German Mistress: A Self Portrait
Kofi Fosu Forson

When I met my Nigerian lover, my marriage was suffocating me. I couldn’t have strawberries with my champagne anymore. My husband hated the smell of strawberries.

My husband and I were gorgeous together. We were newlyweds in the early eighties here in New York. Life was beautiful then. I got away with fashion. Purple this! Green that! Pink this!

It wasn’t love that brought us to the bedroom. It was the other thing. When we woke up in the morning, there was something missing. Something wet…like kissing.

I was employed among the world’s most powerful men. I had always been the bombshell, long legs and all that hair. I made a living but the united press kept calling me porn star.

It was one of the coldest days in New York when I came to celebrate the birthday of a colleague. I wore a long black skirt, lace and pearls. Most of the men wanted to dance with me. I sat there not amused.

In the distance was the face of another black man. He was different from the other black men. He smiled with his eyes. I would have followed him anywhere.

He was much younger. His muscles bulged from his undershirt. I knew I wanted him. Talking to him, I had it all planned out. I wasn’t going to have him all at once. He wasn’t sushi. I wanted to take my time, like sirloin with potatoes and a glass of red wine. I salivated.

I gave him love in a hotel. That night, he was gorilla. I was creature of the moon. It lasted into the early morning. He was stronger than I thought. He knew how to make love. I was more than satisfied.

Time passed. He wouldn’t return my phone calls. I loved him. He was my prince, my black Nigerian prince. He even spoke to me in Yoruba during lovemaking.

I went back to Munich. Found myself looking at photographs of old lovers. My husband in his black fur…His white heart… My prince of light, prince of darkness!

Where are they now?

I have exorcised my lovers. I now concentrate on air.

Copyright Horatio Monologues