I Could Dream All Day

For a man of his age, fiftyish, greying, with the third sign of jowls, this polished Japie has a bloated opinion of himself and his abilities. Maybe once (if I’m lucky), but not now. In this black and white town, colourless and soundless, he is his own grey area. Lovemaking with military precision, everything drilled into chartered place, satisfies him. It kills two minutes every Thursday, every week. Regulated thrusting, squirming, blood pumping, cum face, climax, functional, clean, regular, he collapses into the once-white sheets.

Every morning after nine, I clear away the breakfast bowls, toast crumbs, spilled, spilt milk, and turn down the beds in their new sheets. I catch the bus from the stop by the corner market and wait, wait for the buzz and the practised words…an actor reading his lines. I know mine well enough. I press the buzzer and the door opens, dab perfume, and he is on me again. Precise, exact, clothes folded as his mother taught him, or maybe his Boarding School matron. Perfunctory petting, widened eyes narrowing now, I join him, smile, close my eyes and never let go. Rivulets spring from windblown crags and hollows, the hairs stand to attention at the back of his reddening neck. He is not blushing. I do not blush.

Jaco’s got rugby training. What shall I make for dinner?

I ask him about his day. He likes conversation. His skin warming, deeply scarlet, now. He has never told me his name, but that doesn’t matter. Capitalism made us this way.

He is on me now. A low moan. The rent is low.

Boerewors or Bredie, he’ll need something filling. Melktert for dessert. Did I turn the hot water on?

He is in me now, musty, stale, longing whiskey-fumed words whispered, liver-spotted fingers grasp and grab. Arches, loops, and whorls imprinted. He can be gentle but not today.

I need mince and dates. Ayanda is with the sitter tonight, she needs a new dress. I want a cigarette. My Mills Specials are in my bag. Or did I leave them on the table. He smokes, but doesn’t like smoking. I need a drink. A large one.

Back in the room. I whisper. Swelling. His body stiffening he will cum in five seconds. Racing, crashing at the finish, he will win by a head. Sweat dripping from his forehead on to my lips. I can taste him, taste Johnnie Walker and spiced biltong. He comes and he will go without speaking again.


I’m going to make Bobotie.