Writing is a monogamous polygamy. You write for one and hope you end up in a relationship with many. Cheating is not called cheating and swinging is the norm. You hope someone reads you, then shares you with another and then another until you have spent up all your energy and cannot have another literary erection. But you know that is another impossible possibility. Because no matter how spent you are from lovemaking with numerous brains you are ready for another tryst with another.
Writing like her opposite the same —reading— is unfaithful. She flirts with several people and no matter how steamy the current or previous romance is, her mind is always set on the next. The next sex on the beach, the next genie in a bottle, the next palm wine in a jug, the next adobo in a plate.
If writing was married, the divorce judge would be bored by now with proceedings. Whenever he sees the claim of irrecoverable differences as the basis of divorce, he would shrug and say, ‘fuck off.’ Knowing fully well you will return begging to be remarried.
Writing is an absurd unjealous jealous lover. She doesn’t really care if you waddle away riding to the sunset with binging your latest TV show. But when you show up after three weeks with your senses intact, writing looks at you and depending on how horny she is, tear off your clothes, slam you on the bed and smash you in sexual gymnastics. Or she can slam the door on your face, making sure your nose is hit. Writing loves a broken nose.
It’s worse when writing doesn’t react with a fit of emotion. If she refuses to answer the door, you are doomed. If she lets you in, no words spoken, and act like you never left, run to the nearest Catholic Church for confession. Indifference or it’s unpleasant to look at twin — apathy— is the only thing worse than absolute rejection. Trust me, you don’t want to be caught there.
Some people say writing is cheap because she sleeps around with anyone. The rich, high, mighty, good, bad, low, poor, especially the folks on the negative side of positive. She doesn’t ask for money or any favors, she just walks up to whoever she fancies, spreads her legs wide and expect a romp. Trust me, the pleasure of enduring a painful on and off relationship with writing is better than a one night stand. If you write just once and never write again, it would have been better if you had never written anything at all. The memory of discovering that horrible joy and not being able to enjoy suffering it again is beyond words.
Other folks believe writing is schizophrenic, some will say psychotic, while others will whisper multiple personality disorder. They whisper because they don’t want writing to hear them. It is rumored writing doesn’t favor those who speak ill of her. Depending on the crowd you are with, as in some quarters, writing has a fetish for those who treat her badly. Those who must get high on drugs or alcohol before falling into her arms, she exposes the inner recesses of her mind to, places the gentlemanly and sober people never knew existed.
BDSM, Anal, Oral, Silk, Gentle. Depending on who you are listening to, her escapades are as diverse as the number of finger prints in existence. Maybe she doesn’t have a mind of her own, so she bends to the will of whoever she is with. But please don’t let her know you read that here, I still enjoy the infrequent stolen minutes of pleasure with her. Though I wish she was mine alone sometimes. But isn’t that greed? If given all the oxygen on earth who can consume it all?
You see, writing is the most reserved nympho you can ever meet. She is the hideous danger you run towards. You know the chances of it ending well is courting zero but who cares? Wouldn’t you rather have a taste of her once than having a lifetime of listening to folks who never really knew her blab about their romps with her? Some failures are worth their weight in gold.
One thing common to those who are entangled in her web is that they had no idea until they were deep in her cocoon. Reading is usually her fore-runner. You see, reading is the appetizer that is present during the main course and after. When writing is done with you, reading picks you up, stroke that limp whatever, until you are ready for another round of pounding.
Well-informed ignorant people sometimes disguised as meteorologists — mostly self-proclaimed—say the weather is unpredictable. I laugh because they haven’t met writing. Sometimes after a hard day’s work when all you need is sleep, writing grins at you. You know your night is ruined already. Exhaustion is the end game, but you enjoy it while it last.
Other days in the middle of your chores, she winks at you. The next thing you know you are scrambling for the nearest paper to hold unto while you do you know what. She can hit you in a crowded street, while you are driving, in church, mosque, wedding reception, funeral, and anywhere there is a where. This makes some enlightened ignoramus say she is a nudist.
But what even repulses me most is she can even come while you are having a shit. Who does that? Most people claim that is her favorite hangout spot, they sneak into the toilet to empty their bowels, the next thing they know tissue paper is paying the price. The smart helpless ones have learnt to go in prepared. Armed with their phones or pocket notepad. These are two essential protection you need whenever you are with writing. You don’t want her to come prepared and you are not, the pain of that blue balls is something I refuse to tell you about. It gives me pain just thinking about it now.
Some days, writing fools you into a quickie. Then you lose track of time, and the five minutes you swear you’ve spent together is actually five hours. Time is helpless before her, how much more you mortal and morally weak creature?
See, I have written so much already that I have even written myself off. That’s what she does to you. Eat up all you confidence and when you are sure you have none left, she points at the stack of confidence couching beside you.
I have so many regrets, but my most memorable is regretting about regretting about writing. What was I even thinking then?
The greatness of her unfaithfulness is greater than the faithfulness of God unto me but I don’t want to blaspheme. Nothing is greater than God. Maybe whoever first said that didn’t meet writing — here I am blaspheming again, please forgive me. Writing makes you apologize for doing what you know you will do again. You repeat the process often and you feel it’s patented to you. Like you own the exclusive broadcasting rights, but you don’t. Writing is Free To Air. Even those without TV can get her. And she lets them.