Go Kei; It's your birthday

Hard to believe but it has actually been 28 years since that fateful November morning, when after three hours of hard labour, my mother and I, both sobbing, she in relief and exhaustion, me in indignant mortification, lay next to each other, too fatigued to even acknowledge each other's presence. My bum was still hurting, even more than my underdeveloped muscles. I imagine it was burning red, after that mean looking inconsiderate midwife took to it with the back of her hand, to try and get me to do what I knew, right from the beginning and was later to be confirmed in the patriarchal society I'd be brought up in, was a big no no for boys, cry.


One loud yelp, is all that the stinging slap had elicited; the fingers tips of that big burly hand having come a tad bit too close to that hub of sensitivity that is my rectum. It is not surprising then, when you take the trauma that that event caused into consideration, that though the sullen attitude I held towards women in general and the slapping ones in particular since then had remained in place for pretty much the next couple of decades, I never went the gay route.


But sullen I was, and sullen I remained. Who wouldn't with all the undue attention these women continued to give me, pinching and pulling my cheeks, this way and that way; slobbering kisses all over my face; making faces at me; oohing at my poop accidents. C'mon now, what red-blooded male wants that kind of attention. Just feed me and let me be... find some other sissy to amuse yourselves with.


And the big deal they made of that particular day, every year hence. Sitting me in the middle of a bunch of snotty kids and making them sing, off key, some birthday song that some adult had invented, with triangular caps on our heads... puleez. Dressing me up in new, stuffy clothes that any self-respecting man would never be caught dead wearing, how embarrassing. I thought I'd escaped those ordeals when they sent me, against my will, to school, but alas, the teacher there was in cahoots. I should have guessed when she stated in that singsong voice of hers, " today is a special day for one of us." It was special alright.


I'm sorry to be subjecting you to this sour side of me but those memories really do irk me so.

Finally, after my tenth such public humiliation, when practically the whole village and their mother were invited to one such event, I decided I had had enough of this. I sat my mother down and explained to her in no uncertain terms that I was not going to endure that kind of humiliation ever again if I could help it. I did not have much leverage, so I used what little I had, the threat of desertion. Unlikely as it is, it worked... or the opportunity to embarrass me happened to stop availing itself to her. And for the next 17 or so years, with the help of self-counselling, and lack of disclosure to my friends et al, I managed to bury that date and those disturbing memories of it in the dark recesses of my mind.

For many years, that day came and passed, without my noticing it. I didn't have to rant about it, you did not have to hear of it. Girlfriends past and present, tried to cajole, in vain attempts at being my mother, but were effectively put off or thrown off the bus altogether. The one time I relented, we ended up at a packed Cheese Cake Factory and had to wait in line for close to half an hour. They gave us a vibrating alert-er which I unwittingly put in my back pocket, since I meant for my hands to occupy the front ones. When it was time for us to be seated, the alert went off.... A little too close for comfort. Needless to say, there was no cheese cake to be had, and the girlfriend sought immediate breakup, citing irreconcilable differences as regards birthday celebrations and what not.

Then this year I made the ultimate mistake of signing up on that social network they call facebook and like the ignorant fool I was, went on to tell all and sundry the date of my birth. Now all night yesterday, and all day today, I've been inundated with tonnes of well wishes and even more, questions about my plans. I'll tell you my plan, I'll throw my shoe at the next person that asks me that question. There is a plan for you.

O.K. Maybe I don't want to chance losing my shoe in cyber-space. Work is relatively bearable today, and probably won't be too stressed when I get out. I'll find me a cool spot at the Barnes and Noble and work on my other book. Yes, that may explain why I have not been peeling around here... but I'll be back... soon. That peeps is my plan. I plan to lose myself in my passion tonight.....