At 25, I am a typical definition of young and gorgeous, leading a pack of wild girls amidst the sheep of the Herald ministries in the heartland of the city. I was never inclined to the church things, except that somehow, my parents have remained inexorably committed to this family church, and have consistently told me I had to marry from the church.
I love sex. And I was bold and shameless about it. My parents, being the domineering type had tried, all to no avail to curtail my dress sense. My group of four and I were notorious for our gowns, short and sexy, revealing and enticing. I have had my bouts of sacrilege in church. I refer to my secretive flings with erring brothers in the ministry.
I recollect my first view of Ibrahim with an admixture of excitement and emotional distress. He had come out as a first timer on a particular Sunday, and never looked back. Tall, dark and handsome, he cut the portrait of a gentleman from afar. But his fervency outshone everyone’s. Soft spoken yet irrepressibly gifted with the gift of the gab. In no time, he became everyone’s favourite. The boys loved him, while the ladies adored him. I was somewhat, in between. Drawn to his allure and charm, but was disinclined to his rather excessive spirituality. Nothing was surely ever going to connect us. So wrong I was.
Six months after he joined our church, I received a call. Ibrahim was on the other end of the line. After a short exchange of pleasantries, he dropped the bombshell,
“Sister Faith. I believe I have God’s leading that you are my wife. I want to give you time to pray about it”
Beyond the audacity and the sheer brevity of the whole proposal, I was flummoxed. Me? How come? I was never the church type. He must be joking, I thought. Gradually, he came through. His calls, chats and persistence. I began to give it a second thought
Talk of my first baptism of fire, it was the whole you-can’t-touch-each-other-before-your-wedding-night policy. Loving Ibrahim was easy. But loving him did not in any way repress my urge for sex. I wanted more than the gists. But chastity had to be achieved.
Till the wedding night, I had to find a solution. And my fingers came to the rescue. Cold comfort it was, but it was still some comfort. With the image of Ibrahim on my head every night, I fingered my clitoris recklessly, sending spasms of pleasure through my slender frame. This continued for the few months of our courtship. Then came the wedding day.
The wedding came and went. We hopped into our wedding vehicle as all the crowd ushered us out of the reception. I grabbed his hands and tried kissing him right in the car. But he hesitated. He wanted us to get home first, pray and have it done properly. I obliged.
Our wedding night turned out horrible in every respect. Beside the 2-hour prayers, nothing else materialised. First, Ibrahim would not bear seeing me naked. Every attempt at me undressing him yielded no fruit. He wanted me to give him more time. He had not done this before, he claimed.
This continued into the night. Soon, he fell asleep, right beside me on the bed. I couldn’t hold it. I gently pulled off his clothes and got to his boxers. I dipped my hand inside and began to rub his penis gently, believing he would get aroused.
Suddenly he woke and shouted “stop”. I was startled. This was not what I bargained for.
The following day, I tried again. Still the same story. I then tried to kiss him. He stood still, grimacing in disbelief. He couldn’t kiss me. He didn’t know how to.
I calmed him down, offering to stroke his penis. After much bickering, he finally went naked and watched me undress. His dick didn’t come erect. I inched closer, and rubbed my gentle fingers on his penis, twitching his balls. Instead of groans of satisfaction, I got grimace of discomfort. And for the first time in my life, I came across a limp, lifeless and luckless dick.
After a week, my husband, the same one I had forsaken my sex ways for- was yet to make love to me. I became frustrated and depressed. He remained apologetic, promising that he will seek medical solution. We visited the hospital together. Nothing was wrong. He was given aphrodisiacs by the Doctor. He took the drugs that same night with confidence. I undressed him. Then that was all. Despite my stroking, his penis still wouldn’t stand erect. The handsomeness in his face had given way to a fierce tremulousness. I took his dick in my mouth and slurped persistently. The size was moderate, but it just wont stand erect. A month later, I could hold it back no longer. I approached the pastor for counselling but he resorted to prayer. What happened to the over 2-hour prayer session we had on our wedding night and the several hours of prayers Ibrahim has continued with during our marriage? I wondered. Three months on, my resistance is getting porous as my pussy increasingly demands sumptuous sex. My fingers have continued to work their magic inside my pussy every night but for a sex maniac like me, something has to give. Six months after, I downloaded my favourite dating app, the same one I used to connect with fellow sex lovers around the state before I met my husband. I have just met a new guy, a prospective lover online. In the course of our conversations, he sent me videos of his turgid dick and left me a consuming urge for raw sex. I don’t want to keep inserting my fingers in my pussy. Not anymore. I want sex. I want to be fucked. My husband can continue to pray, but all I want now is sex. My new guy and I have agreed on a sex date. For me, there is no going back. At this stage, nothing is more important than sex. God will understand.