Dr. FEELGOOD...
Dr. Feelgood
“Don’t send me no Doctor,
To
fill me up with all those pills.
I wanna man name Dr. Feelgood
Oh! Yeah!
That man can
take care of all of my pains and my ills…”
Aretha
Franklin
Immersed in a
cauldron of evocation: the sorcery & charm of imagination, I was entranced
by The Muses. These lesbian/bi-sexual women of various shades of mixed race,
traversing almost every age, in style, swagger and mesmerising talents had
embraced me into their inner sanctum.
Accidentally
seamlessly navigating my own soul’s journey in this wicked house party celebrating
one woman’s artistic vision, about a hidden national treasure of the written
word and the freedom we still have to embody and emulate. Here in a turquoise
living room at the foot of ancient and spiritually majestic Harrekwaggo,
affirmed.
The first professional
artist of a generation, the first openly self-loving and living homosexual, “…a
trailblazer” she called me. She said, “Every fourth generation after the
generation of priests & clergymen breaks the mould lead by the first
professional artist “
She told me, “You
should be having great sex now, you should be come into your own regarding
men…”
Like the Goddess of
Love she freed me of my thoughts, and them reality. The reality they have
always been always been, mine, consciously.
No sooner had I
found serendipity, than my loins began to arouse that carnal instinct to test
the sexual prowess and seductive allure, eyes wide open.
It was a night of
the Cape of Storms as winter resolutely seeped and poured into old Camissa. The
winter rainfall as unAfrican and foreign as the founders and inspiration for
the modern city over its many sweet waterways and streams.
Only one venue was
open and thriving at am and it was in a woeful state, a beehive of jaded summer
dreams in the gothic glare of winter. Moreover, like a bee I was in there
searching for Dr Feelgood.
He stuck out like a
stubbed toe after an immaculate pedicure. Lean & wiry, intelligent and kind
blue eyes almost overwhelmed by the scruff of a red hipster beard. Low hanging
jeans, loose fitting vest exposing blonde chest hair, a delightful tattoo of
the Lord’s lost sheep looking campy and smug in cat’s eyes sunglasses and
heels.
He was from
Ireland, North Ireland.
It was his last
night before returning home.
He had spent 2
months in Zambia and Malawi
He found the venue
disturbing like he’d already returned home
He wanted to dance
with his ass & waist and grind it as he’d seen in Real Africa
As we reached the
dancefloor and head to the epicentre, I prayed his authentic, genuinely easy
going manner would be elevated by bonefide black swag with a swoosh of Irish
Chav
I grinned like
Hendrix in a purple haze
I more than had the
cream as we took to the ghetto
The envy of Murphy
jostled and shoved, we just naturally got closer, dancing dangerously sexy, grinding
that African heritage against a now throbbing red. Hot, sweaty, sticky and
feeling the need to talk we headed back out to where I found him in the
smoker’s alleyway.
Soon the hyenas
smelling a fresh kill came sniffing brazenly testing our bond
First another
nocturnal socialite insinuated himself into our cocoon by cutting into
conversation and physically putting himself into our space
While trying to get
our head around that my Luck of the Irish, Michael, was summoned quite rudely
to come meet the more suitable company of trying for White, Coloured Queen,
vocal & nasal in a brashness intended to sound refined, and his gaggle of
cut and paste Afrikaner moffies, who consciously vibrate “white is always right
and fucking only white”.
The hyena is in stunned
silence as Michael turns to answer Vocal & Nasals Uncle Tom revival. The
hyena is clearly expecting me to trip and switch into Bitch Diva mode. However,
I am wearing Scottish Tweed over shirt and tie with “I DID ASS” high tops and 1930’s
biker style chinos with suspenders. ODIDIVA is not making a cameo tonight.
I smile knowingly
at The Hyena and continue to engage, politely his nascent sabotage. There is a
feeling I’ve had since I missed my flight home from Paris. I am no longer
blind, self-conscious or afraid of my supernatural powers. I know my supernaturalism
and embrace its evocative wisdom.
I knew
instinctively Michael’s confused insouciant approach, benighted the intention
to deliver the sweetest smackdown of a put-down, walking away from them and
back into my arms.
Our kisses are
passion yet delicate, teasing because knowing the destination means taking in
the journey there.
Hyena finally
licked, offers the dark room in the emergency exit stairwell. We oblige
willingly, obviously.
He kisses me with
always a firm grip on one of my asscheeks and I am in the Ghetto Heaven, Poetic
Justice in Gugulethu, Janet Jackson outside on the corner with Makaveli.
As he slips my
“umthondo” out of my underwear and into his mouth, Thandiswa Mazwai is calling,
“Endo Fire! Sijola emaKoneni”. Moments later I reciprocate, edging towards that
sweetspot between tea-bagging and rimming, remembering Lil’Kim’s instructive
chant, “How many licks does it take to get to the middle of it”
Michael loses his
composure and within seconds, we are almost “kalgat” naked in the Dark Room. I
persuade him to move things to the next destination.
Just in time, it
took the DJ to stop playing and the fluorescent lights flickered on, we managed
to get dressed. Walking out into the main drag, we negotiate the shag pad.
Michael and I conclude with him in a backpacker’s dorm, me in the deep Southern
Suburbs, our only option is Old Faithful the Loft Apartment style Bathhouse,
literally around the corner.
In a corner cubicle
lit perfectly and fittingly for our no strings sex session, I had my first
proper good rogering, as a bottom. Everything moved beautifully, sensually
between us since we caught each other’s eye, we moved instinctively with charm
and chivalry. We lived in the moment and learning there was no time for words,
only for what would leave the biggest impression: Making Love Making Memories.
Something in the
“stolen” kisses, the delicate caresses by hands, the need to exhaust everyone
of the pornstars guide to sexual positions, or simply the toe curling orgasms
that asphyxiate the brain until there comes a point when you have EXHALE. Not
“Shoop” like Ms Twittney, but a sonorous yet wildly masculine timbre of baritone
that exudes Isaac Hayes, expropriating Barry White embodied in Henry Cele’s
Shaka Zulu.
I asked him his
plans once he got back home. He said he would begin working in London as a
Doctor…
“His name is Dr.
Feelgood in the morning.
And taking care of business
is really this man's game
And taking care of business
is really this man's game
Something inside me
gasped and wept the moment he was gone. Was Dr Feelgood the perfect pickup that
should’ve been the perfect boyfriend?
I guess Dr Feelgood
is a taste of what it is I am seeking. I feel like I have spent all my life nurturing
other people’s problems and issues. I feel like I have be misused, abused,
mistreated unjustly for possessing powers that are beyond common human
interaction.
I am without a
cellphone or landline and somehow I feel a sense of security and sense of
owning my own time. This is maybe what my higher power and the universe have
been trying to tell me, talk less, stop and listen to the stillness in time.
It’s time to reach
deep inside and to become well aquaintanted with my supernatural soul. Only
through a process of deep meditation and introspection will I learn to weeled
my resources effectively and economically. At present I see the same circle of
blue eyed souls mesmerised by Odidi and very eager to continue the use and
abuse. I have sidestepped two such cases. The language of mendacity and the
culture of superficiality are habits still too easy to assume and assimilate.
Only now am I seeing the vampires of warnings mentioned in the quiet of
chillout sessions.
I am writing this
to remind myself that Shelley Cauldron of The Muses is the safest place for me.
I must stay close to them, protected.
It mesmerizes me
how many times I invoke my very own aspirations. The universe’s generosity is a
double edged sword of endless choice but so bountiful, one is tempted to live
in the fantasy of “What if?” in denial of regret.
This is why I had
to right this story down. I write to honour the moment and the memory and hold
it up as a beacon of UBUNTU Humanity and its exuberance in love.
Comments
Post a Comment