Date: Sun, 26 Jul 2015 10:15:18 -0400
From: David Mathenge <romantykeas@gmail.com>
Subject: Unknowledge Of A Modus Operandi 4

It took me a few days to take up new ideas for this book. I apologise for
being late. However, I am back with something. This happens to be the
fourth part.  Thus it will soon be completed. I plan on making five
chapters. I am not planning to disappear though. I, Romantyke, claims
ownership of this novel.

It was obvious. I was not aging at all, or I was just blessed with some
kind of potent life longevity. How could I still look twenty to everyone,
when my true age was seventy seven?  Orounla had just celebrated his eighty
first birthday, and he looked his age. June 1st 1998. A new millenium soon
to come. Almost thirty years after the first lunar landing. Thirty years
since Martin Luther King's death. Fifty two years since the Nuremberg jury
was on session.

I turned away from the mirror. I sighed. And I standed there, still, and
thinking. Why would I stay this young forever? I did not plan to be
immortal...

Orounla Junior had left ages ago. He married, of course, and gave his wife
and his parents triplets. Three beautiful baby boys. He was a marine, and
he was his father's son. He was independant.  He creeped everyone out at
high school. However, he seldom had any trouble, and he got top marks in
just about everything. In the meantime he exercised his muscles and his
brains, always with a cigarette in his mouth, and never shied away from
helping us, his dads. He soon became a big brother to the eleven following
children Orounla Senior gave me.

When Orounla was back home in 1958, I became pregnant again. I got
twins. The next time it was triplets. And finally,
quadriplets. Horrifiyingly, I got boys, solely. I had wanted daughters, but
nay! My genes and Orounla's created chromosomes that were just
masculine. It creeps me out.

Orounla Junior helped me take care of his siblings. All of them, however,
turned out almost exactly like Orounla. Serious. Too serious. Taciturnian,
even. Seldom troublesome. Bulky when growing up... but brilliant. And
masculine enough to do the same as their big brother and their macho
father... which meant smoke cigarettes, cruising hubbies or girls around,,
and be the kind of backpacky, crunchy granola and way into grunge.

Three of my children turned out to be gay. They were married very early and
I was the one to be their best man. The rest all are married with their
girls. Most of them whiteys like me. Our family is now reputed as
marginals.  Why marginal? First, I am now known worldwide, even on Internet
and books, to be the first and only man to ever be able to carry a child,
and thus by swallowing the sperm of another man. Second, a huge sentiment
of interracial love running in the family.  I had to be examinated several
times while the medicine was evolving through the decades. The last theory
uttered was that my blood group coincides with Orounla's. If it was not, I
could never have had children. Others also mentioned my birth to boys
solely, and uttered remarks of my masculine genes mixed with Orounla's. I
have a penis. I have a scrotum. I have balls. I have a beard. I look
thoroughly a man. But I carry children. And I can breastfeed.

My children were all gone now. After the 70s, I lost my lordship. Lordship
was no longer recognised in the States nowadays. It was a time of modern
stuff and technology. Even the cigarettes lost their initial charm. Stigma!
That is what it is all about! How pathetic! Do I look ill? I have smoked
for sixty two years now. And my children were all healthy, I have pink
lungs, and a beautiful skin... But I am... not human, am I?...

Orounla Junior still wrote to me every day. By email now. He left us soon
after to enroll himself in the US Army thirty years ago. He could not tell
much of his job. Military secrets. But he cared for us, his fathers.  He
was always present.

I went to lie down in the bedroom. I lit a cigarette. And again, another
boner.... Orounla was not here today. He was taking walks outside, now with
his cane. He enjoyed the warm rays of the Seattle summer.

I started to masturbate. My glans was puffed up. My shaft was making
throbs. I smoked at the same time. It felt so relaxing. I felt like being
in a nest of comfort. But before I actually came, the door opened, and
Orounla actually came in.

His eyes had spotted and understood the situation quick like. His African
blood was blessed with the talent of sex and romance. He walked to the
bed. And sat down on it. He removed his shoes. Long ago, he was just
tossing them away with a kick of his other foot.  I helped him loose his
buttons of his shirt. Under it, the coal coloured skin was all strewn with
age lines, and white hair. It used to be powerfully muscly, tender, firm
and full of the vigor of Africa's masculine youth.  I felt even more
love. My penis was throbbing with love for my everlasting
partner. Countless days and nights with him .I got him rid of his pants,
and his bowers. He was old, frail and thin. But his skin kept its pure coal
colour, and its musky smell of damp earth and tobacco smoke. And most of
all, his beautiful penis was still as virile as during that time we first
had sex over fifty years ago. As long and thick, as throbby and juicy...

He used to take me in his arms, and turn me while we kissed, and he gently
lied me on the bed. and, like a troll caressing its fairy, his ebeony
lourdeau fingers were exploring my body, while his thick and brown lips
were kissing every parts of me.  As frail as he was now, he simply waited
for me to lie down and let him take care of me. And he did. Cigarette in
our mouth, he sat on my legs, and frotted our penises together. His African
blood was giving him that technique Black people used for masturbating. Our
eyes met, and he winked at me, his cigarette dangling from his worn out but
beautiful lips. The pleasure struck both of us like a thunder.  I felt his
urethra throb on mine as we both came at the same time. Our breaths were in
unison. He lied down beside me. I went into his arms and we both fell
asleep.

That night, he felt colder than ever before. He was getting cold. Too much
cold. Far too much... A red dawn came up. The sunlight was filtering on his
noble coal coloured face. I opened my eyes, looked at him, and smiled.

My beautiful love. Orounla. I'll miss you.

To be continued... to a short part that I will call an epilogue. Hope you
enjoyed this one.

Sainte-Agathe-des-Monts, Quebec, Canada
Dedicated to my dead Black husband, Wilson. Born 1986. Dead 2010.