Sex in Times of Cholera

Thanks Seb Greenbath for useful comments and editing

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Sex in times of Cholera

Ann stormed into the residence and collapsed on the wicker chair.

"Fuck..." she exhaled, "I'm exhausted."

Jerome looked up from his laptop. The office was already close but he still had work to complete. She squeezed her palms into her eye sockets and pressed hard, letting out a long hiss.

"More cases?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, her head still tilted backwards and the hands massaging her eyes. "A lot of new patients, they don't stop coming in. It's clearly an outbreak."

"Fuck," it was Jerome's turn to hiss.

He stood up, pulled the Scotch from the cupboard and poured himself a not-so-small dose. The house, and the entire compound were quiet, as everyone has already gone after work.

"I know head office is already putting up an emergency team." He told her as he sat down again.

"Well," she slumped in her seat, "it's going to get completely out of control if they don't make it here fast."

Jerome sneered, "Whenever was head office able to do anything fast?"

She didn't answer but massaged her shoulders. She looked tired and overworked, like all of them. Her white Agency T-shirt was dusty, as was her face and curly brown hair which was tied at a knot. Her hands were either tanned or covered in dust. The red dust from the plains drifted everywhere. In the morning, when you stepped out of bed, the outline of your body could be seen; white linen not covered by the night dust.

"Is there any water?" she asked.

"For shower? No." he smiled apologetically. "We had to divert it to the hospital."

"Shit. I feel so dirty. Any food?"

"The usual."

She grimaced. The usual meant rice and canned tuna, every day, for the past four months. Southern Ethiopia was not renowned for its cuisine. Not renowned for anything actually, except maybe famine.

Jerome returned to his computer to finish some stuff. As logistician, his work was never finished. Unlike Ann, the "medical coordinator" which was a strange euphemism for a doctor, there was always something for him to do. If it wasn't meeting up with shady vendors in back rooms in the market to negotiate prices down, it was sitting with even shadier police or army officers and trying to get security updated whilst refusing to pay their bribes.

But his mind drifted and he couldn't accord the fuel consumption spreadsheets in front of him the required patience. Instead he went outside to the porch, and lit a cigarette. The sun was hanging low, colouring everything in red and orange. Southern Ethiopia stretched before him all the way to Kenya and Somalia. It was a barren, dry plain, flat as a pavement, and void of any redeeming features. It was a hard land, not fit for any human or any beast other than a camel. For the countless time in his stay here, he wondered why did those people insist on staying here? Why didn't they just packtheir goods, wives and beasts of burden and move somewhere nicer, somewhere better?

Behind him the city, on the edge of which the Agency has set its compound, faded into the desert. Its collection of huts and alleys dwindled down to nothing. It was a temporary shelter, a makeshift arrangement; it looked like it would be swept over by the first proper rain. But of course, the rain never came. A stray dog was barking in the distance until it was hit by a shoe or something and started whimpering, some distant goats could be heard, but the bustle of the market was already gone as the day ended.

Ann came out with a glass of whiskey as well. She handed him the bottle and he topped up his glass. He looked at her, standing in the sunset. She was small, and had clearly lost weight in the past months. Her faded jeans hung low on her, completely distorting her figure. Her British paleness was hidden underneath all that dust. She looked durable though, as if the place shed from her all excess fat and luxury and left a tough, harsh and lean creature. It was not good to stare, so he drunk instead.

"Is Alex back?" she asked.

"No," he said, "they are sleeping in the field, probably back after tomorrow."

"Fuck." She mumbled.

Not for you, not tonight, he thought. Ann and Alex, the American Project Manager, were fucking each other for some weeks now. They probably thought they were very discreet but everyone knew. It is impossible to keep a secret between three people living in huts. Jerome didn't really care that much, as they weren't loud or too touchy in public. At least they tried to restrict it to bed.

Thinking about sex must have made Ann ask: "have you heard from your wife?"

At this, Jerome was surprised. They didn't discuss much personal life except the project. His wife, Patricia, was working with another agency at the other side of Africa, they seldom saw each other .

"Yeah," he retorted looking at her. "Last week." Though suddenly he suspected it was two weeks ago.

"I don't really know how you are managing it." She said.

"We aren't."

Ann looked at him. Jerome was lounging on the porch's chair, a cigarette in one hand and a whisky glass in another, like some lazy bohemian. He was tall, so his long legs seemed to take up a lot space; his lean and unshaven face gave him the look of a struggling artist. He was so effortlessly French. He didn't look up.

"I'm sorry." She blurted out with real sympathy.

"Don't worry about it," he muttered, "it's not possible to keep it going across the whole continent."

That was true, but wasn't the only reason it wasn't working out. They were two drifters, and thought naively that a marriage will give them guidance and a route. Bollocks, they just drifted apart after a while.

Ann was standing, leaning on the residence's door, nestling her drink. It has become very dark very quickly. Soon she would hardly be able make out his shape. Only the glow of the cigarette would remain clearly visible, the embers of a man.

"How are things between you and Alex?" he asked her suddenly. There was a subtle undertone of bitterness in his voice.

Now it was her turn to be surprised. She pretended to think he didn't know about them, though immediately realised he knew. Still, the question was very direct and undermined the clear unspoken rules governing their lives there. She didn't respond directly.

"Well, you know," she finally said, "it's just something to pass the time and relax. I don't think it's serious for either of us." Then, after a moment of reflection, she added: "at least I hope so."

Neither of them spoke. Anne gazed into the distance, barely able to pinpoint where the black plain became dark skies. The sounds of night had not started yet.

"Are you jealous?" she asked.

He replied, almost without hesitation: "yes, a little."

"I'm sorry," she said, not because she really was sorry, but mostly because she was British and such a personal confession made her uncomfortable.

She could hear him almost sneering in response. Then he added: "don't be. I'm also happy that you guys find a way to deal with all this shit."

"Give me a cigarette." She said.

He slowly got up, a darker shadow against the dark skies. He stood up for her and presented the open box. She picked a cigarette up and he struck a match for her to light up. Their eyes met for a second as the little flame, cupped in his hand, illuminated their faces.

Ann puffed on her cigarette and exhaled some smoke. She wasn't a smoker and the nicotine rush went straight to her head. Jerome moved back and turned to face the wilderness.

"Do you want me to ask him to put the generator on?" he asked.

"Later." She replied; she was enjoying the silence and the emptiness of it. It was a terrible, desperate place, worlds away from her green childhood in posh England, but she enjoyed this silence.

The cigarette felt bitter in her mouth and she disliked the dryness of the taste. Ann sipped what remained of her scotch and threw the end of the fag away. She felt so tired, so exhausted, so alone...

"Come." She told him.

She knew Jerome looked at her without seeing his face. He dropped the end of his roach and stepped on it. His dark shape came nearer and she gave him her hand to hold. Neither spoke. Inside, they managed to negotiate the living room with its various furniture, in the dark; and made it through the back door to the individual tukul huts they used as rooms. His hand in hers felt bony and dry, but also pleasantly delicate.

She led him in the small path to his tukul. They went inside and he turned on the battery lamp. A small, timid white light lit the inside of the hut. A bed, a table, some books on a shelf, no photos, no ornaments to make it home. He turned to her, his face looming over hers. She caressed his cheek.

Then the dam of frustration and lust broke and they were on each other like starved dogs. With pulling and kicking, they undressed each other violently. T-shirts and jeans were flung to the corner of the hut, and were soon followed by her bra. Jerome pushed her against the wall and run his hands all over her. Ann pulled him down and sank her teeth into his neck.

They fucked hard and with conviction. In no time they were on the bed, and he in her. She wanted him hard and rough and he needed her so badly. It was angry sex, neither of them happy with any position for too long, always shifting, always struggling.

Jerome thought he would cum in a splash, more than four months without real sex, he was overflowing with spunk. Still he managed to restrain himself longer than he imagined he could. And when he finally came, it surprised him. He clenched Ann's buttocks as they fucked doggy and kept pumping. No time for orgasm, he wanted to fuck her as long as he could. She whimpered and moaned as he was jerking into her.

They paused for a while for him to recuperate. Outside, the loud generator came up. The guard must have had enough of the darkness. After a minute, the strong light from the low hanging bulb flooded the small hut. The light was harsh and painful, and Jerome switched it off, leaving them again in the near obscurity of the small lamp.

When he got hard again, they went for it once more. Slower this time, their hands and fingers exploring the other's body carefully. Taking more time to appreciate each other. She climbed on his long thin cock and adored his lanky body as he played his breasts. They fucked for a long time, all rush spent, just thinking of the pleasure.

Afterwards, when both were done, they lay hugged on the smallish bed. Neither was asleep but neither needed talking; each mind drifting to its own horizon. He stroked her hair, mechanically.

Outside, the darkness and the silence of the empty plain swallowed the little hut. Even the generator, the noise of light and life, was powerless against it. A dog, or donkey, brayed in the distance, but the sound was lost.