sexiest body in school, it was now officially accepted. And if she would be willing to show him her breasts, just once, he would do anything.
The other girls in the room had thrown cushions at him and screamed that he was a pig. She had stood up, unbuttoned her shirt, unhooked her bra and exposed her breasts to the three boys in the room. She had stood there with her big boobs and for the first time in her life felt the power, saw the enthrallment in their eyes, the jaw-dropping weakness of lust. How different from her fathers terrible disgust.
That is how she came to know the demons.
After that, nothing was the same again. Her display of her breasts was talked about, she realized later, because the level of interest increased and the style of their approach changed. This act had created the possibility of wildness, the chance of getting lucky. So she began to use it. It was a weapon, a shield and a game. The ones she favored were occasionally rewarded with admission to her room and a long sweaty petting session in the midday heat of Upington, the privilege of stroking and licking her breasts while she watched their faces with absolute concentration and cherished the incredibly deep pleasurethat she was responsible for this ecstasy, the panting, the thundering heartbeat.
But when their hands began to drift downwards, she returned them softly but firmly to above the waist, because she wanted to control when that would happen, and with whom.
The way she wanted it, exactly as she fantasized when she lay in her bed late at night and masturbated, slowly teasing the devil with her fingers until she drove him out with a shuddering orgasm. Only to find the next night that he was back inside, lurking, waiting for her hand.
It was at the school sports day of her Standard-Eight year that she seduced the handsome, good and clever, but shy Johan Erasmus with his gold-rimmed glasses and fine hands. It happened in the long grass behind the bus shed. He was the one who was too afraid to look at her, who blushed blood red if she said hello. He was softhis eyes, his voice, his heart. She wanted to give her gift to him because he never asked for it.
And she had.
10.
M y name is Benny Griessel and I am an alcoholic.
Hello, Benny, said thirty-two voices in a happy chorus.
Last night I drank a whole bottle of Jack Daniels and I hit my wife. This morning she kicked me out the house. I have gone one day without drinking. I am here because I cant control my drinking. I am here because I want my wife and children and my life back. While he was listening to the desperation in his voice, someone began to clap, and then the dingy little church hall resounded with applause.
* * *
He lingered in the dark outside the long, unimaginative building, instinctively taking an inventory of exits, windows and the distance to his pickup. The Yellow Rose must have been a farmhouse once, a smallholders home in the 1950s before the high tide of Khayelitsha pushed past.
Below the roof ridge was a neon sign with the name and a bright yellow rose. Rap music thumped inside. There were no curtains in the windows. Light shone through and made long tracks across the parking lot, joyful lighthouses on a treacherous black reef.
Inside they sat densely bunched around cheap tables. He spotted a few European tourists with the forced bonhomie of nervous people, like missionaries in a village of cannibals. He threaded his way through and saw two or three seats vacant at the pinewood bar. Two young black barmen busied themselves filling orders behind it. Waitresses slipped expertly up to them, each wearing a yellow plastic rose flapping from the thin T-shirt fabric above their chests.
Whats your pleasure, big dog? the barman asked him in a vaguely American accent. Biehg dawg.
Do you have Windhoek? he asked in his mother tongue.
Lager or Light, my friend?
Are you a Xhosa?
Yes.
He would have liked to say, Then speak
The other girls in the room had thrown cushions at him and screamed that he was a pig. She had stood up, unbuttoned her shirt, unhooked her bra and exposed her breasts to the three boys in the room. She had stood there with her big boobs and for the first time in her life felt the power, saw the enthrallment in their eyes, the jaw-dropping weakness of lust. How different from her fathers terrible disgust.
That is how she came to know the demons.
After that, nothing was the same again. Her display of her breasts was talked about, she realized later, because the level of interest increased and the style of their approach changed. This act had created the possibility of wildness, the chance of getting lucky. So she began to use it. It was a weapon, a shield and a game. The ones she favored were occasionally rewarded with admission to her room and a long sweaty petting session in the midday heat of Upington, the privilege of stroking and licking her breasts while she watched their faces with absolute concentration and cherished the incredibly deep pleasurethat she was responsible for this ecstasy, the panting, the thundering heartbeat.
But when their hands began to drift downwards, she returned them softly but firmly to above the waist, because she wanted to control when that would happen, and with whom.
The way she wanted it, exactly as she fantasized when she lay in her bed late at night and masturbated, slowly teasing the devil with her fingers until she drove him out with a shuddering orgasm. Only to find the next night that he was back inside, lurking, waiting for her hand.
It was at the school sports day of her Standard-Eight year that she seduced the handsome, good and clever, but shy Johan Erasmus with his gold-rimmed glasses and fine hands. It happened in the long grass behind the bus shed. He was the one who was too afraid to look at her, who blushed blood red if she said hello. He was softhis eyes, his voice, his heart. She wanted to give her gift to him because he never asked for it.
And she had.
10.
M y name is Benny Griessel and I am an alcoholic.
Hello, Benny, said thirty-two voices in a happy chorus.
Last night I drank a whole bottle of Jack Daniels and I hit my wife. This morning she kicked me out the house. I have gone one day without drinking. I am here because I cant control my drinking. I am here because I want my wife and children and my life back. While he was listening to the desperation in his voice, someone began to clap, and then the dingy little church hall resounded with applause.
* * *
He lingered in the dark outside the long, unimaginative building, instinctively taking an inventory of exits, windows and the distance to his pickup. The Yellow Rose must have been a farmhouse once, a smallholders home in the 1950s before the high tide of Khayelitsha pushed past.
Below the roof ridge was a neon sign with the name and a bright yellow rose. Rap music thumped inside. There were no curtains in the windows. Light shone through and made long tracks across the parking lot, joyful lighthouses on a treacherous black reef.
Inside they sat densely bunched around cheap tables. He spotted a few European tourists with the forced bonhomie of nervous people, like missionaries in a village of cannibals. He threaded his way through and saw two or three seats vacant at the pinewood bar. Two young black barmen busied themselves filling orders behind it. Waitresses slipped expertly up to them, each wearing a yellow plastic rose flapping from the thin T-shirt fabric above their chests.
Whats your pleasure, big dog? the barman asked him in a vaguely American accent. Biehg dawg.
Do you have Windhoek? he asked in his mother tongue.
Lager or Light, my friend?
Are you a Xhosa?
Yes.
He would have liked to say, Then speak
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