweight. So I said, “we can’t be over, wait.”

But she didn’t wait.
Word to the unwise: never cheat on a lady called Night, she will leave you as soon as it dawns on her.
So I was now single like a middle finger directed at me.
Before I was born, I led a sperm charge which only I survived.

This convinced me I’d always win in love.
Night was a “babelicious,” any-night-of-the-week diabetes-inducing sweetheart. Oh yes, she knew how to make love.

I loved doing the old ‘rumpy-pumpy’ with her.
Remembering our one-minute-man meets woman encounters, I looked poetically into the mid-distance as violins played softly in the background.
Wait a minute, those weren’t violins. That was my phone, somebody had WhatsApped me.

“You guy, send me a WhatsApp message,” read the message.
This was John, my brain-deprived best friend.
He’s the only guy in the world who WhatsApps me to tell me to WhatsApp him!
I think he feels that it shifts the locus of control in his favour.

Or he just has plenty of room in his head for a brain, but his mind decided to mind its own business and leave his head alone.
“What’s up?” I messaged back.
“There’s a girl I want you to meet,” he replied.
“I am done with girls,” I wrote.
“So you want boys now?”
“So who is she?”

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John then described a lady, not a girl.
Somebody in whose arms I could fall and pray to God I would not be caught while tumbling to the heightened depths of sheer bliss.

After about an hour of chatting, he sent me her number.
Thirty minutes after that, I WhatsApped her.
I know, I should’ve called. But, being smitten, I was nervous and I didn’t want my voice to give that away.
In a champion’s moment, the object of my desire repaid my compliment by texting me back!

Before I could reply her “Hi”, I stood up and started asking my furniture: “who Da Man now?!?”
After five minutes of self-congratulation, I composed myself and replied: “So John tells me you’re single…”
For a week, we enjoyed a love affair carried on by WhatsApp correspondence.

Finally, I had found someone to rub toes with. And shamelessly play the fart game: which of us topped the sound of the other’s when expelled gas vibrated its way past two pairs of buttock flesh to set the night to music.

It was time for us to meet.
We set up a lunch date and I texted my boda guy, who replied: “Due to outbrack of Corona, I can no longer perform my tusks. Okay bye.”

Ignoring the elephantine errors in the text, I sprang to my feet and walked to the venue like I was being propelled by powerful exhaust fumes coming out of my behind.

That’s what ‘lurve’ does to us.
When I reached the venue, she was already there. And Harriet, that was her name, didn’t look like any Tom, Dick and Harriet.

She was a dazzling beauty with a lighter-than-air charm about her that blew through my locks as I gently shook my hair so it fell to my shoulders like I was Johnny Depp in a love scene.

We talked and talked.
It soon became clear that neither one of us trusted romance. We had both been burned so often, a cynical detachment served as a defense mechanism against more hurt.

The food arrived; we both had burgers and fries. And a Coke, too.
Not Coke, two.
It was one Coke: we shared, since I had to save part of the bill for the landlord.
I loaded my burger with tomato sauce and salted my chips until they were white.

Harriet bit into the bun of her burger, chomping a little by little of the bun like a rat chewing off your feet in the middle of the night as it blows them so you don’t feel the pain and wake up.
As I used the napkin to get the salt and tomato sauce off my face, I looked down.

On that section of my trouser where my dangly bits are housed, I saw a mosquito. Clearly, it was ready to subject my nether-regions to a dirty four letter word. Yes, you guessed right: bite.
I thus decided to end this brief encounter by squashing this winged intruder, flying in the face of good manners.

I mean, how does it try to privatize my privates?
As the mosquito whipped out its proboscis, I prepared my hands.
I was not sure whether I should delicately clap it with my hands like a fatal round of applause.
Or maybe I could use one hand, raise it slowly heavenwards and then quickly drop it like it’s hot, testicle-ward.

To end this brain-stretching self-questioning, I decided that my hand should fall like a guillotine.
Instead, I struck the table en-route to striking my testicular real estate. And I ended up covered in soda and tomato sauce!
As this happened, the mosquito took flight…along with my date.

First look
When I reached the venue, she was already there. And Harriet, that was her name, didn’t look like any Tom, Dick and Harriet.
She was a dazzling beauty with a lighter-than-air charm about her that blew through my locks as I gently shook my hair so it fell to my shoulders like I was Johnny Depp in a love scene.

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