The Homeless Diaries

Introduction

I have yet to encounter anything quite as exhausting or more brutal than trying to fall asleep on the pavement at the height of a Johannesburg winter. The benefits are few, and the nights are long, but for me, there is nothing more distressing than the extreme loneliness that comes with the territory.

I actually envy the junkies on these streets because they all have something that binds them together. While rifts and rivalries undoubtedly develop in their ranks, they still interact, barter, trade, and share. Each drug addict has a genuine appreciation for what the other is going through, and when the chips are down, they stick together.

I deserve to be here as payment for my many imagined sins, but I certainly don't belong here, which has not gone completely unnoticed.

"Why are you on the streets, chief?" one of them asked me.

Of course, I didn't ask him for a name, and I am pretty certain I would have forgotten it anyway.

"Because I don't have a place I can call home," I responded.

"Nonsense. Everybody has a home," he said, with a surprising air of confidence.

"Is that so?" I asked, fearing I was about to be subjected to some form of life lesson from a bona fide drug addict.

"I have been watching you. You are not a junkie, you don't drink, you don't smoke, and you don't do drugs. You don't even hustle."

And here it comes...

"The streets of Johannesburg are no place for somebody like you. Look around, this place will eat you alive. Swallow whatever pride you think you have and find a way off the streets. Just look around you; it's not hard to see where these roads lead. Take the exit while you still can."

I opted for silence while staring blankly ahead. I decided not to argue the point, partly because the junkie's argument had merit but primarily because I was not in the mood for company, not while I was still coming to terms with life at the bottom of the barrel.

Frankly, I could live with being homeless and unemployed. I am even completely comfortable with the idea of death, which I am told is inevitable on these streets, but the thought that the only people missing me right now are probably prostitutes and strippers is just soul-destroying.

I am pretty certain Wolfgang Storm's name has featured in at least one WhatsApp group associated with the strippers and hookers of Cape Town, but I can't imagine I have been so much as an afterthought to peers, colleagues, and even family since wandering into the concrete wilderness.

Money can't buy you happiness, but at least I was able to rent it for large portions of my adult life.

Now, there is no cash to splash; I have become John Cena...invisible. What worth am I to anybody beyond the material?

Every minor victory I have totted up during the past 20 years has, in fact, been hollow, and everything I imagined I achieved as a working professional has fizzled to nothing.

My severe lack of social development has never been more cruelly exposed, which is an extraordinary reality to be faced with, but when I reflect on it now, my days of 'happiness' have always been numbered.

Some people who fall on hard times have a life worth fighting for, but what awaits me when I emerge from this gutter? And it really is a question of WHEN, as opposed to IF.

"So, what's your deal?" asked my new hobo in arms. I had actually forgotten about him. While I really didn't see the point in getting into that with him, it remains a pertinent question.

How on earth did I get here?

How It Started

Chapter One

The 40-minute journey back home from Central Cape Town was tedious but unavoidable. For most of the working week, I completed the journey on Metrorail, usually via the Century City Line.

But I relied on Chris, a talkative Nigerian cab driver of Ibo extraction, for social evenings. At times, he could be a little overwhelming, but I trusted him, and that was enough for me. His constant judgment seemed a small price to pay in the greater scheme of things.

"Wolfman, my brodder, what are you doing tomorrow?"

I already knew where this discussion was heading, but fortunately, I had prepared an ironclad defense.

"I have to work, bru."

"On a Sunday?"

"Yeah, nature of the beast, hey. Double shift, too. A lot of ground to cover."

The bullet was successfully dodged, or so I thought.

The appropriately named Chris never squandered an opportunity to shove Christianity down my throat, which seemed a common feature of Nigerian expats settled throughout South Africa, but hell would freeze over before I walked into one of those happy churches again.

Far be it for me to pass judgment on their faith, but I was pretty certain the church was nothing more than a viable business venture to them. 'Go to South Africa and become a Pastor; you will make money.' That is the barbeque conversation I always imagined.

"Wolfman, you need to make time for God, my brodder. All the things of this world are worthless. You need to start investing in the afterlife." continued Chris.

"Chris, you are worse than a Jehovah's Witness. Why can't you just be happy with the blessings I shower upon you every weekend?"

"Those are God's blessings, my brodder. Also, you are not my only client on a Saturday night."

"How many of your clients live North of the Boerewors Curtain? I chose you, Chris, despite the presence of more legitimate e-hailing services. God sent me to you, so why do you have the additional urge to pick my pocket on a Sunday morning?"

"I must honor my God by guiding one of his lost sheep. It is not about the money."

"Oh please, money is all your happy churches care about. If anything, God needs to save me from you."

"God needs to save you from those coloured whores."

While I tried to conceal it, that comment stung a little, as it was a painful reminder of my own insignificance. A reminder that I so repulsed women I had to pay them for company, and that didn't always come with guarantees either.

I keep trying to convince myself that I chose this life, but in truth, it chose me. I couldn't even blame the path I had taken on years of stone-cold rejection; one has to actually pluck up the courage to court a woman for that to happen.

No, I was born gutless and lonely.

"Whores of all races make me happy, Chris, especially those of the coloured variety." I retorted.

"Then why do you look so bleak?"

"I am just drunk."

Chris burst out laughing...so loud it probably sobered me up.

"That was funny, but you are lying to yourself, Wolfman, my brodder."

What if I was?

The working women of Cape Town helped fill a void in me that nobody else could. They provided a service that men like myself so desperately needed, a service that I could never reasonably expect a 'respectable' servant of God to provide.

My options were seemingly limitless, too. Bars, strip clubs, and brothels were scattered all over Central Cape Town, from Barrack Street to Loop Street. Most of them were packed with coloured women, who happened to be just the tonic for me.

We all have a type, don't we?

Coloured women have always been my kryptonite, but while they certainly have the most redeeming features and qualities, I now suspect there is more to it than just that, and I figure it all started with Aunty Mavis about three decades ago.

I only knew Aunty Mavis for one year, but I fear our brief association had lasting consequences, certainly for me. I was just 12 years old when I first met Mavis, who lived in the landlord's cottage on the same property as us, while my mother and I lived in the servant's quarters.

We were not equals, but Mavis never reminded me of that.

She was a mature coloured woman - the first coloured woman I had ever met - possibly well into her fifties, although I couldn't tell you for sure. I know she had two adult children - one actually married.

She could have been my grandmother.

Mavis worked in sales, which meant she was often on the road, but when she was home, she was usually alone, which provided fertile ground for us to develop a formidable and, as it turns out unhealthy attachment. We became bosom buddies in more ways than one.

"You mustn't be shy in this cottage; you are completely at home here." she once told me, and it certainly worked out that way, too.

I was in and out whenever I pleased and stuck my head in her fridge whenever my stomach growled. If there were ever any boundaries when I first met Mavis, they had long since been eroded.

One morning in particular, I was feeling a little peckish, and, craving Mavis's cook sisters, I decided to pay her a visit. While I usually just waltzed into her cottage uninvited, on this particular Saturday, my gut told me to knock.

It is extraordinary how things just align that way sometimes.

"Come in, Wolfie," Mavis shouted from what sounded like a fair distance. Perhaps she was freshening up in the bathroom, I thought, and subsequently let myself in.

I didn't notice anything untoward when I walked into her cottage, which merely confirmed my earlier suspicions. I then turned around and absent-mindedly shut the door.

"Hey there..." she said, startling me.

Still suspecting nothing, I then turned around, with my mind now firmly on the golden brown and juicy cook sisters in the kitchen, and as I looked up to locate Mavis, I got a lot more 'golden brown and juicy' than I could possibly have bargained for.

Mavis was standing just outside her bathroom door, completely naked. She hadn't even toweled herself down yet.

I was at that type of age when I had become increasingly curious about the female body, and this was something I had already noted at school about a year earlier when I no longer regarded the likes of Miss de Waal, Miss Hulley, and Miss Davidson as just my teachers.

That curtain of innocence had long been lifted, never to be lowered again. All three teachers had become subjects of my boyhood fantasies, but I had never seen any of them naked or even partially naked.

Mavis's stunt had taken me into uncharted territory, and despite not quite knowing what the protocol was, I managed to compose myself.

"Hey, Aunty Mavis. Was just stopping by for some cook sisters. Never mind me." I replied rather nonchalantly.

I kept talking as I quickly disappeared into the kitchen.

"It looks like I have caught you at a rather bad time. Are you rushing out to a sales meeting?" I continued as I opened the fridge.

"I do have a meeting, but I am in no rush." That comment was loaded with innuendo, but even if I knew how to react, I was determined to downplay the moment's significance.

"Coolio," I said blankly.

"Aren't you playing tennis today?"

"Nope, got knocked out of the current tournament last weekend. A bit of a relief, actually. I am sick of traveling."

"You young people have no patience. Westridge Park is only 90 minutes away. I am on the road all the time."

"I honestly don't know how you do it, Aunty Mavis."

"You make it sound like I have a choice. Money talks, my boy. Money talks."

And so, the small talk continued until she eventually asked me to her room...something to do with not hearing me clearly at the other end of the cottage. When I got to her doorway, I was horrified to learn that she had yet to put any clothes on.

What witchcraft was this?

It was only then that she casually walked towards her closet, slowly and deliberately, as if she had intended for me to capture every inch of her gorgeous figure. She never looked back the whole time, which was actually a relief.

The last thing I needed was to be caught in the act.

My eyes were firmly fixed on Mavis's body, examining every curve, every mound, and every slit.

Her skin was flawless, which feels like an extraordinary thing to say about a woman well into her fifties. There was not a varicose vein in sight, and the few wrinkles I spotted actually enhanced her appearance.

I just gawked as Mavis bent over to rummage through her lingerie selection. She eventually settled on a blue floral outfit, which featured an embroidered mesh underwire bra and cute matching panties - both seemed to reveal more than they hid.

Given the reason Mavis had called me to her room, there was astonishingly little conversation going on at this point. She first slipped on the panties while facing the other way.

The lining hugged her butt cheeks perfectly, while the mesh merely gave off the impression of them being covered. I absorbed all the details, from the small of her back to the tiny slit that separated her butt cheeks.

I was salivating aggressively now and swallowing what felt like a bucket of water with every gulp. Mavis stole a quick glance in my direction and turned back to the closet without saying a word. She noted that my pants were starting to stretch, as there was no hiding my state of being, and I was a little embarrassed by it.

What was this woman playing at?

Mavis then turned around slowly, giving me just enough time to study her breasts up close and personal. She was a mere meter away from me at best, but that didn't stop her from taking an additional step forward anyway. The heat radiated off her body, and I took in another massive gulp while she just smiled.

Her breasts stood up perfectly, and while I was no expert on the matter, it seemed to me she did not actually need a bra. Her breasts were full and firm, while both nipples appeared erect.

It is a peculiar business, really, because on the face of it nipples are actually odd physical features, yet the first time I encountered them on Mavis, I could be left in no doubt as to their sexual appeal. I wasn't just drawn to them; I was totally aroused by them.

She had the bra in her left hand.

"Do you think you can help me with this?" she asked gently.

Stunned into complete silence, I just nodded my head, which was accompanied by another massive gulp, while she just smiled again.

Mavis clearly didn't need my help with this, but I obliged, taking a step closer to her...our bodies were almost touching now. I could feel her breath on me, and am pretty certain I could even hear her heart beating, or was that my heart thumping? I seemed to have lost all perspective.

She handed me the bra, and for that fleeting moment, I was slightly amused by her total faith in the ability of a 12-year-old boy to manage this monumental task.

The polyester and spandex fabric had some stretch, which was actually a tremendous relief, as when Mavis was still holding the bra, I wasn't entirely sure it would manage to hold her breasts, but it was now apparent to me that there would be no need for any extensive maneuvering, pulling or tugging.

The bra fabric was also extra soft and sensual, carrying Mavis's scent. I so desperately wanted to press it against my face but feared that might seem a little uncouth, even in these bizarre circumstances. The designers of lingerie do not get the credit they so clearly deserve, I thought to myself.

Mavis rotated her body ever so slightly, her hip bumping against me - my body shuddered so violently I almost dropped the bra.

"Relax, it's just me," she said before lifting up her right arm.

Grabbing her right arm, I threaded it through the first strap carefully, not passing up the opportunity to stroke the arm gently, albeit tentatively.

Mavis let it play.

She then rotated a little in the other direction, allowing me to thread her left arm through the second strap.

Sensing I was slightly daunted by what came next, Mavis grabbed one of my wrists and pulled it towards her breast. I couldn't stop shaking, and at that moment, I was less terrified by the great West Indian fast bowler Curtly Ambrose.

Gently, she helped me cup her breast and lift it slightly so as to fit perfectly into the bra.

"Take your time," she said.

I took the hint, in what I imagined to be the spirit that was intended, and felt out every inch of her breast, all the while rubbing at the surprisingly firm nipple with my thumb. The more I rubbed it, the firmer it seemed to get. 'The Aunty' never moved.

"I see you have been watching some late-night television," she said.

While I initially hesitated, I decided to continue, increasing the intensity with every stroke. I was not entirely sure what this might have been doing to her, but I could now feel the blood in my body rushing towards the slab of muscle between my legs.

'Aunty' then rotated the other way, allowing me to repeat the procedure with the other breast. Once both breasts were comfortably in the cups, Mavis turned around completely and faced the other direction as I attached the bra clip behind her.

The moment it clipped into place, I stole a glance at every inch of Mavis's back, examining every curve and every dent right down to the small of her back.

I took my time admiring every element of her butt cheeks, and just when I thought Mavis wouldn't move, she grabbed both my hands and helped me cup her buttocks. I was pleasantly surprised by just how firm they were.

First, I prodded, then I squeezed, and then I rubbed, desperately trying to explore every aspect of my sexuality. She took a step backward and pressed her butt against my crotch, rubbing against it gently a couple of times and then suddenly stopping.

She then told me to sit on the bed almost dismissively as she walked towards the closet again, this time to grab the rest of her clothes, while I just sat and watched.

When Mavis was done dressing, she grabbed her personal belongings and work items before making for the door, and I followed her obediently. When we arrived at her car, she paused and looked down at me, her face a little difficult to read.

"I hope you enjoyed your education," she said.

She opened the door and disappeared into the car, but the image of her lingered for the remainder of that weekend.

Suffice it to say, Mavis has become a point of reference for me ever since, from the shape of a woman's breasts to the curvature of her butt. Almost three decades later, I remain a certified ass and breasts man, but the greatest sticking point of all is my almost uncontrollable desire for coloured women, almost at the total exclusion of others.

For a very long time I had taken that Saturday encounter with Mavis for granted, and even blocked the entire event out my mind. But when I reflect on it now, that was the day my toxic journey began, and it did not take long for things to escalate, either.

I already had unfettered access to Mavis's cottage, as she had given me her spare set of keys a while back to water her plants and raid her fridge at leisure while she was on the road. I had never imagined I would need her keys for anything else, but that all changed following the events of that fateful Saturday morning.

The next time I entered Mavis's cottage, I swerved the kitchen before letting the plants wither and die, heading directly to her bedroom instead.

Without giving it a second thought, I began to rummage through Mavis's underwear, which was actually eye-opening, as she seemed to own more knickers than I had clothes. I had seen store displays with less underwear than this.

Could a 12-year-old boy ever feel more spoiled for choice?

"Mavis, you saucy minx," I said, thinking out loud.

It wasn't just the sheer scale of what was in her underwear closet, it was also the extraordinary range. I wondered if this was just for her, or was she living some kind of double life?

There were bra and underwear sets, exotic lingerie sets, teddies, bodysuits, body stockings, negligees, bustiers, corsets, costumes, garters, nightgowns, standalone panties, standalone bras, petticoats, and chemises.

There was lace, silk, cotton, polyester, and spandex. There were high-waist, low-waist, see-through, and fully-covered outfits. And buried under all of that, every sex toy available to man, or so I imagined anyway.