Six reasons why women should watch porn, and why they probably won't.

1.      Because a naked man in all his glory (all however many inches of him, take that as you may) is something we don’t get to see very often. 
Don’t laugh, this is actually a serious point I’m making.  If you look around you can’t help but notice the large amounts of bare skin being thrown in our faces, all day long.  If its not the billboard with the seemingly naked woman in the shower, then it’s the barely clad video vixens gyrating in bikinis, or the lingerie clad heroine in your favourite soap, or the news anchor in the tightest skirt this side of K-Street (not skin, but if was any tighter it would be, no?).  Look around ladies, they are pushing sex at us every which way you look, but its not the sex we need to be looking at.  If it wasn’t for porn, the only way we’d get to see a man’s glory, or lack thereof, is if we shag said man, and that’s not always a very attractive, or advisable, proposition.  Go and look at the men in those porn shots, no really, look at them… there’s big ones and small ones, skinny ones and thick ones, straight ones and bent ones, they come in all shapes and sizes.  Think of it as consumer research, to make an informed decision you need to know what’s out there.  Kuangalia ni bure, and at least this way when you see him for the first time your reaction won’t be, “What the hell is that?” 

2.      Because sex is not that soft-focus, wind blowing through the curtains, candles all over the place, PG13 nonsense you see in romantic comedies, complete with L-shaped sheets covering all the awkward bits.
Sex is awkward, and messy, and sometimes downright hilarious.  Yes, you have to get completely naked (or not, depending, but that’s a story for another day), and no, real sheets do not miraculously wrap themselves around you when you get up.  If you’re harbouring visions of being laid down on a bed of petals and gently ravished as the sun sets into the sea, my friend you will be waiting a long, long time.  Watch porn if only for the simple reason that it is as close to a realistic portrayal of the act as you will probably ever see on screen, minus the strange moaning, and the whole orgy thing (normally people don’t decide to shag simultaneously in one room, at least not where I come from).  Watching porn is the sexual equivalent of taking off your rose-tinted glasses and seeing it for what really is.  And if you still think porn is disgusting, you might want to stick a mirror next to your bed the next time you get busy.  See those two people humping away like they’re on Big Cat Diary?  That’s you sweetheart, see how good you look?  

3.      Because you’ll never know how far you can go, or want to go, until you see someone else try.
Fantasy is wonderful thing, but for some of us more reserved types some fantasies should perhaps remain just that, no?  That’s where porn comes in.  You secretly wonder what it would be like to have a threesome with your man and your best friend?  Option 1 is to go ahead and do it, taking the chance that it may work out somewhat differently than you anticipated (she may end up in your bed more often, maybe even when you’re not there, no?  I’m just saying, shit happens…).  Option 2 is to watch some (often poorly scripted and badly acted) porn and get that itch out of your system.  Now apply that same example to your darker fantasies, say BDSM … see what I’m saying?  Some things may be best left in your head and in/on/around someone else’s body.

4.      Because a naked woman in all her glory is a beautiful thing.  I’m talking about you, not the random stranger on the screen.
The feminists like to get all hot and bothered about porn, talking about unrealistic body image and what not, and while I agree with them that the media keeps putting out an image that’s alien to most women, I’m not so sure this argument extends to porn, at least not all of it.  The Playboy and Hustler type magazines of this world have wonderfully airbrushed pictures of stunning women (a little too thin for my taste, but what do I know?  No, I’m not a lesbian, at least not the last time I checked…), but random video/internet porn?  Those women have asses so big you can see them from the kitchen, boobs so magnificent she could feed the world, but they also have stretch marks, cellulite, love handles and saggy bits all over the place, frankly the only thing ‘perfect’ on her is her make up, and even then, not so much.   And you know what these women are doing with their not regulation-sized bodies?  They are working it with no inhibitions whatsoever, and their audience is very appreciative for it.  You’re hot, really, and porn will prove it to you.

5.      Because there’s a different type of porn for everyone.
Its not all cheesy music and moustachioed men in socks, there’s more, loads more, ranging from soft core romance with a fumble or two every so often, to ultra hard core twisted shit involving strange things being done to pineapples.  Hell, I’ve watched kung-fu porn (very acrobatic, had the walking-on-trees stunts and everything, I’m not lying).  Ladies, there’s even some made specifically for women, which basically means it has a bit more of a storyline and a bit less of the hairy men, and their hairy parts.  If you don’t want to watch, then go read instead, there’s erotica out there, some of it very well written (email me and I’ll send you the links).  The point to porn is that you get to explore your fantasies, so go on, explore.  Assuming that you are over 25 (we’re not young ones here, are we?) and therefore of some maturity, I assure you, you will not get hooked, or end up a serial killer.  Really.  If you do, however, don’t quote me, I will deny all knowledge.

6.      Because it will scare him shitless when you do.
It keeps being thrown in your face right?  “You need to go learn stuff…” he says.  Truth is, you won’t learn anything from porn that you can’t learn from a half decent sex-ed book, porn is too stage managed and artificial to be of much use as a learning tool.  But, and this is the good bit, you get to hold him to his own (allegedly) high standards.  He wants you to shag him like a porn star?  Throw it right back at him.  There shall be no more 10 minute encounters, you can now demand an hour of nonstop action, including oral (him on you, for a change), because that’s how they do it on TV, right?  Take the power back ladies…


Do I have to? Really?

You know your friends don’t take you too seriously when they call you in the middle of their workday for a chat, hoping for funny, and sometimes sordid, tales of your never-ending quest to find a man.  As tends to happen, I got the call this week, from a friend who derives more pleasure than I consider acceptable from my miseries.

“So there’s no drama?” he asked, sounding very put out.
“Nope,” I replied, shrugging nonchalantly even though he couldn’t see me.
“But…but that’s why I called you…” he pouted.
“Sorry babes,” I replied, “there’s nothing going on here.”  I shrugged again, and again he didn’t see it.
“Really?” he asked, suspicious.
“Well…” I mumbled, debating whether to make something up in his honour.  I do that sometimes, its easier to give him what he wants.
“There is this one guy…”
“Yes…” he urged, his voice a couple of notes higher in anticipation.
“I think he likes me…”
“Yes…”  This time I think I saw him bouncing in excitement.
“Come on woman, spill…” he snapped.
“Oh forget it, its nothing.”
“What is it?  You know you call tell me anything…” he pried, eager.
“Its just…”
“What?  Is there something wrong with him?  Did he do something bad?  It’s not a married guy again is it?”
“What?” I asked, thrown by the sudden twist the conversation had taken.
“You have a thing for married guys, its always a married guy,” he sniffed prissily, “I don’t know why you cant just find a single jamaa.”  He either Nkt’d or Mscheew’d me at that point, the line was not too clear.
“Dude, it was one married guy, and it was just a crush…”
“Yeah right!” he snorted, “Only one guy she says...”
“No really, it was only a crush…wait, what?”
“You know what.  You don’t really think that langa who is always busy, even on weekends, isn’t married?”  There was an unsaid ‘Bitch please!’ at the end of that sentence.
“No, he’s just really busy…”
 “On Sunday morning?”
“And Tuesday night at 10 pm?”
“You’re not really that thick, are you?”
“Listen, if the man won’t take your calls at night or on the weekend, then he’s not single…”
“No buts!”
“Are you not listening to me woman?  Nkt!”  He hung up on me.

And that was what I call a Nkt! conversation, one that leaves you feeling like you want to slap someone for gross acts of stupidity, only this time I was on the receiving end, and all because I didn’t have a story for him, useless bugger… 

Thanks to that phone call, and several other reasons that I’m sure I don’t have to spell out, I’m currently debating whether to get back into the dating swamp, this as I try to decide whether or not I’m content to live out my days all by my lonesome or to succumb to that most basic human need for companionship.  Don’t get too excited, nothing is ever straightforward with me, and this is no exception.  Thing is, I love the solitude of being unattached.  On the other hand, however, one can only have so many conversations with oneself before one starts to lose one’s mind, no?  Now that was an awkward sentence, one should perhaps pick up a book on grammar and school oneself, no?  My problem is, as much as I miss that warm body on Saturday night, I’ve gotten to like waking up on Sunday morning to the sound of…nothing. 

See I like Sunday mornings, I like that I have nowhere to be, nothing to do, its the one time in the week I get to slow down and catch up on everything I missed.  I make myself a cup of industrial strength coffee and then sit back to catch up on the week’s news, revelling in the rubbish.  Really, I read the papers for about 2 hours on average, cover to cover, while listening to John Legend, he that I will one day stalk in person if they ever give me that visa (although now that I’ve put that down I’ll probably never get said visa, will I?).  The thought of having to talk to someone on Sunday morning?  That bothers me, slightly.  With the last guy I dated a compromise was reached, no conversation between 10 am and noon.  He’d watch a movie and I’d read my paper, then as penance for neglecting him, I would provide (or procure) lunch.  I am, unfortunately, not optimistic as to the odds of that lightning striking me twice, I’m not that lucky, am I? 

Folks, is there any chance I can find a man willing to be bound and gagged for a couple of hours while I sip a latte?  No?  I’ll feed him when I’m done, really, I’ll even water him if need be.  No?  No takers?  Dammit.

On the very remote chance that my quiet Sundays will become a thing of the past, very remote chance if my recent history is anything to go by, I give you ‘Live it up’ by Mr Legend, because good Sunday music should be shared, no?   

“…Raise a toast to the days ahead
You can’t take it with you when you’re dead
You might as well enjoy it now instead…”


This one is about helicopters, the budget I seem to have missed, a bet gone wrong, and the GoP?

Page 3 is fast becoming my favourite page in the paper, if for no other reason than because it usually has a spectacularly pointless example of random news, often not very well written; like the one about Miss Deaf Kenya (bravo, madam) which had a caption giving examples of other BLIND people who’ve made a name for themselves.  Yesterday’s paper was no exception, there was a story about a helicopter that made an emergency landing in the middle of shags.  Given the recent helicopter issues we’ve been having, I can see why there would be some interest, but that wasn’t the story, was it?  Inside said helicopter was a white man on his way to drop his two children off at school, children in the aircraft as well (picture included).  That’s right folks, when raia like us are busy worrying about traffic and the price of fuel, fare, bread, etc, there are others ferrying their kids to school by chopper.  My friend, do not ringa for me in traffic with your Jaguar XJmany, look up… huko bado hujafika.  I’m just saying.  Now while that article had me laughing and depressed at the same time, I was a touch disappointed with the writer.  See, I was hoping he’d take that story and begin a discussion on Kenya’s 1%, but alas, it was not to be.  He was content to quote a child saying his mommy only stayed home on this particular morning to take care of the dogs.   Wow! 

In other helicopter related news, our politicians had an entire weekend of funerals and not a campaign slogan was thrown, not even once.  You have to love these buggers, when they go for random funerals in the back of beyond, they insist on uttering all kinds of nonsense over the open grave, using the podium to spew all manner of rubbish at a public that more often than not couldn’t really give a hoot, showing complete disrespect for the mourning family.  But when its one of their own?  Not a peep, its all hand holding and respectful silence.  And don’t even get me started on how they’re all clamouring to unleash details of some secret ‘pact’ they had with the late, he that must have been either the best secret keeper ever (not likely) or a duplicitous bastard playing all sides (also not likely).  Two faced little shits the whole lot of you, trying to score points when the body’s not even cold yet.  Ptuh!  That’s right, I spit on all of you, so there!  And speaking of irritating, who’s behind those banners of the late hanging across my road?  Ati ‘True Patriot’?  What the fuck kind of crack are you smoking?  Just because we’re mourning (are we?), that doesn’t mean we’re stupid.  Useless buggers.  Moving on…

Rumour has it the budget was read last week, at least I think it was, I’m not really sure, the only way I can usually tell the budget was read is by the ridiculous traffic in the CBD on said day, pictures of sleeping MP’s on the evening news and the resultant price increase at the local a day later, none of which were experienced.  There wasn’t even a front page article in the papers with the arrows and shit.  I mean really, I thought that’s what their graphic artists live for?  To be completely honest, and possibly blonde, from the write ups I can’t tell what went up or down.  There’s talk of tax on rental income, but that’s always been there.  Excise duty on booze?  No, nothing new.  VAT?  Can’t tell.  What the hell man?  Can someone please tell me in simple English what, if anything, has changed?  Anyone?

And speaking of sleeping MP’s, have they moved into their new digs yet?  I want to see my MP sitting on that 200k chair all day every day for the next however many days we have left together.  Figure I might as well get good value for my money, no?  Incidentally, my MP was recently quoted as telling us to vote for a dog.  Boss, we did that the last time and it got us nowhere, clearly.  Any more bright ideas chief?

And in news further a field, the Ukrainian PM is in trouble for having a beer.  Seems the man went and made a bet with a Swedish fan that he’d buy a pint if his boys won their next match at Euro 2012, and being a man of his word he duly invited the fan over after the game, for said pint.  Beer is had, photos are taken and what not, everyone’s happy, right?  Turns out not so much, the opposition party now wants him charged with breaking the law.  They claim, “It is shameful and inadmissible when the leaders of the country contradict the law and the principles of defending morality by beginning to publicise consumption of strong drink during working hours and on state premises.”  Eh?  Do you not have serious problems over in Ukraine?  Racist hooligans, for example.  The moral of the story?  Mututho is not the only legislator who hates to see people having a good time. 

Last but not least, definitely not least, I stumbled across this little piece of brilliance, Why Kenyan Women Fear Romney.  This one I’m not summarising for you, go read it for yourself.  I’m off to have a very big whiskey, I’ll pick this up later when I’ve done a bit more research, hopefully by then I won’t be as pissed off as I am right now, she says, rubbing her ears, wooosaaaa.............


Blogging 103: The Steamroller Approach

A couple of weeks back I was snookered into writing a guest post over at Project 44, this after I went and made a loose comment on a post that had vexed me, more accurately after the comments got me spitting mad.  The post went up and the reaction was, well, surprising.  See, the ladies of P44 and their audience are a bit more polite than we are, which is to say the ladies don’t swear half as much as I do and their audience is not nearly as quiet as you are, so the thought of writing an entire blog post without swearing had me sweating.  Really, you’d be surprised how hard it is to say, "This is complete bullshit!" without using the word shit.  That said, I gathered up my skirts and (wo)manned up, and, lo and behold, it was not badly received.  Well, sort of.  Someone called me a steamroller.  To be precise, the author of the earlier post that got me into trouble in the first place asked, “Does the steamroller approach work in the long run?” 

Now I read that comment and paused, unsure of what to reply.  See my focus wasn’t on the steamroller bit, I’m a bit of a pushy cow (and by a bit I mean very) so I get that a lot, although in my defence I thought I was quite charming and persuasive, but I’m a bit delusional so perhaps I may have been wrong on that one.  Instead, my focus was on the second part of that phrase, ‘in the long run’.  Hmmm…  My first thought was, “Oh no she didn’t…” (said with a Black American accent reminiscent of Martin Lawrence as Sheneneh) thinking that the ‘commentator’ had just implied that my (spinster?) singleness is proof that I have no business talking shit.  “Oh no she didn’t!” I swore again.  I know, jumping to that conclusion immediately says more about me and my kadha issues than about the ‘commentator’, but we’ll get to that in a minute.  I went away and came back a couple of minutes later, “She might have a point there, if I know so much about relationships, then why am I still single?” I pondered, having calmed down.  I went away and came back a couple of minutes later, “What the hell,” I shrugged, “you can’t win them all can you?”  Not wanting to get sucked into yet another ‘rejoinder’, all because I had (probably) misunderstood that statement, I asked her to clarify the question, I figured better she spell it out for me.  She didn’t, but that wasn’t much of a surprise, but again I’m getting ahead of myself.  

Thing is, that bloody phrase has been marinating away in the back of my mind since then.  Every so often I’ll pick it up, turn it around, feeling its weight in my hand, trying to decipher its composition, then I’ll put it back on the shelf and carry on with whatever mundane task I was previously engaged in.  Once in a while I look up and there it is, sitting on the shelf, beckoning.  Now it’s Sunday and my head is clear, so I’m thinking its time to take a closer look. 

Folks, I’m single.  That’s right, I don’t have a man.  I’ve been in a couple of relationships, but not too many, definitely not enough to classify myself as a relationship expert, that I leave to the idiots in the Saturday papers.  That said, I like to think I know a little something about something, and while I have a great many opinions, I will be the first person to admit to not having all the answers.  I do have a few though.  Granted, said few may be borderline rubbish, but the fact that I can admit that too is proof that I am still willing to learn, and learn I shall.  What I resent is the idea that because I’m not in a relationship I don’t get to have an opinion about what makes relationships work.  Eh?  Now let me just clarify, this is not just about the one comment on that post, this is about life in general.  Its shocking the number of times some idiot has turned to me and sneered, “Lakini you…you don’t even have a man…” and this because I had the temerity (gasp!) to point out some obvious fact like, ‘if you’re cheating on your girlfriend with her best friend it will end badly,’ or ‘you don’t think that man realises you’re using him for rent money?’  Keep in mind that said sneering idiots aren’t even always strangers, in one memorable incident a (formerly) close pal turned to me and spat, “What the fuck are you talking about?  You can’t even keep a man!”  What the fuck?  I’d think that they’d be happy to hear my ‘single’ thoughts, who better to help them avoid the same ‘disaster’, no?  The way I figure, if there’s a flood coming, I don’t want to hear from the idiot who lives on the mountain-top, I’m going to be listening to the bugger from Budalangi.  Well, maybe not Budalangi, but you get my point, yes? 

I’m not trying to give you advice and such like nonsense, I’m just telling you what I think, in the hopes that perhaps someone will think the same way and make me feel less like an outsider, or that someone will patiently show me the flaw in my (often not so) brilliant thinking and in so doing bring me back into the fold.  Wait, that’s not entirely accurate.  I have on occasion imparted the odd piece of advice, but only because in my head I’m sharing knowledge, often knowledge recently acquired, possibly from dodgy sources so you may want to filter it accordingly.  I do not claim to have all the answers, just the opposite in fact.  The reason there’s a comment section at the bottom is not because I’m fishing for compliments (although I usually am), I want, nay, I crave conversation, I want to talk about shit, I’m looking for a second opinion, and a third.  I don’t mind a divergent opinion, but I draw the line at pissy comments.  I figure if I can take the time to construct a (possibly flawed) argument, then you can take the time to destroy it, preferably in coherent english, without the use of nonsense metaphors.  That last bit about nonsense metaphors, that was a bit mean, no?  That’s what a pissy comment is, unnecessary bile that only serves to show your own inadequacies.  The steamroller comment?  That was pissy, it may have been well earned, but it was still pissy. 

Because I have such a short fuse, and have a long history of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, I’ve learnt to step back from a situation before reacting.  You know that fluffy phrase, there’s two sides to everything?  These days when someone says something to me that bothers me, I look at where they’re coming from, hence their motivation, and where my head is at, hence my reaction.  Sometimes I’ve found that some of the nonsense that’s pissing me off has nothing to do with me, the other person is just having a shit day or something.  Other times it has everything to do with me, they’re reacting to something I said or did that pissed them off, sometimes unintentionally.  And other times, my own personal issues are colouring my judgement, making me react to nothing with something, such as today.

I mentioned my kadha issues at the beginning but I haven’t elaborated.  The reason the somewhat innocuous comment touched what I didn’t know was still a raw nerve may have something to do with my relationship with that pal, M, he of the ‘can’t keep a man’ statement.  Apologies were made back then, on both sides (we were in the middle of a fight when he made that crack, and while I wasn’t hitting as far below the belt myself, I was hitting), and more fights were had after that one, but his knack for fighting dirty eventually took a toll.  You know those types who always go for the jugular whenever pushed?  He was that type, whenever we’d disagree, his first instinct was always to shut me up by saying the most hurtful thing possible, but then I’d get pissed off and counter with more hurtful things, and then he’d counter, and I’d counter again, over and over until we were both too bloodied to continue, at which point we’d take a break for a week or two and then get right back to the same nonsense.  During one of these breaks, I was bitching to another pal about how shitty M would make me feel with his seemingly constant put-downs, and pal number two pointed the pattern out to me, that our fighting styles meant that only one outcome was possible, mutual destruction.  Actually, what pal number two said was, “You’re both being stubborn idiots, and you’re both getting off on this shit!”  That bitch slap was the wake up call I needed, after that when M would go for the jugular, I’d tell him to stop, and then I’d walk away.  There are some levels of abuse (literal and metaphorical) that no one should ever have to put up with, not even from a friend.  Like I said earlier, kadha issues colouring my judgement.

The point?  Just because we’re anonymous strangers having a bit of a chat on the internet, that doesn’t mean that we’re no longer individuals with massive egos that get bruised, random feelings that get hurt and huge toes that can occasionally be stepped on.  I love that we don’t always agree, different opinions make for stimulating conversations, but if at any point I cross the line and begin treating you with malice, or disrespect, or good old fashioned abuse (calling you a bugger, or idiot, or little shit doesn’t count, those are terms of endearment where I’m from), then I expect you’ll tell me where to go stick it, won’t you?  Just don’t be pissy about it, nobody likes pissy.

Joyce and Fridah, if you’re reading this (and I’m guessing you are) and wondering why I didn’t put all this crap on yours, it’s simply because you and yours have been so lovely to me that I couldn’t bring myself to talk shit in your house.  Absolutely no disrespect intended.  Really.  Plus I had nothing to write about today, figured why not make margarita out of that lemon, no?



This post was originally called ‘Let’s talk about (bad) sex, all the time, because we have nothing better to do, no?’  Good, no?  No?  Ah well…  I changed the title for two reasons.  First, I’ve learnt that putting sex and such like words in the title of your post can sometimes get you unwanted attention; to this day I still have unfortunate idiots landing here after googling ‘naked whores’ (they don’t stick around too long, must be the lack of pictures).  The second reason?  I’m at Project 44 this week (more about that on Sunday) and on that side I’m on the straight and narrow, not so much as a mild ‘shit’ has been used.  Problem is, now that a few of those lovely people are crossing over, well I don’t want ‘bad sex’ to be the first thing they see, what kind of first impression is that? 


This is about (bad) sex.

Better they get the bad news upfront, no?  Folks, this will get rude, and probably crude, and if I’m lucky the comments will be even worse.  You’ve been warned.  If you want the polite version, save yourself a few blushes and click across.

Last month I wandered into the almost local (it’s too expensive to be a real local, plus they frown on dirty jeans and such like rough attire so…) for two and a half drinks and a burger, and upon walking in I was immediately accosted by two drunks whom I hadn’t seen in a while.  They coaxed me into a heated discussion they were having on how best to deal with a woman who isn’t delivering the goods in bed.  One fella is married, but a bit of a whore, and he was of the opinion that sex is only a small part of the relationship and, therefore, if for whatever reason he isn’t getting what he needed from the missus, then he’s allowed to outsource this one component.  His logic is, if he’s happy then the missus is happy too, and him getting good sex, even if from a woman other than his missus, will make him very happy, better that than to leave his wife and kids.  Like I said, a bit of a whore.  Fella number two is usually the more level headed one, so I expected some clarity from him, and he didn’t disappoint.  He said, “If its crap, then fix it!”  Makes sense right?  That’s what I thought, until he expounded on this seemingly brilliant theory.  He said, and this I’m quoting, “Tell her she’s crap only once, if she doesn’t improve, leave her.  That’s it, no nonsense of but or why, just leave her.”  He said that some things are just plain unacceptable, and unworkable.  He will put up with all manner of crap, except that.  Fella number two is still a bachelor, and now I know why.

What bothered me about this discussion was that the notion of the man being the one at fault was never floated, never.  For men, it seems, if the bed isn’t on fire it can only be because the woman isn’t either.  The men reading this are nodding vigorously and saying, ‘But si of course!’ while the women are frowning and starting to compose hate mail in their evil minds.  Relax ladies, I’m not done yet.  Gentlemen, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but women think exactly the same way.  They think if the bed isn’t rocking, it’s because the man in question doesn’t know how to rock said bed.  It’s your fault, not theirs.  Now tell me, if everyone is busy pointing fingers at everybody else, how the hell do you think we’re going to fix this shit?  People, its time for us to take a good long hard look in the mirror and be honest.  Ladies, gentlemen, we are the problem.  And now everyone’s frowning and looking at the screen with one eye.  I believe the question you want to ask right now is ‘Eh?’, but the question we should be asking ourselves is this: who do we hold responsible for our pleasure and satisfaction? 

Are you, for instance that woman who lies in bed expecting your man to climb on top of you and take you to heaven, without so much as a moan on your part?  Are you that guy who believes that your satisfaction equals her satisfaction, despite the fact that your satisfaction is derived from sticking your dick into something suitably wet and thrusting away for a couple of minutes till you reach your climax?  Incidentally, if you answered yes to either, really?  Slap yourself.  On second thoughts, slap me, I thought you buggers were extinct.  If you’re getting into bed with the expectation that the other person will do all the work, then your bed will not be a very good bed, and the only thing worse than no sex, is bad sex.  No really, bad sex is just … bad!  There should be a law that forces everyone to take sex education classes every 2 years, a refresher course if you will, to keep abreast of changing trends and new techniques.  You keep upgrading your cell phone right?  Then why not upgrade your sex life the same way?  No, I’m not telling you to go out and buy a new model, I’m saying get a newer version, of yourself. 

When you first lost your virginity 20 years ago, kind sir, I’m sure getting a woman’s bra off with one hand was quite a feat, worthy of great applause.  Now, however, kind sir, you might want to do more than fumble with said garment for two minutes and then stick the business end of your manhood into the nearest orifice.  Sometimes I think when men see a naked woman all they see is two round thingis and a triangle, nothing above, in between or below.  Did you buggers never sing that ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes’ song in nursery school?  Stop laughing woman, you’re not doing much better, manhandling his dick like it’s an Eveready torch with a magic button, and all the while ignoring every other part of him.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to sit here and try to write a how to manual, but only because I’m convinced that everyone has their own idea of what constitutes a rocking good time, from what I’ve learnt one person’s great sex is possibly another’s crap lay, and vice versa.  This then brings up the next question: if satisfaction is as specific as the individual seeking it is unique, does this mean that there are no universal ‘truths’ that apply to sex?  Is there no magic bullet? 

Now contrary to public opinion, I do a bit of research when I’m writing this nonsense, I read and shit, engage in all manner of pseudo scientific analysis, on google.  Armed with the (scanty) knowledge I recently gained, I can now confidently state that all men want is… wait for it… another woman.  Shut your mouth dear, you’ll catch flies.  Men, it seems, crave variety, which could explain why they’re so fond of role play (Mrs Officer?) and why they’re so easily distracted, but that’s a story for another day.  Thing is, this need for sexual variety doesn’t necessarily translate into him fooling around, that’s actually the exception, and you know what I think about the exception, no?  Yes, he wants another woman, many other women, but apparently he wants them all to be you.  I know, it’s confusing, but no one ever said life would be easy. 

Ladies, what he wants is for you to want it as much as he does, enough to actively participate, and instigate, and occasionally maybe even create a new persona, just for him, so don’t just lie there woman, get up, move around, flip his ass over if need be, anything.  Enjoy the man like you’re on death row and he’s the last thing you’ll ever eat, is all I’m saying.  Turn off your brain and follow your senses, all five of them.  Show him the passionate sexy woman you’re hiding under your mother’s union knickers and ubiquitous Kibaki Tena t-shirt, and then let him show you the wannabe Ron Jeremy he’s been too afraid to show, or saves for his kinky chickie on the side.  The finer details of how, where and when are for you to figure out, and his preferred kinks I have no doubt he will share with you once you get going.  Really, once he’s convinced you can handle his deviancy, he will rise to the occasion.

Another reason why I love being in the sewer, the puns are just so much better, no? 

Gents, surprisingly women aren’t that different when it comes to the quest for variety.  The predictable routine (kiss, then quick fondle, then even quicker fumble) may have worked when she was 16, but not any more.  She’s been watching TV, she watched ‘Unfaithful’, hell she’s probably been watching as much porn as you have, only she calls it a soap opera.  She knows things and, more important, she wants to try things.  After reading (not too) extensively, I’ve come to realise that that women are more willing to try out new things in the bedroom than we’ve been given credit for.  She may not say it out loud, but she’s just as bored with missionary once a week, tired of waiting for the come that never comes.  She wants you to take her outside on a haystack, the way Alejandro shagged Rosarita last week on cuando de mi whatsitsname.  She wants you to surprise her in the shower with (what I can only hope are) 9 inches of morning glory.  She wants you to go down on her, repeatedly, and hopefully get her off.  She wants you to make like R Kelly and fuck her by the kitchen sink.  What men don’t seem to realise is that women are creatures of fantasy, we have all these freaky ideas in our heads, but because we’re expected to be these demure little creatures, we don’t know how to let them out.  You want to have better sex?  Odds are your woman is sitting there thinking, ‘You think?’  What you need to do is get your woman comfortable enough to let her freak out of the closet. 

What?  You’re doing that staring at me blankly thing you always do.  You want me to explain, don’t you?  You just nodded, didn’t you?   

I don’t know how to get her comfortable, she’s your woman, figure it out.  Try talking to her, tell her what you want to do to her, I mean really want to do to her, in detail, and see how she reacts.  Just be careful not to go too far too soon, come slowly chief otherwise you’ll scare her away.  Think of it as chemical warfare, only instead of the booze use the words from your nasty little mind.  If all else fails, play her the Will Downing track.  If that song doesn’t work then I can’t help you, or her.

This bad sex story must end, even if it means having this discussion all week every week for the next six months.  Surely, surely I say unto you my people, we have other problems to deal with, no?  In this day and age of almost limitless information at your fingertips and living in a society that is finally starting to accept that demanding greater carnal pleasure is not such a bad thing, there is no excuse for not taking matters into your own hands.  Folks, if you don’t like it, change it.  If you don’t change it, well then you’d best learn to like it.   Either way, stop telling me about it in the bar, just because I’m there alone doesn’t mean I’m idle, you useless buggers...


Kitu gani hii?

I know I said I’d do something serious today, but the week was all serious and grown up, plus there’s something about doing this on the weekend that discourages much thought, probably because the night before I may have indulged in a spirit or two and therefore now possess the brain of a toddler.  It also helps that the politicians and their press lackeys are just baiting me with their foolishness, surely how can an idiot like myself resist such low hanging fruit?  Its too much, man!

So, our genius MP’s went to Mombasa to talk about peaceful elections.  Eh?  Here’s a thought, if you want to have peaceful elections you twits, perhaps you might want to consider shutting the fuck up?  And perhaps not running?  Just a thought.  Incidentally, I’m assuming that its not hate speech if I insult all of them together, because if it is then I’m a bit screwed, and unfortunately I do not mean that literally.  The only upside to the conference was that we got a couple of pictures of MP’s smiling at each other, makes for a nice break from the usual sneering and fist waving, no?  Slight detour, did you see Kalonzo’s outfit?  Could that suit be any more mushaino?  And the 70’s style pimp shirt?  Oh daddy!  Keep rocking that pimped out look and you may get my vote…  Now that was hate speech.

I was in the bank on Friday afternoon, patiently queuing to give them my little monies (direct translation of pesa ndogo), when I glanced up at the TV, expecting to catch a few minutes of Nollywood drama, my favourite part of the trip to the bank, some might even say the only enjoyable part, but alas, it was not to be.  Regular programming had been replaced by live coverage of the aforementioned conference, thereby subjecting me to five minutes of our most honourable (and not sufficiently philanthropic?) Speaker waxing poetic about how ‘we’ have learnt lessons and what not.  Say it with me…EH?  I almost gave in to my impulse to throw something at the screen, until I remembered where I was, and why I stopped watching TV in the first place. 

That’s right folks, I have no live TV in my house, I don’t have an aerial or a dish, or anything that can catch a signal of any kind.  For this reason, the only time I watch the news, and our politicians by association, is when I go to visit my sister and her clan.  For the last two years, with the exception of Hague TV (which I absolutely loved, for obvious reasons), I haven’t sat through a single news bulletin, local or international.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those militant ‘the TV is an idiot box’ types who wax lyrical about reading and taking time to ponder the meaning of life and such like bullshit, the reason I don’t have live TV is because when I first moved into my current abode, I couldn’t afford the dish and co (hard times, dodgy business, no cash flow to speak of...don’t laugh, sometimes the hustle is hard, no?), but the plan was to get hooked up eventually, and in the meantime I saw no sense in bothering with the aerial.   Sounds logical enough, no?  Problem is, as time went on, shit came to fuck (as it ineveitably does) and now many months later, here I am still live TV-less and strangely enough, not too bothered about it. 

The thing is, I’m a TV junkie, hell I’m the original TV junkie, only now in rehab, given half a chance I can watch TV all day and all night.  My ability to sit motionless in front of a screen is legendary, I have been known to watch cricket, just because, and not 20/20 my friend, test cricket, all day long.  I’m that idiot you’ll find standing outside a shop on Kenyatta Avenue, watching windsurfing on the big shiny TV, grinning stupidly, amazed by the moving pictures and vivid colours.  Folks, before the no live TV experience, my TV was on 24/7, Al Jazeera was my truth, TCM was my entertainment, ‘the young and the restless’ was my obsession (still is, and this despite not having watched an episode in 2 years…), and don’t get me started on cooking shows, or documentaries, or wrestling.  Ah wrestling…  I love wrestling.  I know, one of those deep dark secrets you should never reveal in public, right?  At least not until the cheque has cleared…  Wrestling these days has degenerated into a farce of silly conversations and name calling, with a loose 3 minute grapple thrown in to appease the crowd, but think back to a decade ago, the days of Stone Cold Steve Austin (Drink beer, fuck fear!) and The Rock (Can you smell what the rock is cooking?)…  I know, I know, it’s all fake, but do you remember when those NBA boys tried to cross over, with Karl Malone (then one of the biggest men in the NBA) dwarfed, literally, by the likes of Big Sexy?  Listen, oh ye sceptics, when a man 6 feet many inches tall is lifted and thrown about like a doll, shit aint no joke, it may be choreographed to within an inch of its life, but dont take that to mean those men are nonsense, is all I’m saying. 

Why am I talking about wrestling?

Ah yes, as you can see, I used to be a TV junkie, so the no live TV thing was treated as an experiment, all the while making the best of a situation and what not.  Could I survive without the lovely people in Doha updating me every other minute, or the geniuses at KTN updating me a day later, if at all?  Without yet another rerun of ‘Cat On A Hot Tin Roof’ or ‘Cannery Row’?  Could I live without my daily dose of Jack Abbot?  Not so much, it turned out, the first month was absolute hell!  I’d switch on the TV at 5:30 in the evening only to be met by static, and I’d have a brief sob.  Month two was slightly better and only because I started watching DVD’s, but still I craved the randomness of live TV, switching on the TV to find something completely unexpected, like a 30 minute programme on the history of the nyatiti (can only be KBC, God bless them!) or a six part series on the migration patterns of killer whales, such like nonsense that you have absolutely no interest in, but can’t seem to turn off.  By month three, the itch was fading, slowly, I was in recovery, and loving the fact that I could no longer recall Robert Nagila’s peculiar accent anymore, that which used to set off a nervous tic in my left eye.  And now two years later, having mastered the internet (yaani, I have Al Jazeera feeds streaming into every device I own), and having found a half decent bandia DVD peddler who can get me almost anything under the sun (except Paul Newman, unfortunately), I have made my peace with no live TV.  No really, I am at peace, I haven’t heard my president speak in so long that if he was to call me, just to say hi, I’d ask him rudely, because I didn’t recognise the voice, “Ni nani?” 

That said, there are moments I regret not watching live, defining moments like the Arab Spring (the revolution was televised, and my TV was off?  The shame!) or Project Fame, but for the most part I’m content to be disconnected, separated from the noise and clutter.  The strangest thing about this situation is that I now have access to more information, from all manner of outlets, than I ever did when the TV was on, and the best part is, I get to pick and choose, no more sitting through endless bullshit waiting for what I want to see and hear, online you get to filter it, at source.  It’s just lovely.  I am loathe to admit this, but TV really did make me an idiot, but I’m getting better, I hope.  There have been some awkward moments when someone asks me, “Did you see that shit on TV?” and I’m forced to issue a ten minute explanation on why I did not.  “What do you mean no TV?” he asks, “How now?”  Its gotten to the point that I don’t bring it up any more, I just smile and nod and go along with the story, if need be I google, because if its worth talking about, its on YouTube no?

As unbelievable as it sounds, the point to all this is not to get you to turn off your TV’s, this is simply the rambling of a former junkie.  Think of me as a recovering alcoholic, who despite her love of booze, has the good sense not to take a sip lest she falls off the wagon, again.  This, my good people, is actually intended for my banking services provider.  You buggers, its bad enough that I have to queue endlessly for the services you charge me an arm and a leg for (standing charges they say...), seeing as how I’m not ‘high net-worth’ enough to afford to go to the fancy branch with air conditioning and coffee, and chairs.  But to deny me my monthly 15 minutes of ‘Ma brodah oh!’?  And for politicians no less?  That’s just cruel and unusual punishment.  What did I ever do to you, you bastards?  The next time I walk into the bank and I find politicians on my TV, I will tackle that watchie to the ground for the remote, and then I’ll put on that Korean shit, just to spite you.  Consider yourselves warned…   


This one is about a very hot 49 year old...

So for the last couple of months it’s been twice a week, a (somewhat) serious post on Wednesday evening or thereabouts, and a Sunday morning rant that more often than not is me simply blowing off some steam and giving voice to the random issues that have been bothering me.  Thing is, with my work schedule being what it is, I have to revise that plan, which means that my Sunday rant will now appear during the week instead.  The reason I’m telling you this is because, on average (according to the dodgy stats from google), the rants are nowhere near as popular as the rest of my nonsense.  For those of you hoping for my eloquent brilliance, or lack thereof, come back Sunday morning, 10.00 am, GMT +3.  For the rest of you, to quote Jeffkarigasha’ Koinange, “What a week!  And it’s only Wednesday…”

We turned 49 last weekend and I must say that we are looking pretty damn good for someone about to hit half a century.  I know, I’m usually bitching about idiot politicians and illiterate journalists, but every so often I sit back, look around and smile.  For all our problems, real and imagined, we are a disgustingly beautiful nation (really, it’s disgusting how hot we are…) and don’t let anyone, including me, tell you otherwise.  We keep taking a licking and we keep on kicking.  Or is it the other way around?  Hmmm…  Ah well, that’s a story for another day, no?  Today we’re celebrating our birthday and for your listening pleasure, because I like you, I give you three Reddykyulass skits off Eric Wainaina’s Sawa Sawa album, because even when “Natheeng is no ronga wakeeng…” we still find a way to laugh about it, don’t we? 

This is my completely random list of ten things I love about this country of ours, because you know I love me a good list.

1.      Farmers Choice Premium Pork Sausages.
This has to be number one on the list, on any list.  I don’t know what illegal shit they put in these lovely little pieces of culinary genius, and I don’t want to know so don’t tell me, but they are the best thing to come out of Uplands since Bata Bullets.  I have a sneaky suspicion that if it wasn’t for illegal drugs, these sausages would the single most trafficked item out of JKIA.

2.      Kenyan Coffee, and Tea, and Beer (or so I'm told...).
We may not make a single malt worth a damn and our wine may taste like piss, but dammit if our coffee and tea, and beer apparently, are not the best thing ever.  On the list of contraband items being smuggled, these are right below the sausages, or above if you consider that very few are willing to be stopped by a scary cop with a big dog, in a strange country where cavity searches of ‘The Africans’ is recommended screening procedure.  I’m just saying…

3.      Kenyan Indians.
They brought us tikka and chapos, and as if that wasn’t enough, they threw in samosas.  Not uniquely Kenyan I know, but if it wasn’t for them our coffee dates would be coffee and… bread?  Enough said!

 4.      Kenyan Men, and Matatu Drivers.
And now you’re sitting there wondering, ‘how did this crazy cow lump us together?’  Thing is, Kenyan men are the most frustrating strain of the species.  Charming, attractive and funny on one hand, and erratic, greedy and devious on the other.  Don’t be fooled, these buggers are ma3 drivers, in a better car, or suit.  They will promise to get you where you want to go, very fast, often using (somewhat) illegal panya routes, and with utmost disregard for your comfort or safety.  And then they drop you off a kilometre or two from your destination, running off to find another customer.  Do you see the link now?

5.      Kenyan Women.
If the men are a strain like no other, then the women are the mother of all strains.  These women will use you, and abuse you, and then make you pay them for the privilege of being in their highly valuable (and delusional?) company.  And then they’ll abuse you again, just.  They still look good though, don’t they?

6.      Sunny Bindra, Charles Onyango-Obbo, Gado and Mutuma Mathiu.
These four men are the reason I spend my hard earned money buying the papers each week.  In their different styles, they speak to a vision for this country that others can only point at silently, if at all.  They expose our foolishness, highlight our brilliance and, best of all, remind us that for all our differences, we really are stuck together, for better or worse.  I know, Bwana Obbo isn’t ours, but in my capacity as most delusional I have just granted him forced citizenship, so there!

7.      Vivian Cheruiyot and Samuel Wanjiru, Paul Tergat and Tegla Lorupe, and all the other brilliant athletes we always forget to remember.
Ah Vivian…  Long may she run, the little pocket dynamo she is.  She is living proof that no matter what some idiot wazungus try to pull by rigging random elections, sheer brilliance cannot and will not be denied.  That she can rock a pretty frock is just a bonus.  And Sammy, the late and great, he’s proof that crazy, or absent, parents need not be an obstacle to success, and that you are your own worst enemy, unfortunately.  Tergat and Tegla?  Class acts like them are all we need to sell Brand Kenya, lenga all those pictures of random lions and shit.  They are dignity personified. 

8.      Tom Mboya Street.
This street is a law unto itself, no?  If we had to locate the heartbeat of Nairobi City, this would be it.  From Old Nation down to Haile Selassie, this street, nay, avenue is a pulsating sea of humanity, 24/7.  It has bars and churches; tiny shops and huge supermarkets and hawkers, always many, many hawkers; banks and loan sharks and a loose kukopesha store; hotels and lodgos and I suspect a ho house, or two; and more counterfeit shit than the whole of Shanghai.  And then, there are the ma3’s…

9.      December Sunshine.
I know, the sun shines the world over, but there’s something about the first days of sunshine in December here, as we’re getting out of the November gloom, that never fails to get me smiling.  The skies are blue and the grass is green, and once Jamhuri Day hits, the country goes on collective holiday, which means, for those of us stuck in the city, less traffic and happier pubs.  Bliss.

10.      Wazua.co.ke.
Someone pimped me out on one of their forums and in the process opened my eyes to another world, literally.  They call themselves (I’m not making this up) ‘The Virtual Republic of Wazua’, and in one particular forum, spent more time than I thought possible discussing torn underwear, in detail (the bit with the C-string had me in tears, absolutely brilliant!).  If that’s not Kenyan, then I don’t know what is.  And just so they don’t accuse me of ignoring their (other) brilliance, this is the place to go if you’re looking for information on damn near any biashara, or if you’re stuck somewhere on what used to be North Airport Road trying to get to the Eastern Bypass (it was 2009 and ‘Wazuans’ got me to Mihango, well, almost, via a random discussion, but that’s a story for another day).  Bwana ‘Jus Blazin’, I thank you, whoever you are, its not every day you get a complete stranger saying nice things about you, but I guess that’s also a Kenyan thing, yes?

I know, it’s not a very elaborate list, but that’s why there’s a comment section down below, no?  Just don’t talk shit about the sausages, that will not be tolerated…


The first rule of pimpin'...

Only a rock band can name a greatest hits album, ‘Films About Ghosts’, and it sells, well.  These wazungus are special!  Thing is, listening to this album I realised, for the umpteenth time, that there is so much music I have never heard, or heard about.  Before this, the only Counting Crows songs I knew well were ‘A Long December’ and ‘Mr Jones’, and even then my interest was largely motivated by the lead singer’s dreadlocks.  Then I listened to this compilation and I felt great shame, this band really is quite brilliant, and by quite I mean very.  But all this has nothing to do with today’s rant, today it’s about one particular track, ‘Friend of the Devil’, their cover of a Grateful Dead classic.  I know, I’m usually the one bitching about covers, but this one could possibly be better than the original (cue irate Dead fans…).   If I had to describe a man, this man, with only one song, this would be it, it captures him better than any 1000 words I put down ever will.  But seeing as how you all don’t play the soundtrack, you useless buggers, write I must.

“Set out runnin' but I take my time, a friend of the devil is a friend of mine,
If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight…”

Over the last couple of months I’ve been having conversations with a devil.  He’s not actually The Devil, obviously, contrary to public opinion I do not have a hotline to hell.  Yet.  But he is an evil, evil man, a semi-devil.  Really.  I smell sulphur when I see his name in my inbox, and it probably doesn’t help that he likes to do the “Bwaahaahaahaahaa…” evil laugh thingi.  This of course begs the obvious question, why am I talking to this man?  Well, because he’s an honest evil man, as honest as a seemingly amoral being can be that is.  Perhaps honest is the wrong word here, forthright may be more appropriate.  And what’s he so forthright about?  His whoring ways of course, this man is a self-confessed dog.  No really, he calls himself a dog, this isn’t an ‘all men are dogs’ rant.  Simply put, the man has no qualms screwing around, for no reason other than because he can.  You heard me, because he can.  He makes no apologies for his actions, and despite my constant prodding, apparently feels no remorse.  He is a superbly flawed character.  Goes without saying that he fascinates me to no end…

On the surface of things, a man such as my semi-devil is a truly amoral creature with no hope for redemption.  He screws around, sometimes recklessly, and then he brags about it, and even worse, some of us applaud, usually undercover though.  But that’s only one side to the man, he’s also a professional man, practically a workaholic, and he’s a man who cares deeply for his family, such as it is.  Getting to know a bit of the man behind the blog has forced me to redraw the image I had of him, flesh it out, add some character to the character, so to speak, and now I struggle to write him off as a bad, bad man.  The worst thing I can say about him is that he’s a bit of an idiot, obsessed with ass, with issues from here to Timbuktu.  That and he has a bit of a temper, his short fuse makes my Susan look like an amateur, suffice to say most conversations consist of shouting at each other for a couple of days and then agreeing to disagree.  Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t particularly care for his lifestyle, to be honest some days I’m not quite sure I get what he’s about, but I’m old and cynical enough to know to look below the surface before condemning someone offhand, you just never know, do you?   

“Ran into the devil, babe, he loaned me twenty bills
I spent the night in Utah in a cave up in the hills…”

Thing is, after talking to all manner of idiots, I’ve learnt not to buy the perfect image a lot of us keep trying to sell.  Some of these smartly dressed, good job holding, god fearing, pillar of society types are not very good people, some of them will cheat, steal and kill just to get ahead, all the while hiding their filthy natures under their designer suits, with matching iPad purses.  For others, it’s simply a case of wearing a mask to hide the pain and dysfunction in their lives, convinced that if they fake it long enough, then one day they’ll make it, no?  And once in a (long) while you’ll come across the unique souls that actually are as good, or bad, as they appear to be, people who can’t be bothered to bullshit you, or themselves.  ‘Where am I going with this?’ you ask, confused.  Honesty, that’s the point I’m struggling to make.  More to the point, living an honest life.  Does that sound suitably pious?  Fret not, I can safely assure you that I am many things, but I am not pious, not even when I’m delusional.    

My definition of living an honest life is living true to who, or what, you are, its about honesty to self, because its only by doing that that can you be honest with others.  You don’t see tigers running around trying to be zebras, eating grass and what not, just because they have stripes too?  No.  A tiger will be a tiger no matter what, and it makes no apologies for eating the zebra (I know, tigers and zebras live on different continents, but let’s not split hairs, I’m trying to make a point here).  Similarly, if you’re a whoring bastard (and this applies to both sexes), then what business do you have acting like a saint, or vice versa?  I figure there’s more than enough space on this crowded planet for all types.  If your pleasure is random sex and partying then so be it, that’s why man made Las Vegas, and Westlands.  If you’re a strict morals and values type, knock yourself out, heaven on earth awaits you, and failing that, there are many churches on Ngong Road that will fit the bill, right?  All I’m saying is, don’t waste your, and everyone else’s, time pretending to be something you’re not.  To quote Katt Williams, “The first rule of pimpin’ is a pimp don’t lie!”   Yes, I just quoted a man with a better perm than mine, deal with it.

“I ran down to the levee but the devil caught me there
He took my twenty dollar bill and vanished in the air…”

My question is this, is it better to be a Hugh (or Harriet) Hefner, openly living a life of grand excess and debauchery, this while earning your living, taking care of your family (if any), contributing to society and what not; or to be a seemingly mild mannered ‘Alex’, but with a hidden Hefner alter ego, quietly going about your business in accordance with all that’s expected of you, but every so often donning your disguise and letting your bad side run riot?  Does conforming to society’s ideals all the while concealing your own non-conformist nature make you a hypocrite, or are you simply being a pragmatic bugger who knows that showing your true self will inevitably make your life that much harder, hence the decision to hide that which is considered wrong?  This goes further than being a langa bastard, it applies to all of us who for one reason or another don’t fit into society’s mould.  Senior bachelor/spinster, atheist, homosexual, polygamist, divorcee, there’s countless people who don’t, or don’t want to, or simply can’t, subscribe to the narrow definition we’re constantly being bullied into, but rather than have to constantly fight (for the right to party in Doc’s case…), we choose to pretend, or conceal.  It’s easier, no?  Thing is, by hiding who we really are, aren’t we perpetuating the myth that we’re all the same, all ‘normal’, thereby making it even harder to be our true selves?  It’s a negative feedback mechanism, isn’t it?

“Got two reasons why I cry away each lonely night,
The first one's named Sweet Anne Marie, and she's my hearts delight.
The second one is prison, babe, the sheriff's on my trail,
And if he catches up with me, I'll spend my life in jail…”

Using this twisted logic, my biggest gripe with my semi-devil seems to be the semi part, I don’t understand why he insists on going the katikati yao route, I say if you’re going to be a dog, be a dog, a real dog, otherwise you’re just a goat with sharp teeth.  You know what happens to goats?  They get slaughtered and eaten, and then their heads are boiled for soup.  That never happens to a dog, not around these parts anyway.  Listen, it’s not like the decision to be one or the other is irreversible, you’re allowed to change your mind, and ways, whenever you so desire.  We all know crazy buggers who whored their way through their 20’s and now in their 40’s are ‘model citizens’, similarly I know people who were suitably ‘upright’ for the first half of their lives and are now spending the second half as close to horizontal as possible, being amateur whores and loving it.  Bora you don’t kill anyone, shida iko wapi?  All I’m saying is, the last time I checked, being a good person is not synonymous with living like a monk.  

I’m well aware that next to no one will agree with me here, and that’s okay, I’m not trying to convince anyone.  The reason I wrote this is simply because my semi-devil has been known to stage sit-ins here every so often.  This is an explanation, and a warning.  For all his flaws, and he has several, as we all do, the man is honest, for the most part, about who and what he is, and that has earned him my grudging respect.  If you have a problem with him and his ilk, leave it here, or don’t go there.  Trust me, its much worse than it looks, but damn it if he doesn’t get you laughing…
“Got a wife in Chino, babe, and one in Cherokee
The first one says she's got my child, but it don't look like me…”