STORIES OF THE DILAPIDATED HUMAN MIND.

By Brian Nzomo.

Story one.

NICHOLAS STORY.

I have long pondered about my dissipating desire for women, fearing that I may soon identify myself as asexual. One may be tempted to ask “how”. I mean, how does a heterosexual man’s desire fizzle out in the presence of a charming beau? Is it even possible? How ridiculous.

Well, it’s just that. Normal women have been rendered bland to my eyes, their once scintillating features now bromidic to my taste. I shouldn’t be saying this, but I can’t hide it. My crotch no longer bulges at the sight of what titillated me in them since age twelve.

I knew I had lost it. It was not a bad dream any longer. Reality had cogently manifested that I could no longer find delight in a normal woman. I resigned to self-imbued celibacy, doing nothing else but writing, sleeping and contemplating bitterly upon the inescapable societal judgement awaiting me in the future.

Four months into my rue, I met a woman who like a warbling bird at dawn, awakened the passions long settled into haze in me. I could feel those mortified passions rise, waft into my spirit and recast itself into a more puissant state. The newly regained passion was nothing I had ever felt before. But there was a problem.

Vanessa(her name) was a 27 year old midget. Yes. Her height was just an inch below feet four. Her legs were stout, concaved and her arms were disproportionately attached to her buxom bosom. Her frame was wildly amusing, whimsical and undoubtedly to most men, she was anything but attractive.

But I was a different man altogether, at least during that time. Vanessa drove me crazy. I thought I was just being sick, with cerebral malaria or something; but nothing could be done to assuage me from thinking endlessly about her. I wanted to prod her bantam frame and caress her like a doll. Grab those peachy buttocks, spank them so hard. Aah, the licentious things running in my mind made me doubt whether I was sane anymore.

I rationalized the idea of having her. It was purely love. Nothing would stop me from dating Vanessa. Society would frown at it, or find it comical, but who cared? I thought. Getting orgasms from that lilliput was enormously overwhelming to my senses. I therefore went for her.

Vanessa. She was a sweet woman. A favourable companion too. But exhaustion set in and I could no longer find pleasure in her. We broke up after six weeks. She wept sombrely, making me feel mildly miserable about hurting her. I mean, what kind of a man was I ? Heartbreaking midgets! Didn’t I have a heart?

But my mind was made up. I had to explore the deepest realms of my desire. I had to feel every flame on my skin and experiment which one charred most. I ran online searches, looking for midgets. They all flooded my bed like bugs. But each would be discarded within a brief period, sometimes spanning a few days. It became the lifestyle I imminently wished for. More and more midgets. Sometimes pleading for multiple ones for extra action.

I detached myself from the world. Isolated myself from those likely to question my newly found debauchery. I was happy. That was all mattered. Until I was not. Six months later, I could not find pleasure in them any longer. I was hopeless. Wasted. It was all about life, I tried convincing myself. But I could not understand the mystery behind my moldering sex life.

I sought help from a pastor, but he was absolutely clueless about my peril. He only said something about a demon whose name I can’t recall, which I found dubious to believe. No single psychiatrist I visited could comprehend my problem. So I was resigned to living this nightmare.

A month later, I knew I was forever lost. I had a dream lashed by an impetuous erotic experience with an aunt of mine who had died a month fleeted. I did not even know her that fondly because she was only thirty when she died of pneumonia, and she was not a conspicuous relative. I woke up instantly wishing to end my morally denigrated life. But I am a coward. I chose to face my nightmares until they became luresome.

That moment at twilight when I stood beside her grave in our countryside home, I cried pitifully at myself when I got a boner thinking about her sexually. A muffled voice in my brain wishing to unearth her and ravage her freshly buried corpse. Besides, there was no slab yet. Just a mound of red soil.