DO YOU ACTUALLY WANT TO SEE MY VAGINA?

Do you actually want to see my vagina? Do you? Before you answer that question, let me tell you a story because the context is, in fact, very necessary.

I am a reciprocator. I think that's where my problem begins. Your input, whether good or bad, usually determines my output. I give back exactly what I'm given. Not more. Not less. Precisely. On paper, reciprocity sounds romantic. It's the stuff healthy relationships are made of. You love me, I love you. You show up for me, I show up for you. Reciprocity isn't always a virtue. Sometimes, it screws you over. This was one of those times.

Drive-by cat callers can never be my type. What do I mean by drive-by cat callers?

You know those men with exotic, or not so exotic, cars who pull up beside you while you're minding your business, trekking under the scorching sun, just to ask for your number? Yes. Those ones.

They've even updated their software.

I found out one afternoon when one of the chairmen of the Catcalling Committee pulled up on the other side of a two-way road and shouted, "Fine girl, please come!"

Come where, sir?

The man wanted me to cross a busy road, in the blazing afternoon sun, just so I could come and collect his request for my number. As if I was a Gala hawker weaving through Lagos traffic to make a living.

The audacity these days must be on a 20% discount because how can you, you, the one who wants my number, expect me, who doesn't know you from Adam, to cross the road to meet you while you remain comfortably seated in your air-conditioned Kia?

I don't blame them sha. If we had cars too, this kind of nonsense probably wouldn't happen.

But if I had a car, I wouldn't have met Kola, and this article wouldn't exist.

It was the kind of afternoon where the sun didn't just feel hot, it felt skin-peeling hot. I had just concluded my day at Iya Ibeji's fine dining over a plate of steaming jollof rice and bits of dodo after Prof. Abiola's mute phonetics class, where somehow nobody heard a sound. I was on my way to my friend's hostel to hide from the sun until it decided to mellow.

AirPods in one ear. Face as unapproachable as ever, then I heard a loud honk behind me. I turned, fully prepared to roll my eyes at yet another drive-by cat caller, and saw a black Nissan SUV slowing in my direction before pulling over a few metres ahead. I let out a loud hiss.

Before my lips could return to their resting position, an average-heighted man stepped out of the car. No, scratch that. His perfume reached me before he did. As he walked towards me, the sun revealed a well-oiled bald head, a full, neatly groomed beard, moisturized lips, jorts, and a Barcelona jersey.

The Arabian Oud. The black Nissan. The jersey of my favourite club. His excessive oiliness.

They were enough to make me hear what he had to say.

As soon as he opened his mouth, I was a little disappointed. It wasn't the deep, husky baritone I'd subconsciously assigned to him but a medium-high tenor. It wasn't bad just... unexpected. Although, if carefully bridled at night, I figured it could produce the kind of grunts that would have you questioning whether pigs had been sexy all along.

He told me he'd been watching me while I dug into Iya Ibeji's famous peppered beef, ruining my lip combo with every bite. (If I were him, I would've rizzed it up by saying, "Never in my life have I been jealous of a napkin.")

Apparently, he'd wanted to approach me then with the classic, "You look familiar. Have we met?" line but decided against it because I looked like I wanted to be left alone. Instead, he settled for watching me perform the magic trick of making food look as delicious as it tasted.

I thanked him for letting me enjoy my meal in peace and laughingly told him he was wise not to use that line. There was just something about generic rizz that screamed low effort to me.

Just as I was about to shield my face from the sun reflecting off his bald head, he asked if we could continue the conversation in his car. If I was comfortable, he said, he'd drive me wherever I was headed.

Now, I know it's generally unwise to get into a stranger's car but the sun was scorching and I... I wanted to keep talking to him.

Heck, I wanted to know what the inside of his car smelled like if he smelled that good so I agreed.

He took my feather-light tote bag from me, opened the front passenger door like a gentleman, and gently tossed the bag onto the back seat. As I settled in, that familiar Arabian Oud embraced me again. Through the window, I caught him smiling to himself as he hurried back to the driver's side.

That could only mean one of two things.

Either the man genuinely fancied me...

...or I had just become a ritualist's next score.

I wanted to give him my fake name, which was Grace, by the way but he'd already passed the benchmark. He was nice. Like, actually nice so I told him my name was Amara, a 300-level student of English Language.

He joked that I must have been paying attention in my phonetics class because the sounds coming out of my mouth were impeccable.

Tani? Na me naw.

He told me he had studied Accounting and had technically graduated. You know that kind of graduate who's signed out of academic stress, no more exams, but is still trapped in administrative stress because of clearance? That was Kola.

We talked for almost thirty minutes before he eventually started driving me to my friend's hostel.

"Kola, are you low on fuel or are you a learner?" I finally let my intrusive thoughts win. "Why are you driving so slowly?"

He smiled.

"I just wanted to bask in your presence a little longer."

He legit used the word bask.

Kola was a smiler. He had the most beautiful white dentition, and it was almost as though he smiled while he spoke. Every sentence arrived wearing a grin.

As we were welcomed by the ever-so-distinct aroma wafting from the girls' hostel, he smiled through his teeth and said,

“Amara, I'd really like to talk to you again. If you're comfortable leaving your number with me, I'd appreciate it. If not... I could always come here every day."

That was sweet. Now, if Amarachi wasn't attracted to him, her inner monologue would've gone something like:

"Did I tell you I stay in the hostel? You would've waited and waited until you got tired. Me that doesn't even have classes for the rest of the week."

But... I gave him my number.

Guys, you see, your niceness and ability to charm are the only things that might save you from the wrath of wicked Igbo women like me.

I wished him a nice day and happily skipped off to my friend's room, fully aware that I had just cured my seasonal boredom by successfully acquiring a brand-new talking stage.

We texted for hours on end that week. Knowing how much he loved my voice, I teased him by texting even more. Not just because, for the most part, I was on the phone with another man and couldn't exactly send Kola a voice note. (Don't judge people)

For the next couple of weeks, I found myself genuinely liking him. As a chronic flirt, I did what chronic flirts do. I brushed my hand against his whenever I got the chance, sent him irresistible Sunday edits of myself, gave him nicknames, and, you know... the usual.

Even then, I knew I wasn't going to date him.

He wasn't based in Abuja, and NYSC was just around the corner. I'd only be toying with my own heart if I convinced myself that anything serious was going to come from a Yoruba man who hadn't even gone to camp yet, and in long distance, for that matter.

No, thank you. I was simply going to enjoy him while he lasted.

He was attracted to me. No doubt about that. His bald head had been telling me that from day one. However Kola was a nice guy, and nice guys tend to play it safe.

So we settled into cute little dates in his car and around school because, at the end of the day, Kola was still a man, and back then I didn't trust men enough not to murder me.

Sometimes, he'd sit in on my lectures and spend half the class staring at me instead of the lecturer. And before you unromantic people ask if Kola was jobless, no. He was on vacation in Abuja sorting out his clearance, so don't judge him. The man was into me.

He finally said it after our horror movie date in the parking lot of one of the TETFund buildings. It was dark, Boy Spyce’s “You (Rum and Schnapps)” on repeat through the speakers, and I was busy explaining my favourite parts of the movie while finishing the leftover milk-flavoured popcorn and Skittles - my elite movie snack combination.

The entire time, his eyes never left me. It was almost as though the director had made a mistake by making the movie the main attraction instead of me. Then he politely asked if he could hold my hand. It was the first time we'd intentionally touched beyond our awkward goodbye hugs. He looked at me and said,

Amara... I like you. A lot. Iknow these words scare you, but... I love you. I like that I'm in love with you. I'm willing to go at your pace. I'm willing to stay and see where this goes.I want you... forever.

Forever. Forever is a dangerous word.

For someone like me, who believes people always leave because... well, they do, it sounded less like a promise and more like a threat. It gave me yet another reason to shy away from commitment. People, to me, have always been seasonal homes.

And Kola? Kola was my vacation home.

He kept talking, but my attention had long wandered to his moisturized lips, softly illuminated by the glow of the car stereo. Before I could overthink it, I leaned in.

He closed his eyes.

Our lips met, tentatively at first, then with the familiarity of two people who had been imagining the moment long before it happened. Somewhere between stolen breaths and suppressed laughter, I found myself climbing over to his seat. My fingers wandered through his beard as we kissed, and I smiled against his mouth when I felt just how much he wanted me as I grinded on his groin.

His lips tasted exactly the way I'd imagined they would.

And God... Kola knew what to do with them.

I had to keep reminding myself where we were. The car windows were tinted, yes, but we were still parked on school premises. I had just one year left before graduation, and I wasn't about to jeopardize my admission over Base One.

That night, however, unlocked a series of make-out sessions.

There was usually a little under-the-shirt mischief. Kola was skilled. Scarily so. He could unhook my bra without asking me to take my shirt off. With my shirt half way up, he'd cup both boobs with his masculine hairy hands and suckle on them like a child desiring milk from it's mother.

Every time he touched me, it felt intentional rather than rushed. I liked the way he touched me. More importantly, I liked the way he desired me.

He made me feel wanted without making me feel ashamed for wanting him back. He allowed me express my desire loudly, increasing the volume of whatever was on with every high note I hit.

I can't lie. I found myself fantasizing about getting laid by Kola on the black leather back seat with my legs suspended in the air and all of him filling me.

But I'd made a pinky promise with my coochie. We were staying celibate until we were in an actual relationship.

Our series of make-out sessions, however, came to an abrupt end when Kola finally completed his clearance and had to return home. I still remember our last make-out session.

(Wo, I would tell you about it, but my coochie would get too emotional and we'd completely derail from the point of this story.)

Kola insisted we could make long distance work. He said he'd drive up every now and then just so we could spend time together.

I had already started mourning my situationship because I knew exactly how these things went. A short-distance situationship that graduates into a long-distance relationship is usually living on borrowed time. I was determined to enjoy whatever time we had left anyway.

Exams were around the corner, so I buried all my emotions in syntax and semantics. Kola, on the other hand, was determined to keep the flame alive. He'd send me exam care packages through vendors, each one accompanied by the corniest little dad jokes that somehow managed to make me smile.

For a moment, I almost let myself believe it could actually work. The calls were frequent, the emotions ran high, and we sexted... a lot.

Whether I was in the mood or not.

The funny thing about sexting is that you never really know what the other person is doing. They could be folding laundry, washing dishes, or queuing at the bank while sending you the filthiest messages known to mankind like they were the horniest creatures alive.

Most times...I was the other person on the other end.

But one night, during the holidays, everything changed. I had refused to go home, lying that I had a project to finish because I simply didn't have the strength to deal with the hovering of my African parents.

It had just rained. The room was cold, my nipples were cold and my tank top clung to my body, and what had begun as an ordinary conversation quickly wandered into dangerous territory.

I was already in the mood for a little self-love that night, and Kola was bringing his A-game.

He asked if I was a visual learner. He wanted me to see what I did to him from kilometres away.

Almost on cue, a WhatsApp notification popped up.

View Once Photo.

My heart skipped. I was just as nervous as I was horny.

This would be the first time I was seeing Kola like that, and I genuinely didn't know how I was supposed to react.

I opened the photo and was graced with a big black veiny shuttle with two round hairy balls. Let's just say... the man had not been lying. Kola was gifted. No exaggeration.

I stared at my screen for a second before typing,

“Omggg, Kola, you're friggin' huge. I want to sit on it.”

He replied almost immediately, saying he was happy I liked what I saw and that it was all my doing.

I cannot even lie. The validation got to my head. It completely messed with my sense of reasoning.

Then he said something that would quietly change the direction of the night. He told me he was sure I was just as beautiful without my clothes.

And before my common sense could report for duty, I asked,

"Do you actually want to see it?"

"Yes, ma'am.

This was my first time sending a nude picture to a man.

I undressed fully pacing in front of my mirror and thought of what to show him.

My iPhone 13's front camera still hadn't been repaired after its last crack, so I couldn't take any decent sexy selfies. I'm not particularly well-endowed in the breast department, he already knew that, but the back camera somehow made them look even smaller. My amateur angles only made everything look stranger.

I tried to snap my ass, which at least had some hope, but exam stress had already taken a toll on the ass I thought I had. In that moment, it suddenly didn't feel like enough.

He wanted to see it. So I would do what I always do.

I would reciprocate.

I turned on my camera's flash, laid my phone face down on my pink bedsheet, set the timer, and carefully squatted over it, letting my little girl bloom like a flower before the lens. I wanted to shave, but Kola's pictures had hair too, so I figured he wouldn't mind.

With the five seconds timer set, my coochie struck a pose my butt facing the north and my pink clit stretching directly to the light emitting from the phone. I indeed thought it was a good shot after using filters to make my clit even pinker.

If I didn't think it was beautiful, I wouldn't have sent it.

But I did.

After apologizing for taking so long.

My heart pounded as he opened the view-once message.

Then...nothing.

One minute.

Two.

Five.

I don't know what he was doing in those five minutes. Whether he was wanking, staring, laughing, zooming in, calling his ancestors, I genuinely don't know.

Then my phone buzzed.

“Gurl, you play too much... 😂 What site did you get this from?"

...

Whattttttt??????!

I froze. That wasn't the response I'd rehearsed in my head.

I quickly took control of the situation or at least I pretended to.

I followed his script.

"Lmaooo. I was just messing with you. You'll have to come and see it in person.”

He laughed. I laughed.

But only one of us was actually joking.

A part of me died that night.

I told him I was sleepy and hurried off to bed, hoping sleep would arrive before embarrassment did. It never did.

I think Kola eventually realized I had hidden my vulnerability behind a joke because, after that night, the calls became fewer. The conversations became shorter.

And, truthfully... I stopped trying too.

It took just one picture to kill the tension we'd spent two months building.

Men, when you ask a woman to send you her nudes, do you actually want to see her? Or are you only attracted to the parts of a woman's body you've already decided are attractive?

Because when I ask a man for nudes, why do I get just your dick? What if I'm an ass person?What if I'm an abs person?What if I wanted your shoulders, your back, or that little V-line you people are always so proud of?

When men ask women for nudes, they often expect breasts, ass, or a carefully posed body.

But what happens when a woman sends just her genitals?

Do you actually want to see my vagina?

Why does the energy change? Why does the excitement suddenly disappear?

Why is the fantasy of a woman's body sometimes more desirable than the reality of it?

Was I wrong for reciprocating? Is it double standards or a preference?

I really, really need answers.

Because I still don't know how I'd face Kola ever again.

With all my love,

Amarachi 🦄