26: Confessions of a Slut

By KatOë Prinsloo

This recounting of twenty-six past love relationships creates a portrait of the protagonist as a woman who knows what she wants and who is often frustrated by the inability of any one man to fully rise to the occasion. This is a bittersweet, humorous account of a South African womans trial-and-error relationships as she searches for love. True love, however, continually evades her, largely because she takes a series of bad, yet entertaining, decisions. In trying to understand her own sexuality and heritage, she pushes boundaries and breaks societys rules with reckless abandon. KatOs carefree attitude, fun, and exploration come at a high price. KatO tells her story from her first sexual awakening as a virgin to her transformation to a bedroom goddess. Her love life remains a comedy of errors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504989268

KatOë Prinsloo

The author is an economist by profession. Although she is naturally serious, she enjoys the lighter side of life and making fun of taboo matters.

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© 2015 KatOë Prinsloo. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/18/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-8927-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-8928-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-8926-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

1. Abia

2. Zakes

3. Abie

4. Herseney

5. Jerome

6. René's hubby

7. Wayne

8. André

9. Samuel Kay

10. Kay

11. Gregory

12. Aziz

13. Toni, I think his name was

14. Julian

15. Kenny

16. Jermaine

17. Lee

18. Warren

19. Eric

20. Christopher

21. Lawrence

22. Martin

23. Immanuel

24. Alon

25. Joe

26. Reese, the One

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the one who loved me long before I understood my own capacity and depth to receive and reciprocate love. In loving memory of his deep dimples, gentle ways and kind spirit. You will always be the love of my life with whom all good things began.

Introduction

As a teenager I snogged a lot of boys for fun. Dating was easy back then and non-sexual relationships made it easy to break-up and make-up. To keep track of the numbers of hearts I had broken, I would keep a list of all the boys' names in alphabetical order at the back of my diary. Later, I intentionally sought out guys to kiss whose names started with those letters of the alphabet that had not yet been filled in. Since there were 26 letters of the alphabet, I stopped writing down the names and was quite satisfied with myself when I had a completed list in alphabetical order.

I started another alphabetical list of names when I became sexually active, not knowing that twenty years down the line those names would become the subject matter of my first book. Unlucky in love, my sordid search for "the one" had entertained many crowds at dinner parties. Over the years, my sense of humour had become my best self-defence tactic and I usually saved my friends the trouble of jostling with me by being the first to crack jokes about my sorry love affairs. Many a friend or acquaintance had left my place crying from laughter. I have heard all too often that I should document these stories and write a book one day. And now I finally did.

In every attempted relationship that I have been in, I learnt something new about myself. As a child raised in a staunch Roman Catholic home, I firmly believed I wanted to enter a Convent and become a nun when I finished my schooling. Later as a teenager, this belief evolved into a desire of being a housewife and a proud mother of seven boys. At age 30, after a dismal and very unhappy marriage, I discovered that I really did not care much for being a wife after all; but my need for having children and belonging to a family was very real. By age 36, I had declined three marriage proposals, but still desired a stable, long-term relationship with the love of my life.

Writing this book was not easy. One of my weaknesses that I am still grappling with, is my inability to express and process emotions. I have even more difficulty associating with and interacting with emotional or overly sensitive people. Unlike at my dinner parties where I only told superficial stories, putting pen to paper gave me the opportunity to air my innermost thoughts and deepest disappointments. Certain chapters were hard to pen and required more frequent coffee breaks and time-outs than others. Other chapters reminded me of how silly, blonde, negligent or downright cruel I could be at times. Although I am portrayed to the world as a level-headed, sober and very much together person, my narrations bear testimony to not being nearly as rational or to being the model citizen that my peers imagine me to be.

As I recounted my sexual escapades with 26 different partners over twenty years, the memoirs of the time I spent with each one, aroused numerous mixed feelings. My 26 chronicles also released so much pent up anger over unresolved issues. In a way, this book triggered a spiritual journey to my core self and forced me to take an introspective look into repeated behaviours that yielded the same failed outcomes. On the other hand, certain chapters jogged my memory of humorous and amusing incidents that were safely tucked away into my subconscious. At least I know I have not become so grown up that I cannot laugh at myself anymore.

1.

Abia

A kaleidoscope of childhood remembrances, most of them not so innocent but often touching, shapes the story of Abia. Abia was one of my brother's closest friends. Although harmless and far from the dangerous street boys from the projects that they imagined themselves to be, my brother's gang labelled themselves The Tough Boys and engraved TBS on every imaginable thing that crossed their paths. In South African township slang, they were really three cheese boys, meaning they were raised in well off homes compared to the other locals in the reserve. It is commonly accepted that in South Africa every non-white person grew up as a historically disadvantaged individual under horrendous cultural torture. In reality, The Tough Boys had experienced very little economic hardship and were still too young to bear any real scars of racial discrimination brought about by apartheid, the old South African political dispensation.

For the most part, Abia was just like a knock-off Mona Lisa painting -- you know, those cheap flea-market replicas that everyone's grandmother's owned. Even though the facsimile would figuratively fill the room, the painting went mostly unnoticed. In our crowd, Abia, like the fake Mona Lisa, was forever present yet silent and barely impressionable.

I cannot recall the exact moment when we fell in love or, for that matter, when Abia and KatOë (my Afrikaans nickname, meaning cat eyes) had become a we or an us. At about the age of ten, Abia started a Valentine's Day tradition that he maintained well into adulthood. Every single Valentine's Day he would send me a heart-shaped pillow with Be My Valentine imprinted on it. He would also give me a small to medium-sized teddy bear, depending on his budget. I cannot even remember if I ever reciprocated those gifts, but I do remember eagerly awaiting every single Valentine's Day to see what colour, shape, and size teddy bear I would receive from him that year. By the time I left my parents' house, my teddy bear collection had grown to well over thirty, because Abia had also sent get well soon, I'm sorry, good luck for the exams, and sometimes just simply I love you teddy bears.

gorilla.jpg

Ironically, the one teddy bear that stood the test of time was Max. The following is according to Wikipedia:

Max was a Western Lowland Gorilla held at the Johannesburg Zoo. Max became famous in 1997 after being shot and wounded in his enclosure at the zoo. On 18 July 1997, police surprised a criminal in action. In trying to evade police, Mofokeng, the policeman on duty entered the zoo grounds and the enclosure where Max and his mate Lisa were held. During the confrontation between Max and Mofokeng, Mofokeng was seriously injured and Max was shot twice with a .38 revolver; one shot in the chest and the other in the neck. Three pursuing police officers were also injured during the ordeal, one was bitten by Max on his arm and buttocks; Max broke the arm of the other sergeant; and a constable broke his ankle. After zoo veterinarians failed to locate and extract the bullets at the zoo hospital, Max was sent for X-rays and surgery to nearby Milpark (human) Hospital. Max survived and lived for seven more years until 2004. Mofokeng was later convicted of rape, robbery and wounding a gorilla; and received a 40-year sentence.¹

The story of Max, the brave gorilla who had accosted a sought-after criminal, received substantial news coverage when I was a teenager. Max, the butt of many great jokes, was the cause of countless tongue-in-cheek comments. Any hideously unattractive person, any person who had abnormally sized appendages, or any individual who -- for whatever reason -- seemed odd by teenage standards was dubbed Max.

During one of our many break-ups, but by far the worst one, Abia and I could barely stand to make eye contact, let alone fathom offering a greeting to each other in passing. I cannot recall the cause for that particular split-up, but it was certainly the roughest patch we had ever gone through. After not being on speaking terms with Abia for almost eighteen months, I, for the first time since primary school, dreaded the approaching Valentine's Day. I kept dreaming up self-defensive tactics and the lines I would give my friends in response to the question, What are you doing on Valentine's Day? as I could not bear to face the world alone on my second favourite day of the year (my first is Christmas).

After an almost successful day of wallowing in self-pity and moping in my room, I was forced out of hiding around 8 p.m. by a knock on my bedroom door. An anonymous Valentine's Day gift had been delivered. After opening it, I unfolded a miniature version of Max the gorilla -- the ugliest teddy bear I had ever received. Max personified the definition of cute. He was grossly unsightly but utterly adorable. I still love him to this day. Abia's message hit home and was loud and clear. Although I had hurt him, he still cared and knew that this day was significant to me. He had found a way to make an awkward Valentine's Day special. Too angry to find a pretty bear with a loving message, but not angry enough to let me think he had lost interest in me, Abia had bought me the most grotesque teddy bear he could find. Max, in all his unsightliness, had once again performed an above-godly act: he had softened two hurting hearts and led them back to each other. The old flame between me and Abia was rekindled. After all was forgiven, Abia begged me to dispose of Max, but to this day that obnoxious thing sits on my bed as a reminder of the true love of my life. Max is indeed my favourite teddy bear.

Like the Mona Lisa, Abia harboured the most beautiful smile, the saddest eyes, and the most earnest frown lines. He had the deepest dimples. Even when his face wore half a smirk, those dints in his cheeks aroused in me an overwhelming urge to devour him alive. Occasionally, but very seldom, he allowed his eyes to be the window to his soul, at which time they would reflect glimpses of the heaviness he carried within. But those were fleeting moments, only caught by the super alert and the very few whom he let close enough to see into him. To the rest of the world, he was a joker and a drunk. Every situation was an opportunity for comedy; every misfortune was a new punchline; and every public mistake became ammunition or fodder for amusement.

The first time my Mona Lisa jumped off the wall, became real to me, and made a memorable impression was when Abia's best friend, my older brother, was killed in a car accident on Christmas Day. As a teenager, I truly believed that I didn't like my brother much. He was only a year older than I, and he often bullied me, punched me, pulled my hair, and openly ridiculed me. Hence, the unending flood of tears I shed on word of his passing made absolutely no sense to me. How could I sob so uncontrollably for so many days on end for someone whom I had wished to kill myself so many times before?

All of my weeping, wailing, and mourning for my brother was done in Abia's arms. During the grieving period leading up to the funeral, Abia was the first person I saw every morning when I opened my eyes and the last person to stroke my head and dry my tears as I drifted off to sleep. In his usual Mona Lisa way, he never uttered a word. But he was by my side every single moment of the day when I was most vulnerable.

During this time of bereavement, I went into emotional autopilot mode. On some days, I excommunicated the world and let only Abia in; on other days, I was the queen bee who had miraculously healed overnight. Abia took all my unpredictable motions in his stride. On one occasion I asked him to join me for a walk. With no warning, I stopped dead centre in the road, facing oncoming traffic, and, in full view of everyone, spontaneously yanked Abia closer and kissed him passionately while groping him in the street. After the kiss, we finished our walk in silence, holding hands for the rest of the way.

As my brother's funeral drew closer, my parents' house was filled with a host of mourners who had come to offer their condolences: all of my brother's girlfriends and most his exes; fellow classmates; school friends; my brother's soccer team; the volleyball team; my brother's youth group; the church band and choir my brother was part of; my brother's drinking buddies; and close friends and family. One night as we were playing cards around the kitchen table, Maria, my sister's best friend who was a psychologist and a therapist for Child Welfare, put her deck down and looked me squarely in the eyes, saying, Oh, how I envy you. I wish a man stared at me the way Abia looks at you.

Unsure of what brought this statement about, I shrugged it off as no big deal and responded along the lines of, No that his normal look.

Maria answered, Who are you kidding? That man is madly in love with you.

In the weeks that followed, I became more conscious of Abia's lingering glares and began to wonder if there was any truth in Maria's statements. As the months passed, though, not much had changed between me and Abia. Abia still played the role of my brother's best friend. He checked in on my folks to see if he could help out with chores that were ordinarily my brother's. When the mood allowed, he and I clowned around. We stole a few kisses here and there, but we never really moved out of the friend zone.

Towards the end of my penultimate year of my school, my then steady boyfriend named Eric ended our three-year relationship. I was devastated and shocked to learn that he had hooked up with my arch-enemy. Eric's excuse was that he had become tired of playing second fiddle to Abia. I told Abia about this laughable and lame justification that Eric had come up with. But instead of having Abia tease me as usual, serious frown lines gathered on his forehead as he whispered, Quite frankly, I'm also tired of getting dumped all the time because of you.

Some opportunities present themselves only once in a lifetime, so I seized that moment, figuring I didn't have much to lose anyway. I went ahead and asked Abia if he had any feelings for me. Taken aback, he lowered his eyes coyly and whispered in a barely audible voice, compelling me to repeat the question. The second time around, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, I love you. We were both blown away for a few seconds by the raw honesty and marvel of that instant.

Stunned, I only managed to eke out, Since when?

Abia mumbled, Always.

I asked him, So when were you planning on ever telling me?

Never, he replied. And then he made his second mind-blowing confession: I could never go after you. You are way out of my league. We stared at each other in disbelief for a couple of seconds, uncertain how to digest these newly uncovered truths. Then, dumbfounded, we parted ways in awkward silence. The damn psychologist was right after all, and I had been none the wiser. Sadly, Abia's love for me was not the only thing that Maria was right about.

Since my brother's death the prior year, I had to some extent filled the best friend vacancy in Abia's life. Still unable to digest Abia's confession fully, I knew for sure that I did not want to lose his friendship. I was also trying to process all the cues that he may have given me and that I had somehow missed. I wondered how a complete stranger noticed them while I took no cognisance. With Abia I had often discussed the relationship I had with Eric. I asked Abia for advice and even told him of the other boys I had flirted with. I wondered if this had hurt him at all and, if so, why he had never bad-mouthed any of the guys I had previously mentioned.

Abia and the Tough Boys often went clubbing over weekends. That was something I was curious about, so, to bridge the lumbering gap, I asked Abia if I could accompany him to the nightclub one Saturday evening.

Although it was overrated, nightclubbing soon became our thing. I would dress up every Saturday evening, and he would pick me up either in his dad's car or with one his friends. Naturally shy, Abia found that imbibing at the club broke down his inhibitions. Dancing led to touching. So clubbing was really the doorway for two eighteen-year-olds to explore each other's bodies. We both liked it. Abia would often sneak up behind me, give me a quick peck on the neck, and then push his hands down my top, with each hand fondling a breast. We loved standing in each other's embrace. I was never sure, though, if I could call Abia my boyfriend, for despite his once-off confession and our Saturday nights out, we did not contact each other at all during the week.

One Saturday evening or early Sunday morning, as his friend dropped me off after clubbing, I asked Abia to walk me into my yard. His parents lived a walking distance from my home, so the driver was happy to leave him behind. My folks were fast asleep, so I led Abia to the back of the house, where we could talk. Once again, I initiated the conversation and asked how far our clubbing expeditions were going to go. He said he had made his intentions clear and was happy to go along with whatever I wanted. We had both been drinking. I yanked his shirt and pulled him closer. He reciprocated by pushing me up against the wall. Our hands moved in tandem. In no time, I had unbuttoned his shirt, unclipped his belt, and unzipped his jeans. Just like in the movies, I was tugging at his pants and pulling them towards his knees. My hand slipped into his boxers to caress his baby-soft bum and then moved to the front, where I twirled his curly pubic hairs. By then, he had removed my undies. Both of my legs were around his waist as he tried to lift me against the wall to penetrate me.

Unlike in the movies, however, we were both virgins and clueless. I later discovered that even for the most experienced lovers, penetration in this position is pretty difficult. To add insult to injury, it started drizzling. But we were young, foolish, clumsy, drunk, and determined to get laid, so Abia kept thrusting randomly. I don't even know if he had an erection, given the amount of beer he had drunk. And fortunately for him, I didn't know back then that if you wanted to have sex, you first needed an erection. Like a dwarf trying to mount a horse and constantly falling off, the poor boy prodded haphazardly. I kept jigging around, hoping he would hit the spot. I wished I knew where to direct him to, but at that point in time all I knew was that when he finally broke my hymen, it would hurt. To soothe our damaged egos, we blamed our first failed sex attempt on the rain that made our feet slip. Then we called it a night. But all was not lost, because on that night, 19 October, Abia officially became my boyfriend.

To prove his boyfriend status, Abia now visited me during the day and on weekdays too. He also gave me his bomber jacket, which was the equivalent of a promise ring. I wore it with pride, much to my friends' irritation. When my folks weren't around, we would make our way to a couch, on which the reconnoitring continued. Although we still hadn't succeeded in losing our virginity, we enjoyed the groping, stroking, necking, and playing. The kissing had intensified to the point where our jaws would hurt later after smooching for hours. It made us both roll over, totally breathless. When aroused, Abia would naturally start moving as if we were copulating. Often, at the end of one of lovemaking sessions, he left me with very tender or bruised inner thighs. One day while stroking his inner thigh, I moved my middle finger gently through his bottom and fondled a soft patch of skin just below his penis. Abia's reaction to my touch gave me the fright of my life. The boy yelped like a lunatic, bounced off me, and contorted his whole body as if to have a seizure. If men had G spots, I had found his. From that day onwards, that sensitive area became my secret weapon.

This passionate yet not all the way lovemaking continued throughout our final school year. It became clear that post-matric we would be in a long-distance relationship, as we were going to study in different parts of the country. But we were truly in love. To this day, I still believe that Abia was the one for me. Time flew during our last school year. As we were preparing to part ways for our second year of tertiary studies one January, we were once again engrossed in one of our frantic petting and panting sessions. But on this particular night, things were different. It had been a scorching-hot day, and an extremely stressful one for me, as I had gone for my driver's licence test that morning. I was mentally and physically exhausted.

Normally, I am quite ticklish. Depending on where I am touched, I can be quite squeamish. But on that night, irrespective of where Abia touched me, I lay still. He undressed me and parted my legs as he slid downward. The fellatio he gave me was awesome. He was just as surprised as I was that I had lain motionless throughout it, waiting for him to finish. After he flitted back on top of me, a strange popping sound made me realise that he had finally penetrated me. We both froze. Looking me in the eye, he whispered, Oh, shit. No condom. Your dad is going to kill me. Now what? It had taken three years of regular practice to lose our virginity and I was not about to spoil the moment, so I asked him to be gentle with me.

Losing my virginity was quite an anti-climax. I can't remember if Abia ejaculated. From the stories I had heard, I was expecting to be in excruciating pain, bleeding for days. There were even stories about girls who had to be rushed to hospital for excessive bleeding and tearing after having intercourse for the first time. The possibility of that happening to me had become my greatest fear. So imagine my disappointment when all I heard was a pop and when, the following morning, I found only two spots of dried blood in my panties.

Not long after our first time of making real love, Abia and I had a massive fight. It led to our eighteen-month break-up, with the reconciliation brought about by Max. During this protracted break-up, Abia had had an on-again, off-again relationship with the town harlot. Despite the possible risk of contracting sexually transmitted infections, I was most appreciative for the skills she had transferred to him. My man came back a stallion. He and I tested new positions that Cosmopolitan's editors would pay good money to depict and write about.

In my final year at university, the young women in my residence once sat