It’s that Time

It’s that time of the month when my labia lips are soft and plum. Their velety discharge is luxurious cream rubbed in between my finger tips. When my vagina scents potent and intoxicating.

It’s that time of the month I want to eat some delicacies far way from the menus here. Ikokore from Ekiti, 5am Lagos rush peppery puff-puff, savour leafy Afang soup from Obudu Mountains, chew dry Dabinu from Kaduna, drink creamy Nunu from Yola and lick your Oha soup.

It’s that time of the month when craving you is making me change lace thongs and sniff your silk scarf.

I muted then blocked your status so I don’t see you. On the beach, the sun kissing your thick stubby thighs, hugging your wide hips, highlighting the brown streaks on your waist golden, oogling your erect, pierced nipples, illuminating your milk-chocolate melanin.

I dont want to see your bikini bod we both planked and lunged for from Valentine. Or see you with your best babes who all seem to watch my IG story first–at a crowded block party dressed to the 9-ties. Okay, I watched Azuka’s story and saw you wore my black faux leather mini skirt. How can your legs look so delectable under dim purple lights?

It’s that time of the month when I don’t want to use the clit vibe dildo you gifted me during Easter. I want to squat over your full brown lips, feeling your breast brush against my butt and ride your face slowly while clutching our tall headboard with Azuka’s new album serenading us.

I’m going to say this once. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the last minute road trip to Cotonou with the scout team. You know I’m stubborn when I’m ovulating. You would love the turquoise sea there. I miss you baby. I’m sorry, Nuju I’m sorry. Please please come back home. Please I miss our evening climbs of Olumo Rock to sit and watch the sunset. I want to show you pictures from numerous locations. I’m lonely and horny. If you ignore this voice note. I’m going to delete it and cry on your scarf o.

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