A Tale of Two Bonersby Montle Moorosi, illustration by Nolan Dennis / 08.12.2010
When my flight landed in Cape Town I left the overcrowed 737 with a serious hard on. I came to Cape Town not with the intention of hanging out with liberal art fag Jews or to eat fucking fish and chip parcels but to fuck a woman, any woman. But preferably a Nordic skank with an exceptionally rich father with a beach house in Kommetjie.
While I wait for my bags at the arrivals terminal I get a text message that reads “Its N_ _ _, from Facebook, why are you ignoring me?” I turn my phone off and adjust my belt and crotch, I can have a darkie in Johannesburg anytime, but I’m in Cape Town now. Bitch, I’m Arno Casrtens!
It has been at least 4 months since I last encountered a vagina. The vagina (it was black) I was previously cohabiting and operating for the past 2 years was undergoing some lengthy technical problems with the oiling and wiring, or some shit like that. I could not log on, let alone turn her on. No carnal pleasures means writer’s block. No words means my wallet is empty, as usual, which means you can’t get your nails done at Sorbet on my expense.
Then something strange happened. I have been making music for the last 10-15 years of my life, and this article is proof that my musical career is dismally failing because I don’t know too many successful musicians who are forced to write for lacklustre internet publications and shack up with Jewish men to get by. But alas, one of my shitty little articles has apparently opened up the flood gates of young impressionable and typically insane women on Facebook saying things like “WOW! You’re a freak, I’m a freak too, where do you live?” but as I read these things with a semi-erection all that goes through my mind is that I can’t believe I still haven’t fucked a girl who claims to love my music.
I remember when I first met Eve Rakow, yes, the very same sexy dirty white woman in a band who can’t hold her liquor and refuses to touch my cock, for that matter. It was one of my first days at WITS University, I was doing my sorry excuse of an honours degree in the fine art of lying. All the women in my class were not my type with the exception of Elma Smit, but the problem with her is that she’s a TV presenter on MK and a producer at 5FM with a bright future but cradling that impossible blonde and blue eyed fantasy was just the same as expecting someone to pay attention to my music. Eve was performing during one of those first year lunch time parties with her band and I had drunk enough beers to ignore my chronic halitosis and mustered the courage to talk to her. The fact that she was hanging out with asexual people like Chris Casioheart made her seem less intimidating. Eve’s face and demeanour clearly indicated that her father was not of Nordic descent nor did he own a holiday home in Kommetjie. A good, dirty white woman. I remember telling her that I was half white and that I was related to J.J Rawlings just to impress her.
“Who the fuck is J.J Rawlings?” she asked me.
To make a short story even shorter, that night Eve went home with a turd with dreadlocks and a Gareth Cliff accent who looked like the love child of Jeremy Clarkson and a black homeless woman. But that didn’t affect my self esteem as much when Eve had sexual relations with my good friend Spoek Mathambo because it was all my fucking fault. I’m an enabler of race relations. I’m not trying to call Ms. Rakow a groupie or a lady of the night or anything, I’m just saying she’s not that into writers with low self-esteem and a knack for confusing fact with fiction. It was all my fault, I had it all confused. When I moved to Johannesburg I told myself that this is the city where I was going to get ass. But more particularly white ass, I even tried to hang out at the Goethe Institute searching for sex crazed German expats with white dreadlocks. I found nothing. They said I wasn’t poor enough to fuck and that my life wasn’t tragic enough for them. Fucking communists. Something tells me Tokyo Sexwhale wasn’t vocal enough when they were drafting the freedom charter and he forgot to add “white pussy” to the list. He just decided to get it done his own way, buy a wine farm and open champagne bottles with a sword for the Top Billing cameras. Easy.
The next day I’m having gnocchi for dinner with some nice white people who are friends of the Jew, their French poodle takes an immediate liking to me and humps my leg, I pretend I’m bothered by it but secretly I take it as a compliment. It’s the first thing to feeling like I physically matter in a very long time. I call my ex-girlfirend and start crying while I tell her how profusely I miss her. I wipe my tears and go back to dinner. Keeping up appearances. That night when I went to sleep I dreamt I was about to have sex with another previous ex-girlfriend, she was crazy in all sorts of ways we had nothing in common except for fucking. When were dating she would probably have sex with me while she was giving birth. But in my dream she refused and only reluctantly gave me a bad hand job.
*Illustration by Nolan Dennis.