REBEL GRAINED

SCOTCH NO SODA

Another bed, another hotel, another woman, and thoughts brewed a few tones darker.

He didn't have sex in mind nor the slightest desire.

Could he say no?

He wished for a cheap bed for the night. One couldn't find a cheaper than someone else's.

Her hair broomed his face.

Was she pretty?

The man hoped she was if he were to be abused. She unbuckled his trousers, lowered his trunks, and proceeded to a mouth-to-mouth encounter with his royal jewels and specter.

A pleasant sensation swept his body. He closed his eyes and drifted.

The scotch still burnt his throat and his mind still throbbed in remembrance of the Amapiano music that played in the club and that woman. High waist jeans, a white tank top, and a black bucket hat competed with bodycon dresses and designer pumps.

Not his type of woman; unlike his brothers, he wasn't into exotic trends no matter how tiny the waist and generous the behind. Yet the way she moved to the beat fazed him like a cobra swaying out of its basket to dance.

The crowd gave her space, her steps made her advance to his spot, and she stopped right in front of him. Their eyes met. It was the first time he saw a black woman with hooded eyes. They gave her an alluring Asian-like stare.

Was she black?

The spotlights were treacherous. During a split second time stood still, the man held his breath and lowered his eyelids. He hoped she didn't see it, his emptiness. A shove forced him to open his eyes. She was gone, absorbed by the flow of people.

Motionless, the man felt unwelcomed among the hyped dancers. He left the dance floor to recharge at the bar where his type of woman came to sit next to him.

Long chestnut hair, eyes he imagined bright, a dark ruffled style mini dress and YSL pumps, "I'll have what he took."

Johannesburg, South Africa, is where his self-wondering stance brought him.

He who lived all his life in his country's garden of Eden, bounded by the protective bond of his family, found himself spat into the world.

Sins.

He had committed one too many. Unable to face those he deceived, he fled. The man no longer understood why he ran. All was not his fault. Okay, he slipped up. The flesh is weak; everyone knows that, and he naively let his heart get in the way of his judgment which was hazer than ever.

"Arghh," he grunted as Ms. Chestnut sat on him and deviated his thoughts back to her.

She began to moan while caressing her bust and tweaking her nipples with her fingers. The vision aroused the man who flipped modes from passive to active participation.

He toppled the woman to place her in his fav position. The Doggystyle, he found the pose empowering, especially when pulling on the woman's long hair.

When seeking a partner, he always made sure her hair length was considerable. The strands could be curly, wavy, or straight and of any color, but they needed to be long like those of a mythical Greek goddess.

Some would call it fetishism; he liked to refer to his penchant as preferences. Taking the lead in bed was reflexes. He detested intimate pose where eyes met, and his vulnerability showed.

Ms. Chestnut's attempts to kiss him failed as he made sure her lips only met his cheeks or jawline. Like for the eye contact, he feared the intimacy of kissing. The act took him to the jail Square of his life's monopoly board the last time he did that.

Control.

He always had to be in the pilot seat; otherwise, the woman would perceive his cowardness. They would see the momma's boy who never knew better. Neither Bad Boy, but definitely not a good one either. They would mock or pity the ordinary guy with a lukewarm personality that he covered with fake assurance and lousy puns who at that instant played a demon with devouring sexual appetite.

The man woke up to the odd sensation of a burning face. It seemed the sun's rays wished to fry him. He turned to find an empty bed; the woman was gone, and so was his iPhone 12 pro max, his baume&mercier watch, and wallet.

He laughed at the irony of his fate. How could someone have such shitty karma? Bad luck followed him everywhere, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

There was no need to panic. He was sure the clerks at the hotel's reception would tell him who rented the room.

As expected, things didn't go his way, "sir, you need to pay for the room."

"Listen, I told you the woman who rented the room stole my wallet, watch, and phone. I would love to pay, but I've got likeㅡ," he slipped a hand in his pocket and placed what he had on the counter, "this all I have."

The clerk looked at the thousand South African rands he placed on the counter, smiled, and took the phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling the police."

"No," he had to think fast, "ㅡeh can I make a call?"

"To where?"

"Sweden, the person will pay for the room."

"Sir, do you think we're a charity for international calls."

"Okay, can I call the Swedish embassy then? There's an office here. Every country has one, right?"

The clerk sighed and began to type the search on his computer. He then dialed the number and gave the phone to the man.

"Eh, hej, ehㅡ, it might sound crazy butㅡ," the man began to speak in Swedish. He then gave the phone to the clerk, who listened and hung up.

"Well, well see of the person calls back."

Half another later, the phone rang, and the clerk gave the phone to the man.

"Hello."

"What's this about? I have the embassy calling asking me all types of information concerning you. I thought you were dead. Where are you."

"It's a long story, Joshua. Would you please wire money to the Swift I'll give you? It's for the hotel. Someone stole my wallet."

"Tell me where you are first?"

"I'm at the Four Seasons in Johannesburg."

"You are where?" His brother exclaimed.

"Please, Joshua, no sermon, just help me out here."

Thirty minutes later, the man was at his embassy.

"First and last name, please."

"Lars Abel Potsmann."

"Date of birth."

"26.09.1993."

"State of birth."

"Stockholm, Sweden."

The embassy officer typed in the information.

"Please place your finger here and your eyes here."

Lars waited while his imprints and retina confirmed his identity.

"Alright, Mr. Potsmann, your new passport will be available in five days. You'll receive an email with the details shortly."

"Thank you, thank you so much."

Never has the man been as proud to be Swedish as at that instant. His embassy's efficiency almost made the man shed a tear.

Lars left, and as he took the steps of the Swedish embassy, he promised himself not to fall into the trap of a woman's inner thighs ever again.