This is not another feminist story, because feminists are generally nice people, and to deem myself such would be blatant deception. It isn’t a male-hating story either, for I would hate to lay in bed besides a deity of a black man, using my friend Amina’s story to convince you to forsake so wonderful an evil. You should not.
I love my husband. If you have one, I hope you do love him, too. My friend Amina certainly loved hers.
It was a perfect patriarchy romance. He was about a decade older. He cheated, but had the grace to hide it. He showered her with gifts she paraded around campus, a becoming look of modesty as she
explained the source of her treasures. Amina’s husband was her first and only so naturally, she believed she had her purity and innocence to
thank for so many a blessing.
However, it was only a matter of time before Amina’s gifts turned into chains of emeralds and rose gold. By her third year of marriage, she was locked inside a castle of her own, at the pit of a gated community inside a gated community. “I have never had an orgasm.” Amina had once said innocently over lunch (her house, of course.)
Out of uncharacteristic sympathy, I chose to feign shock. “No way! Mina!? The general never even once…” She had shaken her head coquetishy. “He says sex is his reward for working so hard for me. He would find me selfish to want to enjoy that, too.”
Outraged, I declared with feverish conviction that no real man could enjoy the thought of his partner
merely tolerating the sex. After all, what sort of power trip could one be on to think pleasure was theirs for the owning.
Amina’s husband had tied her to an effigy of virtue he could masturbate to, heathen- shaming scripture in one hand. But Amina, too, could get her hands onto some chains. And this thought, I suppose, is what inspired the plan I suggested to Amina.
It initially started as a joke. Handcuffs, a lock; it was simple. She merely needed to seduce her husband and convince him to play a little game he would love. She would then handcuff him to the bed and
pretend to head out the house.
On her return upstairs, a few hours later, she would demand that things change around the house before releasing her husband. Naturally, this was a terrible plan and Amina should have ignored it. She did not.
Instead, on her husband’s return from a liquor-filled dinner, she tied him up to the bed frame with rope and made all sorts of demands, a wooden stick in hand.
General Masako, Amina’s beloved, couldn’t have responded more unexpectedly. He hardened. What
enfollowed, Amina deemed, was the most mind-blowing sex she had ever had.
I did not bother asking whether she had orgasmed at last, but I assumed from the gleen in her eye as she recounted the story to me, at a hip restaurant in town, that she had. “It’s like he just broke down.” She had said. “He said he always had to act all tough and strong and it was killing him.
He said he hated how docile I was, and hated himself for making me be that way.” Word around town is that since his….fetishy revelation, General Masako has not cheated on his wife, once.
Perhaps being manly enough to relinquish outdated concepts of constant dominance could free many. And perhaps it would help if women could finally enjoy some power too.
By Veronique Mbaiye