[ How I was a nervous wreck on my honeymoon, knowing the whole world was watching (listening to the commentary of my life) and still I managed to lose my virginity at 38 and consummate. They say the longer you wait, the colder the feet become ]
The stage, that agonized me,
And bled me like a broken hymen,
I, on my honeymoon bed, seeing eyes all around me,
So many creepy faces I foresaw
And like a chicken I crossed the road,
When I felt like a beetle boy on the other side.
A rhinoceros beetle that finally lost his horn,
(Hell, I’m too ugly to be called a unicorn).
And that day, my wife told me
Consummation is not about skinning a banana,
Or opening a faucet, its when the hyperopic
Lens begins a myopic journey,
To cross my wife, who didn’t hold me just at hello,
But also as a missionary nun, and I crossed to the other side,
The stage to me was filled, with boos and noise
And a few claps. Our bodies had interfaced
Like palms in prayer. I heard my wife hiccup
A little while later. I was a virgin at 38.
How the first time gets harder, the more you
Ascend up the years. That moment on stage,
The chicken grew up, the beetle boy
Who learnt that crossing the road, was
Your way of transcending the coward,
A moment I would have pictured hundreds
Of times, when songs of innocence,
Become ones of experience.
How I called my parents that night, no longer
The funny boy, no longer turbulent,
I knew what my wife’s hiccups meant.
My voice said it all on the phone,
How we all cross roads,
Some later than others, and the pavements
We have built to keep us all safe.
The beauty of crossing the road
On a zebra crossing, which was the way
I imagined it all to be, and yet I had no
Problem with any man or woman, jaywalking across.
Those white lines my wife’s body was,
And the last white line, that became
How it all went
From a vow to a wow, kiss to bliss,
And a wide road I crossed.
The legitimacy of love, was not my ambition.
Only how I wanted everything to be
The old fashioned way,
To give meaning to consummation.
A man who stood on the verge of autumn,
To sprinkle pollen,
On the last remaining magnolia,
Of a long and dreamy summer.