In defence of the younger man.

I have a confession to make, she says, as they all sit up rubbing their hands in glee in anticipation.  No, you useless buggers, this is not about shagging, that’s only at the beginning of the month, and maybe in the middle, if it’s a slow month, but I digress.  My confession?  I’ve dated younger men, two number (possibly more, if you count bad dates, but let’s not split hairs) to be precise, but in my defence, they were all consenting adults.  I hope.   

Thing is, I generally have a thing for older men (oh Shaka, one day you will be mine…), and no, I don’t have daddy issues, me and my papa are thick as thieves, according to my mother literally.  I’m not looking for a father figure or security or anything such like, I just like mature men, they’re less jumpy, more focused and prone to bouts of intelligent thought, which inevitably leads me towards older men.  And that’s just fine except that older men tend to be (already) married, which makes then highly unsuitable, and conservative to boot, and while I may be many things I am not conservative.  Because of this I find myself drawn to less ‘old’ men, men my own age, those I have more in common with, seeing as how they’re less conservative and all, but they’re even less available (serial whores looking to funga every night), or too available in some cases (looking to settle down and reproduce in the near and present future i.e. looking for a suitable housekeeper).  That then leaves me with younger men (not much younger mind you, the youngest guy I dated was only 4 years younger, not exactly cradle snatching, no?  No?  Hmmm…), men who are still playing the field, content to have a relationship without the built-in expectations of happily ever after, just what a commitment-phobic idiot like myself needs, no?  Problem is, dating a younger man requires that you explain yourself to every nosy Tom, Dick and Harriet, all the time. 

The thing about being a mama in this city, and by mama I mean woman over 30, whenever you date a younger man everyone automatically assumes that you’re either looking to get laid, or get pregnant, because the only thing a younger (assumed to be less moneyed and therefore unworthy) man has to offer a woman like you is his dick, no?  No.  Folks, I hate to break it to you, but some of these younglings are not the studs you make them out to be, some are surprisingly uptight and could do with a lesson or two in losing one’s inhibitions, but I guess that comes with age.  And just for the record, not all women dating younger men are cougars either.  Allow me to explain.

In our early 20’s, when the guys are wrapped up in their heady first love, drowning in the pleasure that’s the brand-new, shiny girlfriend, all of their own, a girl who loves their corny lines, a girl they don’t have to pay to shag them, while all that is happening, the same girls are out having fun, eating life with the legendary big spoon, treating men like interchangeable accessories to be used and abused at will.  At 22, the typical man/boy is in the process of getting his heart broken by a cruel bitch, same bitch/girl who is currently weighing competitive offers from a variety of men, most older, all promising to give her all the things she lusts after and take her to places her young lover can’t.  The boy doesn’t stand a chance, not unless he has access to daddy’s hefty bank account, and let’s face it, there’s not too many who do.       

Then we leave college and life gets more serious, but now the men are living it up, enjoying their new found wealth and generally screwing around like their lives depend on getting as much sex as possible, now that they can afford it, right?  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the women are drifting slowly towards 30 with (irrational?) fear, realising that the beauty of youth that stood them in such good stead only 5 years ago, guaranteeing them tons of male attention, is no longer enough, now that younger, prettier models are appearing on the scene.  At 21 you may have been the hot chick on campus, but at 26, not so much.  Its time to settle down and find the father of your children, but the problem is, the men you want to marry are the same ones you looked down at with scorn, and they haven’t forgotten.  Suddenly you’re chasing them and they are making you work hard, too hard sometimes, but with some determination, and perhaps some misplaced contraception, you’ll get your man, all’s well that ends well.  That’s the way it’s supposed to work out, no? 

By the end of the decade, the men are finally tired of the partying and get it into their heads that its time to settle down.  That decision made, they look around and select the best candidate available matching the not too elaborate criteria (healthy uterus, moderate intelligence, keeps a clean house, doesn’t know the barman at the local), and kill that story quick, fast and in a hurry, this assuming some woman hasn’t already made that decision for them (as tends to happen).  Sounds like good news for women, except for the fact that said men often make their selection not from women their own age, but from dewy-eyed younger women, ‘unspoiled’ women who haven’t been indulging in the hedonism of fungas, et al, that these men have gorged themselves on.  It’s a double standard, but there it is.  Woe upon that woman who is on the brink of 30 and single, suddenly it looks like she has missed her chance at finding her happily ever after. 

Now skip forward into our 30’s.  A man in his 30’s and single(-ish) is king in this town.  The young girls want you because you have the money to show them the lifestyles of the rich and shameless (in their deluded heads this fabulous lifestyle consists of being picked up in a shiny car, clubbing all weekend on black ice, and perhaps a couple of G’s thrown into the mix as pocket money); the 25-30 women want you for a husband (you’re now an eligible bachelor); the 30-something women will give their right arm to date you (you’re the last of a dying breed); and you’re finally grown enough to pull the 40 something MILF’s (you finally know the difference between deodorant and cologne), the likes of whom you’ve been fantasising of since your dick first stood up (think Pam Grier in ‘Jackie Brown’).  The only thing that keeps this man from completely losing his head, and balls, is nature’s cruel irony, the great mother had the good sense to stick your sexual prime a decade earlier when you couldn’t do too much damage, thus, despite the buffet laid out before you, you can’t do much more than snack every so often (insert evil laugh here……..).    

Contrast this with the situation a 30 something mama finds herself in.  She makes a decent living, she can finally afford some of life’s little luxuries, like a trip to the salon for the weekly mani/pedi, an annual gym membership that she uses once a quarter, a well cooked meal in a restaurant with those white sheets on the tables or a drink in a bar that has real toilet paper in the loos.  There she is, well groomed and neatly coiffed, growing pot and thighs tightly swathed in expensive body shaping underwear, designer clothes hiding the fact that the days of the pert breasts (that didn’t need any support) have since started to fade.  She’s looking better (despite the possible increase in width) and feeling better than she ever has, at least in her mind, but despite all this, she struggles to date.  While her counterparts are faced with an ever widening dating pool, hers is slowly but surely diminishing.  Alas, she’s in dating limbo, make that dating hell.  And this is where the great mother kicks in, and bless her she’s a genius.  At 30 something, a woman is at her (sexual) prime and therefore, assuming moderate levels of sanity, confident enough to seek out her own satisfaction, she has not only the motive but the means.  Gone are the days of quietly trying to mould herself to fit her man’s expectations, now she expects him to fit her, because she’s feeling like a bloody goddess and gods get they want, no?  

Enter the younger man. 

A younger man who’s looking for a woman with more in her handbag than rexona, one who’s happy to revel in the pleasure that comes with dating a woman with her own mind and life, a woman who does not expect him to be her at her beck and call all day, every day, a man who’s not too proud to object to some light coercion in the name of moulding (read manipulation), that’s the man that this goddess seeks.  The fact that he’s younger means that he comes without the baggage that us older types insist on carrying around, and by that I mean he doesn’t have three children and two wives running around somewhere, put simply a guy in his mid to late 20’s is manna from heaven to a woman in her 30’s.  He will be so proud to have found a woman, a ‘real woman’, that he will happily forgo the hassles that come with dating a girl younger than himself.  That’s what the younglings call us mathes, by the way, ‘real women’, and all because we’re willing, make that able, to buy them a beer or two, then shag them like superstars (compared to the younglings he’s had previously, that is, I’m just saying…) and then cook them a breakfast fit for a king.  I know, the bar is set very low.  It’s brilliant, isn’t it?    

Please note that I’m not talking about a sugar mamma scenario, this is not about finding a young boy or gigolo to service your needs, I’m talking about dating in the simplest sense, spending time with someone in pursuit of romance, love, all that good shit.  Folks, the harsh reality is that men in their 30’s and older simply couldn’t be bothered with the pursuit any more, and why would they when they have so many chasing them, no?  Men in their 20’s, on the other hand, aren’t quite as jaded, they’re more inclined to want to spend their time out and about, enjoying the company of a woman, doing all those fluffy things women love so much, like taking random road trips to go have porn star holiday sex by the lake, or going dancing all night, or going out for long lazy lunches.  For a 30 something woman, if she’s looking to date, and date well, her best bet is a man a couple of years younger than her, those are the buggers who will show you a good time.  Granted, there are some disadvantages to these geniuses, their need to be around at least four of their nearest and dearest ‘pals’ at all times, for instance, or their lack of understanding that sex is more marathon than sprint, such like nonsense, but these are hurdles that can be overcome, no?  That’s what the moulding is for.  Or not.  You decide. 

Dating a younger man comes with a certain stigma, unfortunately, and I’m not so delusional as to think that my random Sunday ramblings will change the way society thinks about it, I’m content to leave that task to the geniuses in the papers and what not.  All I’m saying is this, given that the dating options for women reduce as we get older, perhaps its time that we start thinking outside the box, and the first thing we need to do is break the age barrier.  That lovely young man who’s making eyes at you from across the room, why not?  Go out on the date and enjoy yourself, take a break from the search for happily ever after and get happy right now.  See, that’s the best part about dating younger, the pressure is off, you can sit back and enjoy the ride (pun unintended, or not) without worrying about the destination.  Leaving your unrealistic expectations out of it allows you to enjoy it for what it really is, dating.  In my experience, that’s a very good thing.  So if you meet me with a man who perhaps looks like my younger brother (age wise, not family resemblance, I hope), don’t judge me too harshly, I’m simply enjoying the company of a man I like, one who likes me.  Its that simple.  Really.

This link, What I know about love now that I'm in my 30's, has been in the research section for a while now, you could say it was the trigger to what has been a month of dredging on my part.  Read it, better still follow the link on the page and read all her blog posts, you will not be disappointed.  Unless you’re a man, in which case, perhaps not.


The Doctor will see you now...

Every so often you’ll come across someone talking shit about Lil Wayne, accusing him of being an untalented hack of a rapper, usually for no other reason than the man sounds incoherent.  Now my hip-hop roots are both old and (somewhat) shallow, my taste leaning more towards the Heavy D type lover MC’s, so for the most part I stay away from rap these days, not wanting to get frustrated by the lack of lyrical ability that’s typical of the Soulja Boy’s of this world.  I mean really?  Kiss me thru the phone?  That was the lyrical equivalent of ‘baa baa black sheep’, catchy tune included.  The day I heard that song was the day my career as a hip-hop head died a premature death.  That said, every so often I’ll stumble across an album that reminds me just how I came to know more Lost Boyz lyrics than are acceptable in polite society.  Lil Wayne’s Carter III was such an album.  I didn’t expect to like it, in fact I got into it expecting to absolutely hate it, so you can imagine my surprise when I not only loved the damn thing, it ended up on my playlist for about 6 months.  Very strange.

I know, you’re sitting there thinking ‘this ignorant cow probably just likes Mrs Officer and Comfortable, the R&B-esque tracks on the album.’  Alas my dear sceptics, you would be wrong.  The song I keep going back to is ‘Let the built build’, this song, nay, joint is 5 minutes of simple rap, no autotune bullshit or drum machines, just a short loop and a very strange young man rapping about nothing in particular.  My rap junkie pal cannot understand my obsession with it, seeing as how he claims he’s taught me better (he subjects me to rap for long stretches, for no reason other than because he can, evil bastard), and judging by what I’ve just read online, neither can most of the real ‘gangstas’.  Well tough titty!  You can take my gangsta passport away and I’ll still be feeling this little man with a dodgy dental formula and questionable fashion sense, so there! 

Incidentally, the reason I’m talking about said little man is because of another track on said album, ‘Dr Carter’, originally today’s soundtrack (before I got sidetracked by the beat song, that is), this as I attempt to follow up on one of the more random suggestions made last week. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m starting a new category: ASK DR A.  That’s right, my people, I’m going into the agony aunt business.  ‘Why?’ you ask, wondering what the hell kind of advice a delusional cow like me could possibly give.  A helluva lot, I’ll have you know, I am not only smart, and sage, I am also very profound.  No really, I am, I have it in writing, check the old comments if you dont believe me.  And now I’m thinking its time to take this show on the road.  Without any further ado, may I present (drums please…) The Doctor.  This is my attempt at dispensing advice on matters romantic and sexual, because I’m brilliant like that.  Please note that any answers given are in no way a reflection of the editorial policy of this blog, if any.   

Dear Dr A,
I recently bought a new car, a Mercedes E-class, and now all the girls I meet are only interested in my money.  What should I do?
Moving on up, in style.

Dear moving,
I feel you, my brother.  You said E-class?  Perhaps we should discuss your problem over a glass of wine later this evening?  ;-)
Dr A

Dear Dr A,
My wife refuses to give me sex more than once a month, despite my constant begging.  I am so frustrated.  I love her, but if things do not change I will be forced to go and get it outside.  My secretary has repeatedly offered herself to me and I fear I may succumb any day now.  I love my wife, but this girl is very pretty.  What should I do?
Deprived bastard

Dear deprived,
Now you man, what do you mean begging, what kind of man are you?  I want you to go home right now and demand your rights from that ungrateful cow.  Ati anakataa bwanake?  Nkt!  When she kicks you out, then you can go to the secretary, the wife has just given you a free pass.
Dr A
PS.  Do NOT approach mama watoto when she is in or around hot water, or hot oil, or a hot iron.  Or if she is holding a sharp and/or heavy cutting implement.

Dear Dr A,
I want a baby so badly.  I met a cute guy this week who I think would be a good father but he insists on using condoms all the time.  I am so frustrated because all my friends have babies and imagine I don’t have one.  I am going to get my boyfriend drunk tonight and then I’ll do him bila.  Do you think he’ll be angry with me?  I luv him so much, I don’t want to lose him.
Desperate cow

Dear desperate,
I understand that you have strong maternal urges and I applaud your determination to become a mother.  However, I feel I must warn you that your boyfriend of one week may not appreciate being tricked into having a child.  He may, and this is a remote possibility, feel manipulated and instead pull away from you.......ah fuck it!  Woman, for all that is good and right in this world, please, do not reproduce, I don’t think the world can handle another one of your kind.  I beg you, do not.  I shall pray for you.
Dr A

Dear Dr A,
I love my boyfriend so much, he takes care of me and my child (from a previous relationship).  A few months ago I took him home to meet my parents and he asked my father for permission to marry me, it was the happiest day of my life.  Then, last month the father of my child reappeared and asked me to move in with him.  I don’t know what to do, I love my fiancĂ©, but I would like my child to grow up with his father.  Should I go back to this man who left me when his son was only 3 months old, or should I stay with this man who has been taking care of me for the past two years?
Confused cow

Dear confused,
Eh?  You know what, leave your fiancĂ© and go back to the langa ex.  You two geniuses deserve each other.  Useless buggers…
Dr A

What?  It’s been a serious month, surely I’ve earned the right to write a bit of rubbish, no?  No?  Ah well…

"As I hit the kill switch,
Now that's how you let the beat build bitch..."


Want a man? Really?

This week I spent some time catching up with my reading, wading through blogs that I’d bookmarked and never taken the time to read through, clearing the frightening backlog on my reader, searching out new sites/blogs and the wonder therein, or lack thereof, this as I look for my new pet obsession.  At one point I googled ‘blogs by women over 30’, hoping to find another like minded individual, a search that led me to some random site belonging to a self help guru, he who claims to be a ‘dating coach for smart, strong, successful women’, because ‘smart, strong, successful woman’ is a euphemism for ‘woman over 30 who can’t find a man’, at least according to google, apparently.  I know, I groaned too, but I was many hours into my surfing expedition, I figured another 30 minutes or so of mind numbing nonsense couldn’t do me any harm.  Strange thing is, reading through this genius’ blog, it hit me that for all his self promotion blather and Oprah-like condescension (‘I used to be that way too’ was uttered more times than is acceptable), he had a couple of things to say that made sense, for the most part its common sense, but as we all know, common sense is nowhere near as common as we have been led to believe.

The article that got me thinking was called, and I say this with some shame, “Why men don't like smart, strong, successful women.  Yes, I groaned too, again, but you know I’m a bit foolish, and on occasion (more than) a little cocky, when I read that title I thought to myself, ‘Lakini, why?’  Stop looking at me like that, it was almost 1.00 am and I’d been reading for close to six hours, delusional behaviour is acceptable at that hour.  This genius’ theory is frighteningly simple, frightening because of its clarity.  He says, and I’m paraphrasing quite liberally so you might want to read it for yourself, those qualities that make a woman successful at work are the exact qualities that make her a lousy date.  See, its not that men don’t like the fact that you run a company, they don’t like the fact that you try to run them like a company, and here’s the best bit, turns out it’s not the men who have a problem, its you.  Yes, you, in all your brilliant, analytic, authoritative, type A decisiveness, you’re turning these guys off with your brilliance.  I know, its infuriating, no?  How dare he say such a thing, bloody idiot? 

Well I hate to break it to you, but he’s right.  No really, he is.  Hang on, just think about it for a minute, its common sense, really.  When you write a list of all the things you want in a man, your list probably has strong, good provider and responsible at the top, because that’s what a man is supposed be, right?  Our problem, and I’m talking specifically to women who are used to working (and maybe playing) in a man’s world, is that we assume that men have the same things on their lists.  Because we’re so used to being judged with the same standards as men, being expected to be exactly like men as professionals, when we get out into the dating scene we forget that we’re being judged not as intellectuals, or professionals, but as women, and unfortunately we’re increasingly coming up short. 

Some time back I asked men in their 30's what the appeal of the young girls they seem to prefer dating was, and I didn’t get an answer (I did get a couple of answers, but Flani was waxing poetic and Munene was being cryptic, not exactly what I was hoping for in terms of clarity).  Reading the seemingly dubious article with the dodgy sounding title is when it finally clicked, although in my defence I’ve been heading to this conclusion on my own, no?  No?  Well, you try finding a coherent thought in a mind as fucked up as mine, dammit!  The conclusion?  It has dawned upon me that the reason a man looks at me and thinks, “Nah!  I think I’ll go for the semi-literate girl in the tight jeans and sandaks,” isn’t because she has a better ass than mine (well, she does, but that’s not the only reason I get passed over), that youngling is, in some ways, more female.  No really, she is, and not just because she wears frocks and make up, and I don’t, she’s simply more girly than I am, and as it turns out, men like girls.  Who knew, right?  What I call silly, fawning behaviour, a man reads as female coquettishness, letting him play alpha male to his helpless female.  I just gagged a little writing that…  That’s an extreme example, but it serves to best illustrate the point I’m trying to make.  Us ‘mature’ women have gotten so used to standing up for ourselves out here in the big bad world, matching the men stride for stride, that we’ve become completely clueless as to how best to be women, soft, gentle, nurturing women.  If this theory is to be believed, then it would appear that the only way we will find our happily ever afters is if we become less…us. 

You know what, that may not be such a bad thing.

I’ll give you a minute to pick your jaw up off the floor. 

Are you good?  Let’s continue.

I figure, if what you want more than anything is to find that special someone, then you must bite this bullet and start turning down your possibly macho brilliance and turning up your feminine wiles.  Simply put you need to be more woman, woman, if you’re serious about the search for a man then you cant be fighting the current, insisting on strong-arming some poor bastard into submission.  Its not that you’re expected to act like a sandak wearer, all giggly and shit, not at all, you just need to be less Martha Karua in your approach, and maybe more Martha Stewart.  Hell, even our Martha is toning her Martha down in her attempt to woo us, so why cant you?  Approach the search for a man less as a hostile take over and more as a merger.  Can you feel me now?  Unfortunately, that’s the extent of my business lingo, learnt from Wall Street, the movie, I’m afraid I don’t speak corporate.  If you can’t, or won’t, then accept your reality and move on, but do so knowing that it’s a distinct possibility that you will spend the rest of your life without a significant other. 

Ladies, this is the choice you must make, sooner rather than later, and don’t let anyone tell you any different, it’s a conscious decision you’re making.  Weigh the pros and cons, what you’ll gain and what you’ll lose.  If you love the fact that you get to do whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want, and you’re reluctant to give that freedom up, then perhaps you need to accept that the freedom you love may be the reason you will never find the ‘love’ you seek, or perhaps that you’re looking for the wrong ‘love’.  If what you want more than anything is the husband, the kids, the whole shebang, barring the miraculous delivery of the perfect man on your doorstep, delivered by stork no less, something will have to give.  The men you claim to want, the ones who are looking to settle down, have six kids and buy plots in the boondocks, these men have no time for a woman whose lifelong goal is to feature on the cover of Forbes, and this despite the fact that the man may very well be harbouring that same goal.

A week or two back, I made a comment to the great anonymous one that the few people I know who’ve recently come back home, after many years in the Diaspora, have had no problem finding partners, one got married in December after being home for a year, another is seemingly headed down the aisle before the year is out, and this after dating her man from January, this year.  The men these women are marrying are not unique specimens, they’re regular guys, the type of guys I would probably dismiss as useless buggers in the local, because they looked at me funny or such like nonsense.  The women aren’t the hottest thing ever either, if anything they’re a little fucked up and all (a story for another day).  Women in this city are constantly bitching there are no good men to be found, yet other women are landing and getting married at dizzying speed, so what gives?  I’ve thought about it and I think I know why, it’s that these women have come back with purpose.  These mamas aren’t fucking around, my friend, they have a goal: to find a man, settle down, have the 2.5 kids, house in the leafy suburbs, the works.  While we’re sitting at the counter in ka-fulanas, bitching, these women are walking around in their 4 inch Manolos and pretty dresses, hunting.  They’ve toned down the excesses of their youth, the endless partying and the random shags, looking at them now, extolling the virtues of waiting till the third month to shag the man, and this from women who shagged their way across god knows how many states, you cant help but laugh at their focus and steely determination.  And the best part is, its working, and all because they’ve made that decision. 

Today’s life lesson, ladies, is this.  You need to conduct a brutal self audit, if possible get someone you trust to show you the unvarnished truth.  This isn’t so much about whether or not you like what you see, its about seeing what other people see, and figuring out why.  Once that’s done, then you get to make a couple of hard decisions.  Remain as you are and hope for that one man who’ll get you and all your lovely idiosyncrasies (read issues), knowing that said man may never materialise, or that said man may in fact be a series of men throughout your life.  Or you may decide to try a different approach, maybe grind down the rough edges, leave the alpha female in the office for a change, embrace your inner damsel, maybe even, and I say this with slight shame, buy a sandak, or two, because you can’t be unhappy in plastic shoes, its just not possible.  I just gagged again…  I don’t know if that approach will get you the man you’ve been dreaming of, but I figure its worth a shot, you’ve tried everything else, no? 

Folks, this blog is my self audit.  Looking back at what I’ve been writing for the last nine months, I’m finally starting to see what it is I’ve been doing, and why.  I know, it sometimes looks like I’m being a self-indulgent cow, analysing seemingly random facets of my life, past and present, but it turns out that it was all simply an attempt to find the answers to the questions that have been bothering me for the better part of my adult life, this so I could finally make my peace with the woman I am, and, apparently, the man I don’t have. 

I have to be honest here, the thought of having to change to find a man bothers me deeply.  Its not that I think I’m perfect, I know I’m far from it, but its taken me so long to get to the point where I like the person I see in the mirror that I’m loathe to start tweaking her, especially in a quest to find a man I’m not entirely convinced I want.  That right, I’m not sure I want the serious man I keep saying I’m looking for.  I don’t want to settle down and have babies, and I don’t want someone in my house 24/7.  Frankly, I’m not yet at that point that the hubby, family, et al, is what I want more than anything else, so I’m content to keep muddling along, for now at least, and being single, or unmarried as the case may be, is the price I have to pay for my peculiar tendencies.  And that’s okay.  Its not ‘normal’, but its okay.  Really.  This is my working solution, and truth be told, its not one I’ll be recommending to anyone any time soon.  It’s a lonely path, and sometimes it can be bloody frustrating, if for no reason other than the fact that the rest of the world insists on treating you like a freak, and not in a good way, but its what works for me, for now at least.


Seduce my mind, please.

“Tell me a secret,
I don’t just wanna know about any secret of yours, I wanna know about one special secret,
Because tonight I want to learn all about the secrets, in your mind…”

This song…  I can’t talk about this song without waxing lyrical, and long, so I’m not going to.  If you’re old school, you get it.  The rest of you, listen to the first 36 seconds, that intro (you know I love a good intro) will tell you everything you need to know about the song, and if you take the time to listen to the rest you’ll be waxing lyrical the same way I do.   And if you’re still not converted, send me an email and I’ll explain it slowly to your philistine ass.

Folks, it would appear that I have met a man, a man that might just be worth the trouble associated with, well, men.  He’s not perfect, far from it in fact, this man gets me so angry sometimes I want to slap myself for talking to him, but damn it if he doesn’t get my mind racing like I’m on speed; my mouth smiling at a joke two days old, yet still funny; body tingling in anticipation of what may, may mind you, of what may yet come.  Aaaaahhh… The man is such a brilliant mind fuck.

You can see where this is headed, no?  I was looking at this month’s posts yesterday and I realised we have not been to the sewer this month.  How now?  And no one thought to point out this anomaly?  Shame man!  My people, all 19 of you (we have a couple of newbies in the house, welcome, complimentary gumboots are by the door…), we’re off to the sewer.  These days I actually do a little jig when I write that line (think conga line, tadadadada TA, tadadadada TA…aye caramba!), as much as it surprises me to say this (especially given its inauspicious beginnings), I’ve come to really enjoy being in the sewer.  Here there’s no need for niceties, I don’t have to worry about whom, what or why, I just write.  Here I can say, “Fuck me sideways!” without worrying whether you’ll take it as the exclamation its intended as, or as an (un)intended come-on.  It’s just brilliant!  And the comments, make that discussions at the end of it, even better.  I think I got a bit distracted, apologies.  I was giving the disclaimer: I will swear, possibly use (c)rude imagery, and the word ‘fuck’ will be used not just as a noun, but as a verb, and adjective, and if I can pull it off, a conjunction, just because. 

Strictly speaking, a mind fuck is defined as, “To experience a situation which calls into question the way your mind currently sees a certain idea or the world in general. Such an experience usually leaves the person stunned/speechless while he/she begins wrapping his/her mind around the new idea.”  The classic example given is the movie ‘Inception’, a movie so confusing I’m still not sure about the ending, is he awake, is he still dreaming?  It vexes me, but that’s a story for another day.  In the context of seduction, however, a mind fuck is defined as, An intellectual conversation or situation so deep, it's almost as good as foreplay. Participants are often left either extremely satisfied or very, very horny, even if the conversation had nothing to do with sex.”  I should point out that these definitions are just two of very many from the urban dictionary, not exactly an irrefutable source of knowledge.  That said, my definition even dodgier, if possible, I define a mind fuck as, an individual who seeks to get you into bed, head first.  Hang on, don’t start writing me hate mail just yet, let me explain. 

Simply put, a mind fuck, a real one, will not bother with rudimentary gimmicks like booze, cash or body parts to seduce you, nooooo... these buggers are above all than that.  These geniuses, and I’m told there are are women who fall into this category too, will pull you off to the side, sit you down in a quiet corner and talk.  That’s it.  He’ll talk to you about anything and everything, for as long as you can handle; you want to talk about fashion, the man knows Tom Ford; you want to talk about music, he’s a benga aficionado; you want to talk movies, he has theories on Batman, and the new Spike Lee docu-drama; sports, literature, the meaning of life, whatever you want it he’s got it, and if he doesn’t , then he knows where to get it.  By the time you’re done talking to him, you’re not only convinced he’s the smartest man on the planet, you’re convinced, more importantly, that you’re the smartest woman on the planet too.  And we all know how sexy smart is, don’t we?  At that point, all he has to do is say cunnili… and you’re off like a rocket!  I’m just saying…

I can’t state that this applies to all women, and if it doesn’t the usual suspects (hello ladies!) will inform us otherwise, but when it comes to my dysfunctional ass, attraction starts solely in the mind.  A man could look like Djimon Hounsou, smell of Paco Rabanne, voice as smooth as Barry White, ass so firm he makes jeans look pornographic, bicep(s) so toned you can’t wait for him to pick you up, literally… I just drifted off in a fog of vague lust… even if a man is that hot (unlikely in these parts, thankfully), until the switch in my head is turned on, he might as well be Bwana Atwoli for all the love (lust) I’m feeling for his ass.  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I don’t like a pretty boy, I’m very happy to stare, perhaps even too happy, but those good looks do fuck-all for me when it comes to real attraction.  To get to the point where I want a specific man, as opposed to random lust for a man shaped object (the things I could do with that phrase…focus, woman!), I need to get into the man’s mind, and I need him to get into mine.  Hence my fondness, some would say weakness, for the mind fuck.  I keep saying I’m attracted to intelligent men, what I should actually be saying is I’m attracted to men who turn my mind on.  Once that’s done, the body is only a step behind.  I’ve just lied, once my mind is turned on, my body (read loins) takes over and relegates my mind to mere spectator status, which would then explain my woe tales, no?  Again, a story for another day.

Ladies, I know it’s been said before by all manner of self help gurus (i.e. idiots looking to make a quick buck off your alleged ignorance), but I’ll say it one more time for good measure, your biggest and sexiest organ is your brain.  Stop looking at your boobs/ass, I’m not being literal, you daft cow.  It all starts in the mind, call it intellect, or emotion, or bloody simpatico, whatever rocks your boat, but until he gets into your head, he has no business being in your pants, the bugger hasn’t earned it yet, so keep your mind open and your legs closed.  That is unless you’re just looking to be fungad (fungwad? fungiwad?), in which case keep your mind closed and your legs open.  What?  Dont look at me like that, sometimes a woman just needs to get laid and in those instances she really shouldn’t think too hard about it, lest she sees what an idiot the bugger really is and changes her mind.  Shit happens, no?

I’m guessing there are men sitting there reading this and thinking, ‘What the hell?’  Gents, I’m not lying to you, at least not this time, there are ways to get a woman into bed that involve neither money nor dick enhancements (real or imagined), the only problem with this most brilliant method of seduction is that it requires a bit of patience on your part, and perhaps a smattering of intelligence.  If you’re that guy who doesn’t care much for anything that’s not EPL or MTV related, you might want to restrain yourself to simpler pursuits, this one’s for the big boys (I do not mean that literally, or do I?).  Gents, if you’re that guy with an insatiable curiosity and a fondness for the weird and wonderful, you need to take your sexy brain out on the town tonight, it will get lucky.  I’m so sure of this I’m offering a money back guarantee.  Look at it this way, if the intellectual approach doesn’t work on her, perhaps because she’s not smart, or sober, enough to keep up with you, it will still get you to where you want to go, because she’ll be so thrown by the fact that you’re not falling over yourself trying to get into her pants, she’ll take them off for you just to prove a point.  Either way, its win/win no? 

Now I realise that a mind fuck is a fine line to walk, too knowledgeable and she writes you off as a pompous prick, but not knowledgeable enough and she dismisses you as a pretentious fake.  The trick, gentlemen, is to let her guide the conversation, follow, don’t lead.  If she wanders into something you know nothing about, then ask her to explain, and look into her eyes (not her bosom) as she does, while you’re at it ask a couple of (almost) intelligent questions.  She’ll be sitting there thinking, “Oh my, he’s such a good listener,” something you shouldn’t have to fake if you’re really interested in her, and this is your natural M.O.  If on the other hand you’re faking, well, try not to fall asleep, and maybe buy her an expensive drink or something, anything to keep her from noticing the glazed over look in your eyes. 

Every so often I write something so foolishly brilliant, I sit back in awe.  How is it they let me operate heavy machinery?  Moving on swiftly…

Please notice that at no point have I mentioned talking about sex, that part should come AFTER you’ve pulled her in with your brilliant mind.  Many men I’ve met think a mind fuck is just that, mental sex, they think that if they tell a woman how they want to ‘fuck her sideways’, with appropriate hand and groin gestures, then she’ll go weak in the knees with lust.  Not so much, gentlemen, unfortunately, using a graphic description of your sexual prowess as a seduction routine will often have the opposite result on a woman, if she’s a discerning woman.  Don’t be fooled by R Kelly and his nasty little songs, that shit doesn’t work in real life.  Not unless she’s drunk, or 16.  After you’ve seduced her mind, please do not switch to talking dirty, just because she’s moved closer and has placed her warm sweaty palm on your thigh, I mean arm.  You got her that far by being smart, all you have to do is take it home, extend your mental curiosity into matters sex.  For example, rather than, “I want to eat your strawberry,” try, “I’ve heard women love the taste of strawberries during sex, is that true?” 

Incidentally, you do see the difference between those two sentences don’t you?  Don’t you?  Suggestion, my lovelies, that’s what it’s all about, she’ll put the strawberries together for herself, in her head.  All I’m saying is you don’t have to spell it out.  You’ve just spent x no minutes/hours convincing her she’s smart, so let her figure it out, odds are she got there long before you did.  No really, she did, she’s just waiting for you to make a move, so don’t fuck it up with some idiotic line.  I know, I’m brilliant, you can thank me later.

On the extremely random chance that you have the song playing in the background, you’re listening to possibly the best ensemble R&B joint, in my book.  You know how usually they throw a bunch of egos together and assume that the whole will be as good as the parts, and it seldom is?  This song is what it’s supposed to sound like when great voices come together to make even greater music.  The song is subtitled ‘Sweet Seduction Suite’, a title that only makes sense once you figure out what the song is all about (here’s a hint, its about seduction).  Quincy Jones put together four seemingly disparate musicians, from as far back as the 70’s (Mr White) to the more recent 90’s (Al B. Sure!, he of hotpants and a blazer fame), musicians that would otherwise only be found on the same stage at The Soul Train Awards, and even then, not so much.  And the result was mind fuck brilliant.  Take from that what you will.

“I wanna read your mind, know your deepest feelings…”


Thaate fae!

I recently discovered I have a six octave voice.  Granted the higher 4 octaves are complete and utter crap, but they’re there, so there!  Dammit, I can saaang!  Or not.  Turns out I sound like a cross between Barry White and Ol‘ Dirty Bastard, and not in a good way (if a good way is even possible in that tantalizing mash-up).  Thats right, I sound like a (possibly illiterate) man when I sing.  Oh joy! 

Last week, in frustration, I went off in search of Karaoke, because I figured, how better to celebrate the anniversary of the auspicious occasion that was my day of birth than to sing a song of joy, in front of a bunch of strangers?  Woooiiiiiiii…  Folks, there’s a reason my musical career never took off back in the day (I was in a school musical once), it would appear that I can only sing three songs, and only when I’m completely sober.  Throw in a bit of booze and things go pear shaped, very fast.  I have vague recollection of butchering a Toni Braxton song so badly I had to apologise to the masses therein, they who were so inebriated they probably couldn’t tell what it was I massacred, thankfully.  Word of wisdom, if you ever get it into your head to get up and sing at karaoke, do not, ever, do a song you do not know back to front, instruments included.  It will end very badly, I know this for a fact.    

I’ve had a crap week.  A project I’m working on imploded, suddenly and without warning, and I was the idiot left to pick up the pieces, and take the flak in the process.  My friend, I was shouted at by so many different people, for so many different reasons, I lost track of what fire I was putting out where.  By Thursday, I was so knackered I couldn’t face the thought of another whipping, so I cleared my Friday morning and decided to get absolutely, positively shit-faced.  No really, the plan was to wrap myself in a blanket on my (almost a) balcony and drink the better part of whatever bottle I’d stashed under my sink.  That’s where I keep the good shit, by the way, where my good-for-nothing scrounger (not) friends will never think to look (insert bitchy laugh here………….).  Slight detour, I’m tired of cheapass bastards rocking up at my door to drink my (perhaps not quite) top shelf whiskey, this when all they usually drink is day old instant whisky (no ‘e’ in the cheap stuff), the likes of Johnnie ‘engine cleaning fluid’ Red.  Boss, you earn kendo three times what I do and you’re too cheap to buy single malt, or even the black thingi?  Nkt!  Kumbafu wewe!  I’m no longer sharing the good stuff with stingy, greedy bastards, mkikuja kwangu nitakupatia VAT 69, lakini kwa chupa ya Chivas.  Idiots won’t know the difference will they?  Say it with me…NKT!  I apologise for that bile-filled detour, that has been bothering me for a while now, but I feel better having gotten it off my chest.  Moving on swiftly… 

So the plan was to get very drunk, by myself.  But then I thought, after the year I’ve had, surely this is the one night I should not be alone, that is simply unacceptable, no?  And with that most brilliant reasoning, I put down my drink, the first of the evening mind you, cast aside my blanket, put on the 4-inch high boots and drove myself to the bar.  To sing.  Allow me to explain why that is significant.

First up, I’m not short.  I’m not obscenely tall either, but tall enough that when I put on heels, I am, unfortunately, a couple of inches taller than the average Kenyan man (assuming the average is 5’8” or thereabouts).  Now I rarely wear heels when going clubbing because it skews the field (against me) somewhat, plus they hurt like a bitch to dance in, no?  But that night the heels were put on, because I was in no mood to entertain any advances of any sort, I had a mission and I was sticking to it, I was going to drink, and sing, and then drink a bit more.  No dancing, on or around tables, and no getting distracted by a foolish man looking for a random midweek shag.  I know, it sounds strange, but there it is, a short and possibly useless guide to not getting funga’d, I’ve learnt there’s something about having to look up at a woman that scares a man away.  Im not being height-ist, Im just saying, theres not too many men interested in hooking up with a taller mama, and by hooking up I mean shag.  I suspect I will receive hate mail for that one, but know that if you bitch then Ill know for sure youre a midget (insert evil laugh here............).

The second reason I’m telling you this tale is that I don’t sing in bars, or anywhere else for that matter.  Ever.  I’ve only done Karaoke once before, in said bar, and I had no intention of ever repeating the experience, despite my love for a good tune.  Like I said, my vocal ability is a bit suspect (perhaps more than a bit), but that’s not why I don’t like to sing in public, it’s just that I don’t like to be the centre of attention.  I know, this from the woman with the borderline porno blog?  Really?  Yes, really, you sceptical bastards.  Given the chance I’m content to remain in the background, propping up the counter, generally being nondescript to the point of invisible.  I don’t go to the bar to court attention, just the opposite in fact, I go to lose myself in the crowd.  The reason I went to sing on this particular night?  Because the best way to put your problems into perspective, I’ve found, is to get some distance from them.  When I’m in the middle of shit I can’t handle, I like to get out of my cocoon and pretend to be someone else, at least for a couple of hours, the booze helping the process of transformation (sometimes), and by the time I get back to myself I can usually see the forest from the trees.  Going to sing to a room full of strangers was a break from my normally uptight, introvert self, I was going to play make-believe for a couple of hours in the hope that the break would clear my head, and it did.  The fact that I was celebrating was simply an excuse to do something out of character, if not on this one day then when, right?

The last reason for the ‘I went out to sing’ tale?  I don’t like strangers, at all.  And I don’t go to strange bars by myself.  Ever.  Granted, I’d been to this bar before a couple of times, but always in the company of a certain special gentleman.  I didn’t expect to meet him there (although he rocked up at one point), in fact I didn’t expect to meet anyone I knew there save for the barman, a lovely youngling who I could just eat right up (if I was in a cradle-snatching frame of mind, which I’m not, yet…).  I was flying solo.  I didn’t feel like calling anyone up, because I didn’t really want to talk to anyone, because that would inevitably lead to talking about my problems, the ones I was running away from.  I went by myself.  And it was fucking brilliant!  I sat at the counter, made ‘friends’ with the lovely (yet slightly unstable) young lady next to me, then the couple on the other side, then the chaps at the next table, then the guys at the far end of the counter (two of whom I’d met on previous visits with Mr Man).  Hell, by the end of the night it was practically my local, I was the (wo)man!  Turns out, a willingness to humiliate yourself in front of strangers will earn you some affection, and tequila. 

I’ve just realised I don’t remember where this was supposed to go.  Bloody hell…  I know I started this with some brilliant life lesson I intended to pass on, but now for the life of me I cannot recall what it was.  Does this happen to the rest of you bloggers or am I just spectacularly crap at this shit?  Ah well…  Guess it wasn’t a very brilliant thought, no? 

Folks, that’s how I spent the first few hours of my birthday this week, singing, nay, howling Toni Braxton and Bill Withers, among others (not including Barry White, this time), in a bar half full of strangers, and a man it would appear I will never figure out (he vexes me…), and a barman who I fear is too young to abuse, despite apparent willingness (he really is quite delicious, bloody jail bait!).  I got to hear a shy girl sing the fuck out of a couple of Adele tracks, and as an added bonus, the following day I sorted out my work shit, or at least I figured out how to cope with the shit flowing my way.  In my book, it was a night very well spent, no?  Ladies and gentlemen, I am now old enough to tell you to bite my ass, as and well I feel so led.  I’ve been around for a minute, or two, and dammit if it hasn’t been a fucking brilliant ride, perhaps occasionally just plain fucked up. 

I’m assuming that when I eventually stagger out of the mess that is my week/weekend/month, I shall have something more profound to share with you, but until then, here’s to the next ‘thaate fae’!


Rope a Dope

On Monday night I went on strike, protesting harsh working conditions and demanding an increase in compensation.  Truth is, my brain was so sluggish I could barely move the mouse, let alone come up with a coherent thought, and rather than write the night off as wasted, I turned it into a pointless protest, thereby easing my guilty conscience at work still pending.  Its pointless because I am both employer and employee, going on strike involves arguing with myself for a minute, and then losing said argument.  Suffice to say my boss has never given me a pay raise, cold hearted bitch, but that’s a story for another day.  I turned off the laptop, made myself a cup of tea and plonked myself in front of the TV, ready to lose myself in 90 minutes of mindless fluff. 

Now the movie of choice was a suitably fluffy rom-com; those ones where boy meets girl, girl likes boy, boy messes up and loses girl, then realises the mistake he’s made and runs after her with a tearful declaration of undying love, girl kisses boy, and then they walk off into the sunset, aaaawwww…  Just what a jaded soul like mine needed on a Monday evening after a shitty day at work, and it was a good plan, until I looked inside the DVD case and found the wrong movie, not the fluffy nonsense I was hoping for, but a movie cum documentary.  About boxing.  Cue disappointment.  Problem is, it had taken me about five minutes to decide on this one (wrong) movie, I wasn’t about to waste another five looking for another one, the quest for fluff was promptly abandoned.  With a reluctant shrug I stuck in the movie and sat back, ready to doze off in under half an hour.  I have never been so wrong… 

Before we go any further, I must warn you that this one is for the hustlers amongst us, and its mostly about one fight, a real fight.  If you're hoping for my usual man, or lack thereof, drama, come back Sunday.  Youve been warned. 

The movie is ‘When We Were Kings’, the documentary about the legendary ‘Rumble in the Jungle’, the heavyweight fight between George Foreman, then champion, and Mohammed Ali, at the time reportedly on the brink of retirement.  The film follows the fighters and their trainers, promoter Don King, assorted musicians, journalists and dubious characters, in the weeks leading up to the fight, chronicling the time in then Zaire, now DRC.  Ignoring the moral questions raised in the mind of any self respecting African, especially when watching footage of Mobutu, the documentary is a fascinating glimpse into a slice of history whose significance may have perhaps been overshadowed by the glamour of heavyweight boxing.  I’ll spare you the synopsis, guessing that some of you older types have watched it, and those that haven’t deliberately chose not to, back in the day (like I did), and thus couldn’t care less.  It’s more than a decade old and if anything I say is considered a spoiler, thentough!  That’s my unapologetic disclaimer, by the way. 

Watching this film, the first thing that struck me was how different both Foreman and Ali looked back in their prime.  The thing about boxers, especially as they get older, is that their faces don’t age too well, their eyes in particular are inevitably sleepy looking, the result, I assume, of taking too many blows to the head, making them look, well, a bit slow.  Because of the publicity surrounding Ali throughout his career, most of us have seen images of him in his youth, and heard him speak, albeit in snippets (‘float like a butterfly, sting like a bee…’), and we’ve also seen him as he is now, his motor functions reduced by Parkinson’s; but watching him in this film is an eye opener.  Yes, he was a brash black man, ‘in need of a good whooping’ (his words), but he was also surprisingly articulate, and intelligent.  And here’s the kicker, from what little you see, so was Foreman.  The happy, always clowning around middle-aged man we saw in the 90’s, making a comeback, in crap sitcoms and selling kitchen equipment, is nothing like the young man you see in this film, that bugger was serious, and deep, and a little scary.   

And Foreman was also, apparently, a very good boxer.  Ali was, by all accounts, expected to lose that fight, and if it wasn’t for his unorthodox strategy he would have.  What he did, and you have to forgive me for any inaccuracies because I’m not much of a fight fan, was let a bigger, stronger fighter hit him until he couldn’t hit any more.  It sounds simple enough in theory, except for the hitting continuously bit.  Ali was fast on his feet and liked to dance around, making him hard to hit, but Foreman knew this and knew to ‘cut off the ring’, basically keeping Ali confined.  Ali couldn’t knock Foreman out; he tried in the first round and only succeeded in pissing the man off.  The solution?  He took to the ropes.  Now this is one thing I initially couldn’t understand about boxing, I figure when a man is against the ropes he’ll probably get beaten half to hell, thus if I was a boxer, I’d stay well away from the ropes.  After watching a couple of fights, I then realised that said man against the ropes wasn’t there by choice, clearly.  So you can understand my confusion watching Ali pushed to the ropes and seemingly unconcerned.  Kumbe the bugger had a plan.  In the eighth round, with Foreman exhausted from the exertion of seemingly endless heavy punches, Ali throws a couple of quick counter punches and the next thing I know Foreman is down.  I had to watch it a couple of times to understand what happened, but there it was in glorious Technicolor, Foreman was down for the count.  Like I said, confused.  

The technique is called rope-a-dope, allegedly coined by Ali after this fight. Some analysts credit him with developing this style himself, but as is likely with all things innovation, he probably perfected someone else’s idea, and that’s just fine, anyone with the balls to pull this stunt deserves all the accolades he gets, no?  See the thing is, standing there taking body shots is not an easy thing (I assume, it’s not like I’m a boxer), especially from a strong bugger with heavy punches.  You’ve read the stories of boxers pissing blood after fights because of repeated blows to the kidneys, I’m guessing said repeated blows can be quite painful, no?  The assumption is that when against the ropes, you hold your hands up to protect your head, avoiding the knockout blow, but exposing your flanks, but if you take enough hits on the same spot, instinctively you will drop your guard to protect yourself, or simply in exhaustion, and that’s when you get socked in the head.  Usually when a fighter retreats to the ropes, it’s a defensive manoeuvre of last resort and the knockout punch isn’t far behind.  People watching the fight assumed the same of Ali, but they were forgetting that Ali always trained to take sustained blows, toughening his core.   What he lacked in technique, being a bit of a rough diamond, he made up for in endurance.  His plan was to outlast a stronger fighter, one he couldn’t outrun, and outlast he did.  

Now while most accounts of the Ali/Foreman fight concentrate on his rope-a-dope, not too many talk about the one other advantage Ali had, the ring itself.  If you’ve watched the fight, you saw that when he was leaning back on the ropes, he was leaning quite far back, further than you typically see.  Turns out the ropes in that particular ring were looser than normal, allowing him to pivot further away from Foreman, letting the ropes taking some of the impact, and making it harder for Foreman to hit him with the force he was feared for.  Whether the ropes were part of a plan, or if Ali made a situation work to his favour, we’ll probably never know.  Personally, I highly doubt that Ali sat back and worked out the seemingly intricate physics of this plan beforehand, my guess is that he was working on instinct, that innate understanding which allowed him to figure out the intricacies without actually having to study them.  What I do know is, when faced with a stronger opponent, possibly the better fighter at the time, rather than fight with his fists, Ali fought with his head. 

Which brings me to the (random?) point of this strange tale, although I’m not sure how many of you made it this far (10 points and a gold star if you did, and thank you for indulging me).  I’m learning to rely less on brute force and more on intellect, more so in business where every relationship with a client is disturbingly similar to 15 rounds in the ring with a huge bugger like Foreman.  The reason Ali’s rope-a-dope style struck a chord?  Its simple, the idea of winning a fight by letting a stronger idiot hit me until he can’t hit any more, and then knocking him on his ass with minimal effort, is rather appealing. 

My problem with business is that everyone is always looking out for themselves, and by association always looking to get one over on me.  Often times I’ll walk into a contract negotiation with nothing but my Type A obsession with perfection and a random price tag for my (allegedly) very valuable services in my head, thinking my knowledge and experience count for more, at the table, than my lack of a BMW in the parking lot.  The prospective client, on the other hand, has a vague idea of what he expects from me and, unfortunately, a misguided notion that it won’t cost him much to get it, because I don’t have the BMW in the parking lot.  The ensuing negotiation is nothing more than a sparring session, with the big bad client looking to pummel me into monetary submission.  Now while brute force and arrogance could possibly get me the deal I want, it rarely, if ever, works out that way.  What actually happens is I dance around, ducking heavy blows, landing one or two light ones of my own, until finally, frustrated with trying to pin me down, the client finally gives up and either knocks me out cold with a ‘take it or leave it offer (never good), or calls off the fight completely (even worse). 

And that’s where rope-a-dope comes in.  By employing this strategy, said big bad client gets the satisfaction of pounding at me, in his mind with excellent results, he must be wearing me down with his powerful body hits, but at the end of the day, having successfully avoided the fatal blows, in part by using the ring to my advantage, I get what I really want, the knockout punch.  Simply put, he gets to make what he considers the best deal possible, after seemingly serious negotiation, and I get my price, my real price, not the higher one he thought we were fighting over.  The moral of the story?  Just because I look like the lesser fighter in the ring, that doesn’t mean I’m going to lose, I’ll probably get my ass kicked, but I won’t lose.  All I need is a good plan, a clear head, patience and one good right hook.  If I could learn to talk shit like Ali, well, that would be a bonus.


Do you believe the hype?

I know, the post is late, and in two parts, but its only because I got up at 10:00 am and I have a bit of a hangi, both courtesy of the fellas, they took me out for a night on the town, literally on the town.  I haven’t had a decent pub crawl in the CBD in donkey years, and they decided to remedy this situation, in part motivated by the fact Ben, the barman, kicked us out of his bar at midnight.  Actually, Ben kicked them out at 10:00 pm, but they’re stubborn idiots so rather than leave they called me, at 11:00 pm, to go join them, figuring my appearance would prompt Ben to serve them a couple more beers.  It didn’t, hence the amateur pub crawl, amateur because we hit two bars and gave up in frustration, ending up at Kwa-Joyce an hour later.  Don’t fret, this is not another tale of bars and what not, that’s not the point to today’s tale.  Today’s tale is about a man who doesn’t believe the hype.

Now you’ve met these two fellas before, they’re the geniuses who felt compelled to educate me on the wifey/lay priniciple. Last night was all about one fella looking for an easy lay, all the while moaning that he’s a nice guy, he respects women, and that sex is not just sex.  Confused?  I was.  The man is sitting there bitching about how he has no number on his phone that he can call for a random shag, he calls it ‘dial a pussy’ (I know its crude, but you have to admit its a bit funny, no?), and then he proceeds to give us his theory on how men who sleep with random women are simply using them, and damaging them.  Then he gave us the story of a girl in his office that’s very hot, but has always had bile for him.  Always, that is, until a weekend a couple of weeks ago, when she all but funga’d herself for him, allegedly because she was high.  The genius, he who claims to want an easy lay, ran away.  And now he is trying to figure out if she likes him, and what if anything he should do about it.  Because he respects women.  And he’s a nice guy.  And by the way, he’s halfway married, he’s in the process of sending cows to her father’s homestead.  Yes, the man has a woman in his house, a woman he insists he would never cheat on, willingly.  Eh?  At one point in this conversation, I slapped myself with my wallet, in frustration.  And then I told him that he was going to be the star of today’s tale, because such foolishness must be shared. 

Folks, I may not be the most sage of all women, but there are three things I know to be true about men.

1. There is no such thing as a nice guy.  There are good men, but there are no nice guys. 

Hang on, don’t get your panties in a bunch just yet, let me explain.  See, the guys who call themselves nice guys are inevitably the allegedly shy (but in reality undercover) types who take 6 months to approach a woman, and then when they do they fumble so badly it takes another 6 months to undo the damage.  Because they’re not running around funga-ing every skirt in sight using all manner of lies and alibis, they get it into their heads that they must be that ‘nice guy’ everyone keeps talking about.  At least that’s what they want us to believe, but the truth is, this inept idiot just hasn’t figured out his play yet.  Once he finally strikes gold, whether through a fatter wallet, or a bigger car, or a fancy job title, or a previously hidden talent for salsa dancing (it happens...), the man will be transformed from the meek guy always propping up the counter, to the hound proudly sniffing up as many skirts as possible.  These ‘nice guys’ aren’t harmless because they want to be, it’s because they just haven’t figured out how to be the bad boys they really are.  It’s all a matter of time, once he finally flicks the switch in his head and starts to believe his own hype, then my friend you best look out.  This lovely fella of mine, while proclaiming his unwavering commitment to his woman in one breath, will spend an hour discussing his grand plans to have a clande in the not too distant future, once his plans for career advancement come to fruition.  But hey, he’s a nice guy, right?   

I’ll say it again, there are no nice guys.  There are good men, men who know their right from wrong (theirs not yours, don’t get it twisted), men who know their worth and can see that of their woman, perhaps all their women if they are so inclined.  These days when a man tells me he’s a nice guy, my eyes snap open, suspicious, and my legs instinctively close. 

2. A man who tells you he respects women, is a man who will screw you (over) the first chance he gets. 

This has to be the most abused line in the history of lines.  Ati you respect what?  Have you noticed that the guy who unleashes this line almost always tends to be a bit of a misogynist?  On the one hand, this is the man who is charming and kind and all those fluffy things a woman likes, but at the same time this man thinks the woman is less than, a plaything to be used and abused at will.  The way I see it, respecting women, or men, isn’t something that needs to be proclaimed, it just is.  If you’re a half decent human being, you probably know to treat everyone with respect, no?  So when a man goes out of his way to make that (ludicrous) claim, this as he stares down my shirt or up my skirt, I get the urge to slap someone, possibly him.  These idiots think that hollow platitudes and feel-good rubbish stolen from an NGO handbook will get a woman to drop her pants that much faster, and it works on some of the young girls out there, unfortunately, so they keep repeating that same tired line, over and over.  You respect women?  How about maybe treating them like they have half a brain and coming up with a slightly smarter come-on, preferably one that isn’t trying to tug on their (or your?) low self esteem? 

Slight detour, I have to clarify that I used the term misogynist in the loosest sense, as in a man who has some resentment towards women.  If you take the time to go though the links in the research section, you’ll find that this is a rather simple approach, perhaps even flawed, but it’s Sunday and I’m having a single malt kinda day thus far, so feel free to correct me as you see fit.   

3. A man is often his own worst enemy.

So this fella of mine is convinced he has no money and therefore cannot get laid, to which I responded, you don’t need to have money to get laid in this town, all you need is the illusion of money, this assuming you’re chasing the random girls who are easily swayed by shiny trinkets, airtime and four kingfishers.  He remains unconvinced and is currently planning to upgrade his Toyota, this in an attempt to woo a sweet young thing, obviously ignoring the inherent complications of his current situation with his almost wife (we’ll deal with the cheating saga another day, that saga deserves its own page, no?). 

Now while there are some men who need to resort to material enhancement tactics to get laid, this man is not one of them.  Folks, this guy is about 5’11”, dark flawless skin, body built for sin with an ass so lovely you want to look at it all day every day, brilliant mind (when not on beer, or starved for sex), hell, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s my exes BFF, and a bit fucked up, I’d have jumped him years ago, probably with disastrous consequences so perhaps its good I didn’t.  Thing is, when he looks in the mirror he doesn’t see what I see, he describes himself as below average, in all respects.  Tell me, how do you help an idiot like him?  I’ve tried everything over the years; I tried praise and flattery, didn’t work; I tried insults and mockery, reverse psychology, didn’t work; I may have even slapped him, no joy.  Last night I was in the club with two men, none mine, both attracting their fair share of stares, but while fella number one was happy to soak in the random attention, including a loose free drink or two, every so often, fella number two was sitting there soaking in the beers, moaning about how he cant get laid, this while a couple of women were ogling his lovely ass.  What to do?  He is his own worst enemy.   

And thus we get to the point to all this nonsense.  I realise we all have our insecurities, we’re all struggling with one demon or another most days.  For some of us, we don’t think we are good enough, or at least not yet, that we don’t deserve that good man/woman/job/life we crave.  For others, it’s simply a case of not wanting to be disappointed, again, so we prefer to sit on the sidelines, never trying, because if you don’t play the game, then you can’t lose, or win.  Question is, how long are you willing to let your demons hold you back?  I’m always talking about embracing your flaws, and those of others, but I’m starting to think I left out something important.  Perhaps, what we need to do is start by embracing our beauty, see the good, and then see the bad.  Perhaps, its time to start believing the hype, our own hype. 

I’ll tell you what I told my friend last night, for as long as you don’t buy the shit you’re selling, no-one else will.