Sunday 27 January 2013

CHAT Awards

Chaguo la Teeniz (CHAT) Awards is a Kenyan annual event where teens nominate and vote for their favourite celebs – musicians (both secular and gospel), TV and radio personalities, comedians and local actors.

Dudes and dudettes at the height of teen hominess flock in numbers on the material day to see their favourite yet elusive celebs – faces confined only to TV screens, YouTube, radios and newspapers and magazines – get autographs, pose for photos with them and even flirt and dart if the chance presents itself.

I had just finished my Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education (KCSE) exams and the sudden freedom from the no-nonsense Mrs. Ombie and strictest parents on the planet was almost debilitating – as it should be for a teenager who’s become a miniature citizen.

When the day came I snuck out like Christina Milian in her song A.M. to P.M. I was garbed in the latest, outrageous outfit in town – my pastor would have said Evelyn Adamson was decent in the Garden of Eden before the infamous fall from grace; blame it on fashion – and so was everybody else, especially those who had body and booty to show.

I heard the music before I saw the musicians at the Kenyatta International Conference Centre (KICC). The press of ecstatic teenagers was like one body as the local stars regaled us with their heavy, syncopated street beats and lyrics.

I managed to squeeze my way to the front – amid angry snorts and off-the-book insults with the word ‘biachi’ thrown in occasionally – when it came for the infamous ‘Bend Over’ dance style guys to perform. I found myself on the dance floor – bending over – without any idea in hell how I got there. It had not occurred to me that the whole world (just Kenya) was watching and dad, with his convoluted military idea of discipline, was gonna murder me.

However, who cared? It was actually my eighteenth birthday and as far as I was concerned I was an adult. I danced in the gleeful swell of the music, no cares in the world.

 Then, I noticed something weird happening – my body was feeling strange as one of the musicians rubbed the front of his trousers against my bum. It was an unfamiliar thrill, a tingle all over my body that spiked and intensified before coalescing into a sharp, damp heat, right between my legs.

I gasped as he pressed harder, slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me more firmly to him. Instantly, I made another discovery – there was stiffness in his trousers, below the belt.

Gosh! He was aroused.

I did not know when the music ended because my body was whirling, head swirling and heart twirling, beating over two-hundred beats per second. I remember letting the guy lead me backstage, to the changing room.

“Yo’ uh one good dancer,” he told me, making sure his Jamaican accent was prominent. “Would’ya like catch some air, babe?”

Like he had read my mind.

We went outside to the parking lot. It was all too obvious where he was taking me.

My knees felt weak, as if my legs refused to support my feather weight. He took my hand and all I felt was his hardness against my softness.

He cupped my face, and then pressed his dry lips against mine. His tongue probed, and I patted my lips. The tongue slid deeper into my mouth.

His hand found my breasts and cupped them. I cried out, a tiny gasp that surprised me. He stroked, caressed and even nibbled my nipples. The feeling blazed up and down my spine, and frothed between my legs.

“Yo’ a beautiful,” he told me.

Layer upon layer of sensation choked me, and I felt champagne bubbles sizzle to wetness in my thong.

Hardly had I felt my insides throb, a twitching that was faster than my heartbeat, when I felt myself slump into a leather soft cushion.

“I wan’ yo’ badly,” he said.

He did not need to, though. I was too willing to grant permission. Every part of my body was screaming ‘I want a piece of this guy’ so loud that I could hear nothing else. As his fingers trailed my inner thigh, my flared micro-miniskirt granted unobstructed access.

His mouth engulfed mine for the umpteenth time burying the whimpers that kept escaping my throat. I was all wet, drowning in my arousal, when I felt the unmistakable hard length of his penis against my vulva, teasing my slowly opening labia. I could feel that I was drenched down there, and I opened my legs wide, so ready for the much talked-about first bite of the serpent of Eden that it ached.

I surprised myself by lifting my hips towards him, and his hard, hot shaft fell into position, right where it should be – between my legs.

I writhed beneath him as he hammered my hot, blunt opening, forgot the pain of his entry against my slowly disintegrating hymen. His thrusts grew faster, his breathing heavy.

The hot wavelets of sensation that were hitting my clitoris ran through the rest of my body at the speed of light, seeped down my bones and thawed away the  ice that had frozen for eighteen years, leaving me limp, damp and utterly spent. I held onto him, enjoying his heaviness against me, the strange dampness seeping out of me and the lassitude that pervaded.

Just as I began to drift away, I heard the familiar clatter of high heels on asphalt.

“’Tas ma’ man,” an enraged Jamaican female voice yelled. “Get o’ ma’ man, bitch.”

And so it was that I got much more than an autograph.

Copyright © Rati, 2013. All Rights Reserved.