Does she make you better?

In my attempt to blog less and live more, I’m trying to do two posts at a go, like a BOGOF, and you know I like me a good BOGOF, because I’m a bit of a cheapass.  Now seeing as I have limited space in my brain, space that’s for the most part taken up by useless knowledge, like the recent study that says men are twice as likely to underestimate their weight than women (I said useless, no?), I’m struggling to find a second track for this post, and it doesn’t help that I’ve been stuck on one playlist all week, because of last week’s post.  Ah well, I always say you can never have too much Raheem…

Even if I don’t have much to my name,
And through the ups and downs that come with fame,
You pat me on the back and rub away the pain,
‘Cause you’re my baby,
No dollar amount can buy the friendship you bring,
You are the first lady worthy of a king,
The moment I set eyes on you I knew I would fall,
See life ain’t so bad after all,
You make it better…

Have you ever talked to someone and gotten the distinct impression they think you’re a bit of an idiot?  They go out their way to poke holes in your theories, constantly trying to show you the fallacies in your thinking, mocking you at every turn, seemingly offering you their (allegedly) invaluable support via their unrelenting criticism of everything you do, say, even the way you breathe.  Then, when it dawns upon them that their not so gentle coercion has failed to achieve their stated intention of bending you to their will, they give you the look that says, “What the fuck are you saying you daft cow?”  No?  You’ve never gotten that look?  You lie…  Its not a nice look that one, it’s the look that makes you feel about 2 inches tall, shrinks your insides into a quivering little ball of insecurity, making you question whether the sun really does rise in the east and set in the west.  Not a good feeling at all.  Especially when the person giving you that look is the one person you hope thinks you’re the best thing ever.

I’ve been in a couple of relationships with men, friends and lovers, who did not treat me very nicely.  Its not that they beat me or anything like that, they just spent their time putting me down every so often, as if to keep me in check, or keep me under their thumb.  Now while I am occasionally a somewhat arrogant cow, I do not honestly believe that a man needs to tell me my opinions are stupid.  That’s just rude, no?  I get that a man needs to be a man and shit, often feeling the need to prove his big, proud masculinity when challenged by a silly female like myself (I have been known to chokoza a bugger on occasion, just), but when his being a man translates to making me feel like less of a woman, and not more as it should be (with both friends and lovers), well then we have a bit of a problem.  In my experience, I’ve learnt that when someone puts you down to make themselves feel better, that person is nothing more than an insecure little shit, inept in the ways of cordial human interaction.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not objecting to genuine criticism, an honest opinion is priceless in my book, even when it stings (especially when it stings).  What I’m talking about is snide put downs and bitchy retorts, the type typical of those bastards who like to fight dirty, going for the jugular when you so much as look at them sideways. 

I used to hang out with a couple of dysfunctional gentlemen a couple of years ago, at a time in my life when I was a bit more fucked up than I am today (yes, that is in fact possible).  These buggers were going through relationship drama, as was I, so you can imagine the levels of foolishness we engaged in as we sought to drown our sorrows, quite literally.  They were my crutches when I needed help getting back on my feet, but as with all good crutches, once I got my head back on straight, they became superfluous, unfortunate reminders of a past I didn’t need to remember.  I no longer needed to be around people who felt the need to remind me just why my last relationship failed, and just why I would never get over the bastard, and just why I would never be able to keep a man.  These were friends, by the way, they who were supposed to be lifting me up, but instead spent half their time pushing me down, because I was much more useful to their dysfunctional lives when I was broken.  See when you’re in the gutter, and scared to get out, the last thing you want is your gutter companions picking themselves up, dusting themselves off, and leaving you behind in the filth, all alone.  Better we wallow together, no?  No.  Friends, real friends, will either by give you a hand up, or kick you in the ass repeatedly until you get yourself up. 

And gets worse when it’s a lover pulling these stunts.  One of my exes was the classic passive aggressive type, retreating into his shell whenever confronted, instead getting back at me through obnoxious, or reckless, behaviour.  That’s a fancy way of saying he’d act like a complete jackass whenever we’d have a fight, and then somehow I’d end up being the one apologising for his crap.  The day I couldn’t be bothered to apologise for shit I didn’t do, that’s the day I realised the end was well and truly nigh, because it meant his hold on me was finally slipping.  That makes it sound like he was some evil, controlling bastard, doesn’t it?  He wasn’t.  I was party to the silly mind games as much he was.  Looking back, I can see how my own insecurities were feeding his jackass, and I kept letting him get away with the constant put downs because in my head I was telling myself the same nonsense, worse even.  He would tell me I wasn’t sexy, and I would believe him, because when I looked into the mirror I didn’t see a sexy woman.  He’d tell me I was ‘too smart for my own good’, and I’d dumb myself down, because I agreed that my intelligence was something to be ashamed of, surely it was what was keeping me from submitting to the man of my dreams?  Not really, thankfully. 

Point is, the man knew exactly what to say to fuck with my head, because I had shown it all to him, and given him unrestricted access.  It was like he gave voice to my demons.  Strange thing is, I don’t think he was doing it out of real malice, just immaturity, and perhaps instinct.  I’d complain about the time and money he’d waste in the bar, drinking himself into a stupor every bloody weekend, because at one point that was the biggest problem we had, and his response would be to call me an uptight ‘chick’.  The ‘chick’ part was the insult by the way, uptight is not so bad by comparison, even though, in retrospect, it does explain why after the break-up I went into ‘party like its 1999’ mode (it wasn’t 1999).  Seriously though, it was easier for him to shut me up with a well placed barb, rather than have the discussion about his (very) alcoholic tendencies; it was simply self preservation, jackass style.  Understand that I can comfortably say this now, many years later, because I finally figured out what was going on with him, and me, after we broke up.  I’ve been forced to look my demons in the eye, I even named a couple of them for easy reference.  I’ve learnt to defend myself from cruel bastards, and idiots lacking social skills.  I’ve learnt to see other people’s insecurities, and not just mine; very helpful when you want to avoid unnecessary drama, and shots to your jugular. 

And because of my experience with geniuses like these, I know what to say to someone who may be going through a (possibly?) similar situation. 

I was talking to a friend of mine last week, listening to him go on about his woman, she who claims to love him more than life itself, she who also takes any opportunity to remind him how lucky he is to have her, because she is so much better than him (I’ve paraphrased), she who claims his finances, or lack thereof, are the reason it can never work out between them.  Now when I find myself in such situations, and oddly enough I often do, I usually restrain myself from speaking my mind, knowing that speaking my mind will more often than not result in my getting bitch slapped by the ungrateful recipient of my wisdom and clarity.  See, there’s no way to listen to that speech (I’ve heard it all before) and not think, ‘Well, she’s a bit of a bloody idiot, isn’t she?’  To which said man usually responds, ‘You just don’t like her,’ which is completely true, because I often do not like her, because she’s a bloody idiot.  Folks, I have been that well-meaning, yet clueless, ‘friend’ who felt the need to tell her pal that his woman was nothing short of an evil, evil woman, intent on bleeding him dry and/or screwing him over.  Problem is, men don’t like to hear that shit, and this messenger almost always gets shot.   Still, I would be remiss in my responsibilities as the good friend if I didn’t at least try… 

For all the talk of how important relationships are for us, how much we need to be with someone, anyone, as long as we’re not alone, for all the bullshit spiel about how everyone needs love, friendship and all that good stuff, there’s a crucial piece of the puzzle missing.  Its not enough to have other people in our lives, what we need are people who genuinely care for us, and not just themselves.  My friend, I know being alone, and lonely, is a bitch, but it’s much better than being with bastards who don’t really like you.  Friends or lovers, same rules apply, respect comes first, love is simply a delightful bonus.  What you want, need, is someone who makes you greater than the sum of your parts.  Someone who makes you better. 

When you whisper in my ear baby it will be okay,
You make it better,
Rub my body down after a hard days work,
You make it better,
Waking up to you in the morning,
You make it better,
Late in the midnight hour,
You make it better,
Now I can be the richest man on the earth and not have much at all,
But we got something priceless baby,
See life ain’t so bad after all,
You make it better…

The song is ‘Mo Better’ off Mr Devaughn’s second album, ‘Love Behind The Melody’.  Its seven and a half minutes of brilliant soul music, the likes of which we don’t often hear from someone this young, these days.  He even does the talking thing, halfway through the song, because he is the shit like that.  This song is what a (good) relationship is supposed to feel like, in my strange music themed mind that is. 

My good man, your woman is supposed to be your biggest fan.  She’s supposed to think that you are the shit.  She’s supposed to creatively mask the fact that she’s as interested in your wallet as much as she’s attracted to your cute bum.  She’s supposed to love you, despite the sometimes stupid shit you do.  Yes, she will occasionally call you out on your bullshit, and maybe slap you if you act like a jackass, but because she’s your woman, she’ll do it in such a way that you come out of it a better man than you were before.  She will treat you with respect, as you do her, because without respect, there’s nothing worth holding on to, is there?

I just came here to dance, dammit!

Today’s soundtrack is what passed for club music in the 80’s, back when (I assume) dancing was slightly more sedate, and men wore suits to the club (at least on TV).  Freddie Jackson is the daddy of all things R&B, and I will have no conversation on this matter.  The man is, was, a small god, and this song is my misguided idea of a ‘getting dressed to go out’, ‘building up to the party’ track.  That’s right, my geriatric ass will be found swaying to his disturbingly excellent voice as I pick out a fulana for the trip to the local, the old(-ish?) school vibes getting me stepping in rhythm to his funky syncopation.  Yes, I used the word syncopation, because I am old, and I know what it means.  If this song does not get you swaying…  I was going to threaten to slap you, but that’s a bit pointless, because you’re clearly defective enough as is.  Younglings, this is what a song about going out used to sound like, long before alcohol and sex became the theme of our party nights…

Tell me why you came here,
Was it just to sit and stare,
Won’t you come go with me,
Take out some time,
If you lend me a hand,
I know that we could jam,
Let’s get on down right now,
Let’s get on down,
Now don’t you wanna jam tonight…

My people, if one more man tries to funga me in the bar, so help me I will slap that bloody idiot, in the balls.  I mean really, enough!  This is the problem with going out to the bar alone, such as I often do, you open yourself up to all manner of propositions, most not welcome.  I’ve gotten to the point where I’m scared to talk to random strangers, because at one point in the night, the man will decide, erroneously, to whisper in my ear just how much he wants to get laid, often after we’ve just finished having a detailed conversation about his girlfriend/wife/clande/mistress/regular ho.  What the hell?  Is there something I don’t know?  Does the fact that I’m willing to talk to you, maybe even dance with you, is that code for ‘I want to shag you’?  Because if it is, then I must look like the biggest langa in the bar… 

Here’s the thing, I live alone, and for the most part I work alone.  I don’t talk to too many people, hell, there are times I go for days on end without any conversation with someone other than myself.  Its not that I don’t like people (although perhaps I don’t), it’s just the nature of my work, and life.  So when I trudge down to the bar for a bit of wine and off-key singing, I’m looking for distraction, happy to have random conversations with whoever happens to be sitting on the next stool.  I’m not looking to funga anyone, I’m not even looking to meet a man, seeing as how I’m convinced the worst place to find a man is at the counter, what with his beer goggles and my paranoid distrust of anyone who tries to derail me when my guard has been artificially lowered by booze.  In as much as I realise that many men are looking for a random lay, and that striking up a conversation, flirting, or buying a girl a drink, is part of the seduction routine, surely you buggers can tell when a woman is just being friendly and when she’s looking to jump your bones?  Can you not tell that a random conversation is just that, random?  Can you not see that my dancing with you is simply me dancing with you, because I like to dance, and you like to dance?  Can you not see that?

Apparently not.

You know who I blame for this sad state of affairs?  I’ll tell you, it’s the women’s fault.  That’s right, I blame all the snooty women who refuse to talk to strange men in bars, unless they look a certain way, or sound a certain way, or drink the right drink, or buy the right drink, or wear the right jeans, or dance the right way…  Do you know what happens to all these men who are constantly being ignored?  I’ll tell you what happens, they resort to propositioning idiots like me, foolish langas who don’t have the good sense to ignore them.  That’s right, the reason strange men hit on my ass is because I show them a bit of attention, which in their addled brains means I must like them, like that.  Listen here, you foolish women, we need to train these buggers to think differently, and hopefully approach us differently.  All it takes is you getting off your snooty little behind, stop assuming that every man who approaches you in the bar is looking to shag you, and talk to the bastard.  Let him buy you a drink if he wants.  Dance with the bugger.  It’s not that serious, is it?    

Don’t you wanna, don’t, don’t you wanna,

Perhaps it is.  Perhaps the fact that I’m not the hottest of women is the reason why I cannot comprehend why a woman willingly ignores a man looking to talk to her for a minute or two.  Perhaps the fact that I’m not constantly swatting off unwelcome advances means that I have a higher tolerance for idiots.  Perhaps the fact that I do not think I am the shit is the reason why I am only too happy to spend a bit of time with someone who is also not the shit.  Perhaps I’m just old enough to know better than to assign sexual motives to every idiot in the bar.  Or perhaps I’m just too foolish to know better?

Sometime in December, one of the lovely gentlemen I meet up with at Karaoke every once in a while propositioned my ass, in a most blatant fashion.  I only met the man in October or thereabouts, he’s a friend of a very good, very old friend, a friend I trust so implicitly that his people automatically become my people, by default, because that’s how we do.  Shock on me when, after assuming that the new friendship I was forming was just that, harmless friendship (because he’s my pal’s pal and therefore a no go zone, plus he’s married), this genius steps up to me and tells me he wants to fuck me, immediately.  I have not paraphrased.  ‘Eh?’ was my studied response, my thought process (clearly) dulled by the cheap red I’d imbibed.  I have never fled a bar so fast, this after I gave him an unequivocal, ‘No!’  See, its one thing to be hit on, it’s another thing for a man to try and funga your ass, that way.  To my mind, hitting on me is an expression of desire, possibly misplaced, but desire nonetheless.  Trying to funga my ass, on the other hand, is an expression of lust, yours not mine.  At that point, the man had reduced me to nothing more than a warm hole for him to stick his dick into, and that’s just plain unacceptable behaviour.  Gentlemen, if you ever learn anything from this blog, let it be this.  A good come on leaves a woman feeling like the shit.  A bad come on leaves her feeling like shit.  Try not to make us feel like shit, will you?

Come on and sing along,
Do whatever you feel as long,
As you have a good time that’s all,
Just have a good time,
Don’t you wanna jam tonight…

The bar scene is given much more significance than it deserves, and all because we’re a bunch of lazy idiots who don’t have the good sense to learn seduction 101, preferring the artificial scene of tight clothing and dim lighting, fuelled by alcohol and/or other, as our source of all things sexual.  Listen here, not everyone in there is looking to hook up with your allegedly fine ass, and that goes for both men and women.  Sometimes, as unlikely as it sounds, a stranger just wants to have some good conversation and unwind.  I know, who’d have thunk it?  Listen, you buggers, why the hell should I have to change my ‘loose like a langa’ ways, because some men erroneously presume me a langa, because it’s (allegedly) only the langas who dance with random men in bars?  Nkt!  That’s right, I dance with strange men.  Not any strange man, mind you, but if I’m dancing with a bunch of guys I know, and then someone else joins the group, I’ll dance with his ass too (and the same goes for having a loose drink, because I know that one swallow doth not a bloody summer make).  I come from a generation that liked to dance in the club, really dance, and I have no qualms with swaying gently to the soothing tunes of ‘Lady In Red’, even with a stranger (admittedly not a complete stranger, just someone whose last name I don’t know).  It’s just a dance, dammit, it’s not like I grabbed your ass or something… 

That I have issues with our funga culture has been well documented on these pages.  That I have no objection to (preferably good) sex has also been documented herein.  So trust me when I tell you that our bar scene has lost its way.  I don’t know if this is true of every bar, but it seems to me that these days one can’t simply go out to have a good time, a good time that does not involve going home with someone.  I’m all for sexual liberation and what not, but some of us go the bar to kick back and get our drink/dance/sing on, and nothing else.  I will gladly talk to you, I will let you buy me a drink, and most probably I will buy you one in return just for good measure, I may even dance a jig or two with you.  But I have no intention of shagging you.  I may be loose (read easy going), but I’m not that loose (read easy).  Gentlemen, are you hearing me?  Are you really?  Good.  Now please stop telling me about your bloody boner, useless wankers… 

These days, slightly older and marginally wiser, when I go to the bar I stay close to the fellas, they who know I do not want to shag them, never straying further than a couple of idiots away.  And when I talk to a random stranger, I do not flirt… that’s a lie, I do flirt, because flirting is fun, and good for the ego, but I do not do anything more than mild flirting, not even so much as a saucy wink.  I do not dance too close to a man, lest he gets the wrong idea, and I do not let him touch anything other than my arm (lower, not upper), because apparently letting a man put his arm around your waist leads him to believe that you plan on sucking his dick in the very near future (I’m not joking, these buggers really are a bit delusional).  These days, I’m so busy weaving through potential mine fields in the shape of drunk, horny men, I can’t even relax enough to get my high on.  What is this world coming to when a woman can’t get drunk enough in a bar to let her damn hair down? 

I wanna jam, I wanna jam with you baby yeah,
Come on, let’s do it the way we love to do,
Let’s jam the night away…


Ask Yourself Tonight...

I’m a bit of an inquisitive sort, always poking and prodding, prying into things that are often none of my concern, grilling all manner of idiots as to how they came to be where they are, how they are, why they are… the stream of questions is unending.  I figure, if you don’t ask then you’ll never know, and I hate not knowing, because I’ve always thought that being ignorant puts you at a disadvantage, almost like being kept in the dark is someone’s way of keeping you, well, in the dark. 

That may not be the most intelligent thing I’ve ever said to you…

Mr Devaughn makes a return to my playlist, this time with a song off his debut album, the same album that has the longest ‘Thank You’ song in the history of thank you songs.  This bugger thanked his entire family, extended included, entire management team, every single mafan he had at the time, every DJ that ever played his tunes, and then for good measure he thanked God and all His angels, by name.  All I’m saying is, while you can accuse this man of many things, up to and including soft porn videos, ingratitude is not one of them, but I digress.  The song is ‘Ask Yourself’, and as you can see from the lyrics, the song is very much in keeping with his general theme of making great music to shag, or think about shagging, to.  This man is a shag whisperer, he puts words, and sounds, to the nasty, freaky little thoughts in your head, kind of like R Kelly on 12 Play, only with more soul and less Robert (R Kelly fans know what I mean, and the rest of you will figure it out for yourselves, eventually).

I’ll leave you happy,
I’m well educated,
And me and the maker of love,
We were both related,
When I wrap my lips around you,
Baby, baby you're going to get faded,
Are you prepared for love on cloud 9,
Girl, cause I can make it...

Perhaps I should have warned the more polite types to leave, no?

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re off to the sewer.  Tadadadada TA!  I know I always issue elaborate disclaimers, warning you that I am about to get tres explicit, but given that I swear like a sailor pretty much all the time, I’m thinking it’s a bit moot.  Still, its always fun coming up with new ways to offend the blushing flowers in our midst, so disclaim I shall.  This will get rude, and crude, I will make reference to various body parts not usually spoken of in polite conversation and I will try my best to describe as many deviant sexual acts as possible.  Hell, I may even feel the need to throw in a picture or two to spice things up.  You just scrolled down to check, didn’t you?  You poor, delusional creature… I am much too lazy to post a picture, especially in the sewer, I fear you’ll just have to use your over-active imagination to fill in the blanks.    

Seduction is a funny thing.  We like to think of it as hearts and flowers type mushy nonsense, wooing your beloved and all that jazz, but when it comes right down to it, seduction is all about finding common ground, and compatibility.  Strip away the romantic bullshit and what you’re left with is two people getting to know each other with a view to establishing some form of sexual relationship.  It’s a negotiation, and in a negotiation what matters most is finding shared objectives, mutual goals, reciprocity or, if all else fails, the bottom line, price.  What we want to find out when we‘re doing the seduction dance, is what is the other party bringing to the table, and what will you be expected to give in return.  It sounds simple enough in principle, but the reality is much more difficult.  On the one hand, you don’t want to be too explicit and run the risk of possibly scaring off the object of your obsession, but on the other hand you want to get crude enough to gauge their level of freakiness, because the last thing you want is to be stuck with a kinky bastard who wants to go much further than your suitably restrained ass would ever consider, or, worse still, a prude who doesn’t share your deviant tendencies.  

Which brings us to the conversation

I’ve talked about this before, about how you need to discuss certain pertinent matters before you get into bed with someone, just to make sure you’re on the same page and that your expectations shall be met.  The way I figure, you don’t buy a new car without first doing some research into its performance, road handling, maintenance, consumption, such like details that determine whether you’ll be the proud owner of a Vitz or a Hummer.  Same thing with sex.  Before you shag a bugger, you want to know what he’s all about, what he does, how he does, how often he does, how hard he likes to do.  That way you make an informed decision, instead of getting blind sided by a man who appears to be one thing, and turns out to be something completely different, no?  No?  Let me tell you a story.

A long time ago, back when I was young and na├»ve (not sure I ever was, but just work with me), I met a man who claimed he would rock my world.  I’m not paraphrasing, the man actually said, “I will rock your world.”  Because I was a bit of a gullible idiot, I took him at his word and did not bother to ask him how exactly he planned to rock said world, assuming that his idea of rocking was the same as mine.  You know how they say assumption is the mother of all fuck ups?  Its true.  So, so true.  This lovely gentleman took me to his humble abode, and then he began his foreplay by taking off his pants.  Yes, his, not mine.  And this was before he had kissed me, or even offered me a drink.  The man groped and fumbled and 10 minutes later the rocking was over, sans rocking.  Stop laughing.  That was the last time I ever took a man at his word.  These days, I insist on giving the man I plan on shagging the fifth degree, complete with (mental) questionnaire, because I will be damned if I am going to waste another 10 minutes of my life listening to a man grunt over me, asking, “Is it good?  How good is it?  Tell me its good…”  Who talks like that?  Stop laughing.

Folks, good sex is not that easy to find, and great sex is as rare as an honest politician.  Great sex is that rare combination of mental and physical, when your lover has not just gotten into your bed, they’ve gotten into your head as well, managing, somehow, to embed themselves into your fantasies.  Now I understand that we all have different ideas as to what exactly constitutes great sex.  Some consider sex that involves not one but two positions to be the height of adventure.  Some crave risky sex in public areas, hopefully poorly lit ones where they wont be arrested for public indecency.  Some require mild bondage and perhaps toe sucking to get their rocks off.  Others insist on an hour of foreplay by candlelight before they’re ready to do the deed.  Some people like to stare deeply into their lover’s eyes while they make love, while others prefer to stare at a mirror, watching their lover watch them.  Different strokes for different folks (how apt is that phrase here?)

While I may not know what gets you off, I can comfortably state with some authority that before you had that great sex, you talked about said great sex, because that’s the only way that bugger got into your head, no?  Don’t be shy, we all like a bit of sex talk once in a while, but if it makes you feel more comfortable, you can call it flirting.  Incidentally, if you didn’t do it, then perhaps that wasn’t really the great sex?  Stop frowning, let me finish making my case, then you can tell me to go fuck myself (although given the context, that statement may not have the intended consequences you’re hoping for, just so you know).  Let’s talk, really talk, about the conversation, because it occurs to me that in my endless babbling, I’ve never actually spelt it out.  The one time I talked about the conversation was when I was making a case, a good one I thought, against the funga nonsense that’s become the norm in this city.  Thing is, I suspect not too many people got what I was talking about, if recent conversations I’ve had are anything to go by. 

Ask yourself a question,
Have you ever had a session,
Of lovemaking, if you want me,
Have you ever been to heaven...

Ladies and gentlemen, in my attempt to save you from a fate as dire as mine, allow me share with you the questions you should, nay, must ask before you ever consider showing a stranger your business end.  

But before I do that, a few words of advice.  Don’t ask these to a complete stranger, lest you get slapped.  And don’t ask them within 5 minutes of meeting them either, the result may be the same.  You need to get someone as comfortable as possible to get this intimate, a process that usually requires a bit of time (which is why you shouldn’t be fungaing random strangers on night number one, useless buggers…).  Even then, you may want to consider customising these questions to suit your intended target, because most people do not respond well to direct questioning.  Ladies, you may have to get a bit smart here, do this in the same subtle way you asked him about his income, and his illegitimate children.  Gentlemen, this is the one and only time I advocate the use of the words making love‘ (I just gagged a little), because until she has seen you naked, courtesy demands that you not talk about fucking her sideways, unless she talks dirty herself.  One last thing, keep in mind this is a negotiation, you’re looking to agree on the basics, before you get down to the filthy little details, so do not engage in false advertising, and do not bully, or beg, or promise money (unless she, or he, asks you to). 

Assuming you’re at that point where it looks like there’s a possibility that you’ll actually get lucky, place your arm on the bugger’s thigh, I mean arm, and ask:

a. When is the last time you had sex? 
The answer you’re looking for is not ‘last night’, because that would mean that he, or she, already has a bed companion, or is a bit of a whore, or both.  Basically, not a discerning customer.

b. Do you like to have sex?
As unbelievable as it sounds, not everyone does.  She, because its more likely that a woman would answer ‘no’ to this question, may just be going through the motions to get her man (read meal ticket), in which case she’ll probably say ‘yes’, but with a fake smile on her face.  Use that information as you choose.

c. How often do you like to have sex?
If he says he has to get laid very often, be afraid (see a.).  If he says ‘rarely’, then he could be pretending to be restrained (thus requiring further questions); or he could actually be restrained, which means he’s a ‘nice guy’ looking to try out the wild side for a change (possibly not good either), or you’re having this discussion after you’ve known him for a couple of years (really?  Are you sure you’re on the right blog?), or he could be gay and just going through the motions to get his wife (read beard).  And gents, if she says she loves to shag all the time, take her back home to her mother, because only a foolish young girl would disclose this to a man shes never shagged.  The answer you’re looking for is a coy giggle, and then, ‘Only when I find a man I‘d like to shag, like you (sexy wink).’  Good answer, no?  No?  You just dont know

d. What’s your favourite position?
If he, or she, starts talking like a porn star, and you’re not thinking like a porn star, don’t go there, they are on a whole other level of deviancy.  If you’re on the same page, however, then start drinking Red Bull.  If they start blushing and using fluffy euphemisms (unlikely given the conversation you’re having, but still possible), and you’re thinking along similar PG lines, then look no further for your ‘love-making’ partner, and skip the next question to save yourselves some awkward blushes, hii ya mwisho hamwesmake

e. What do you want me to do to you, and what do you want to do to me?
If you’ve gotten this far, odds are the conversation has gotten a little steamy, and the hand has moved further up that thigh (this time I mean thigh).  At this point you‘re two steps away from the shag, and all you’re trying to figure out is whether their desires match up with yours.  If they’re explicit enough, and the only way to answer is by being somewhat explicit, you’ll get an invaluable glimpse into their fantasies, and in so doing, get into their heads.  If these last questions are asked and answered just right, you’ve just had sex without taking off a stitch of clothing, and if that sex was good, then rest assured, barring unexpected shortcomings, the real thing will be even better. 

And that’s the conversation, all five questions of it.  I know, I’m brilliant.  Evil, but brilliant.  Go forth and seduce, my lovelies, but remember, if you don’t ask, then you’ll never know, until you find out, and by then it may be too late, no? 

Girl, long as there’s air to breathe,
I will be yours, you’ll be me,
So prepare for lift off, but before we ride,
Ask yourself tonight…


Say it with me...what the...?

I’ve been meaning to put this song up for ages, but for some reason the posts never quite fit.  Not that this one does, but given that I’m about to have a bit of a rant, I thought to play you a lovely soothing song, a love song no less, because it’s Sunday.  ‘Too Far From Home’ is, to my mind, Eric ‘he that has owned my heart since Beats of the Season ‘95’ (I really should abbreviate that, no?) Wainaina’s finest moment.  Its not his most profound lyrically, although it is very poetic, and yes, the nyatiti is excellent, and his voice is as close to perfect as I’ve ever heard it, but there’s something else…

Hata vile nilikuwa mchaji Mungu,
Sina sali itakayoweza kuniokoa,
Upendo wako ni mfoko,
Umenifanya nizame,
Niongoze nikufuate…

It’s been one of those months, no?

Now I’m a cheap Kikuyu woman, fond of discounts and clearance ‘everything must go’ sales, constantly watching my peni mbili.  I like to think of myself as a fiscally prudent woman (not so much, but I’m having a bit of a rant, so just let that one slide, yes?).  So you can imagine my surprise when my countrymen collectively shrugged their shoulders in resignation when the much touted electronic thingimajigi that cost us, collectively, upwards of 7 Billion Shillings not only failed, but failed so spectacularly we had to return to our previous ways of counting on our fingers and toes (real or imagined).  What the fuck?

I understand that sometimes shit don’t work out, and sometimes technology has a way of making us more stupid than we already are, but for 7 Billion, my friend, I expect not only electronic identification and tallying, I expect the damn thing to turn the bloody pages for me as I tick the 67 ballots.  Not only did my polling station not have a functioning thumb thingimajigi, they made no attempt to explain it to me.  To be completely honest, having gone through previous elections where a bugger striking my name off a piece of paper was the routine, I didn’t even remember that my thumb was supposed to be checked until I got out of the centre.  I want my money back, and I expect many heads to roll for that farce.  BVR what now?  I shall say it again, what the…?

And can the rest of you please stop shrugging stoically like this is normal, its not.  We got screwed, collectively, 7 Billion times, and not in a good way.

I’m that idiot that was diligently following the IEBC tallying board, watching the numbers tick upwards slowly, marvelling at the new fangled technology (all 7 Billion worth.  What?  I’m not letting that story go any time soon…) and humming along to the melodious tunes of the various choirs at Bomas, they who felt the need to keep singing ‘You lift me up’, as if to soothe what should have been a very angry beast (that would be us, raia, we who spent more time than is acceptable in lines going nowhere, but I digress…).  Thing is, it soon became apparent that there was something amiss when the number of rejected votes was fast approaching 10% of votes counted.  10%?  How now?  That would mean that 1 in 10 ballots were messed up, which means 1 in 10 people didn’t know how to fill in a ballot?  Hmmm…  Yes, there were many ballots to fill out, and some were pretty long, so it’s possible that some people got confused, no?  Turns out, no.  Apparently, that 7 Billion bob system, yes that one, it took to multiplying the number of rejected votes by 8, or 18, or 67, depending on who you believe.  What the…?

Don’t worry, I’ve already bitched about my refund, this is not about the money.  All I want to know is, if you were multiplying shit, why the hell didn’t you think to multiply my Martha’s votes by kendo 10?  Boss, we were chapwa’d by Dida.  Dida?  What the…?  On that note…

Seriously though, what the hell?  I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry, but if you voted for the man, put it on a t-shirt, because you, my friend, are a superstar!  Just for the record, I’m not being in any way sarcastic.

Once the IEBC big screen froze, I had no choice but to turn on the TV, a decision I now regret immensely.  If you recall, I’m the idiot sans live TV, which means I haven’t seen a newscaster/presenter for a while.  Picture, if you will, the look on my face when I clapped eyes on the ‘ladies’ of Citizen, and KTN.  Can you say troubled?  Would someone please tell me when it came to pass that all women on TV must be clad in tight clothing, at all times, even the Muslim ladies in their headscarves and tight pants?  What the…?  I mean really, those dresses were so snug I swear I could see their diaphragms, and other, contract.  Now I get why men run home to watch news, that shit is like soft porn, only without the soft lighting, or the nonsensical dialogue… no wait, it does have the nonsense, no?  ‘Ladies’, its one thing to look presentable, it’s another thing to look like you’re looking for tips, and not tips on how to calculate percentages.

Hata kama mko na pesa mingi, did you really need to plant it inside the pool, and then have Janet Mbugua do the catwalk thing every hour?  What the hell?  Although, in fairness, that woman, in those dresses, and with that ass, it would be a crime not to milk it (there’s no pun there, you bloody perverts), no?  What?  Oh please… don’t even try to pretend you weren’t turning your TV around to check it out in 3D.  I was, and I’m not too proud to admit it.  And no, I’m still not a lesbian, I’m just idle most of the time, and those geniuses weren’t saying anything worth focusing on, no?  Moving on swiftly, Citizen TV, what the…?

Because I don’t watch much TV I don’t know their names, but there was the guy who used to do, and I assume still does, the business segment in the afternoon (or morning?), the Indian mama (wait, that sounds rude, I meant to say the lady of what appears to be Indian ancestry) and the inimitable Larry Madowo.  On this one I know I’m not alone, what the fuck kind of crack were they smoking?  These buggers were the highlight of my TV watching, if only because they were so foolish, intentionally, you couldn’t help but laugh.  That said, the level of blondness they exhibited was a bit scary, and I am now convinced that a certain someone may swing the other way (wait, that sounds rude, I meant to say someone reminded me of Anderson Cooper, in a good way).  Putting up the spoof picture of Lucy spanking The Baks?  What the…?  Who is your mother?

These ones deserve a permanent ‘What the…?’ for foolishness exceeding the norm, always.  We get it, Kamwana bought you, or more likely hired you, a helicopter.  Perhaps now you could engage in news gathering?  Just a thought.

These buggers claimed to have an election portal, complete with an interactive map.  Perhaps I need to explain to them what interactive means, because clicking on a map and then spending half an hour watching that wheel thingi go round and round and round… that’s not interactive, its just plain useless.  For some reason, Nation just doesn’t seem to get this internet thing, at all, but that’s a story for another day.  As for their crap high-tech portal, they may want to ask for their money back as well, hopefully it’s less than 7 Billion (yup, I’m still not letting go…).

‘Statistical deadheat!’ they said, as they promised us a run-off.  Now they’re talking about margins of error?  What the fuck man?  These buggers must be on their knees praying that the CORD petition is successful, and that there was some dodgy mathafus going on, otherwise…

Boss, how many times must I say this?  In Africa the incumbent never loses.  You, sir, were the incumbent, and we are in Africa, and somehow you still managed to lose?  What the…?  What’s that?  They cooked the books?  What the hell were you doing meanwhile?  When a Prime Minister, and the Vice President, can’t fudge the numbers, then perhaps he’s not a real PM, and perhaps the VP is useless.  Oh my… I think I finally understand the kikapeti thing you kept going on about.  You really got shafted, didn’t you?  Now you know what the other half of the loaf is for, yes?  Ignore my evil laughter.

I haven’t come to terms with this reality yet.  I need a few more months, and a lot more booze.  What the…?

Now I know, you’re no good for me baby,
You’re my fork in the desert road,
But I know, there’s no turning round,
I’m too far from home...

I would like to dedicate this song to Mr Issack Hassan, he that I suspect may have led me up the garden path, and then down another one, just because he could.  Worst part is, I suspect still have love for the man, useless bugger I am.  These men I fall for, they’re no good for me baby…


Introducing... Obadiah!

Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Kai Nikii? welcome to the lovely Obadiah, one of the more silent members of our little group, and by more silent I mean completely silent, except when he sends me the odd email, usually with irrational demands.  This is the gentleman who instructed me to write on his break-up (A friendly break-up?  Hmmm...), because he wanted me to offer some of my invaluable nuggets of wisdom to the lovelorn, such as I do.  And so I did.  And then he went and ignored me completely, as you shall soon see.  This is his take on the ever thorny issue of break-ups, because he figured it was time we got more male perspectives around here, his perspective to be precise.  I agree.  You will too.

A Friendly Breakup.  Really.

Do things differently.  That’s what I tell myself, trying to actualize the phrase ‘Stand out from the crowd.’  And that’s the mantra I take into my relationships, especially when the boat appears to be wrecking, especially when I’m faced with my own ‘Titanic’.  They say a reaction is everything, and when the relationship bell rings, signaling an end, it’s that reaction that really counts.

I love with my heart and everything in me.  But I’ve been played, I’ve been left due to finances, or lack of, someone has lost interest in me, or I’ve simply ventured forth on my own when there was no more spark.  Nevertheless, I’ve never felt any need to leave my relationships in a bad mode, you simply never know when you’ll cross that bridge again.  Some dinner will do, or a weekend vacation, to finalize on the breakup.  And afterwards, a friendship, that was the basis of the relationship, continues.  My peers find it quite interesting, questioning how one can be friends with their ex, wondering how we can still be laughing moments after calling it over.  It’s all in the reaction, when you know the journey must come to an end.  That’s how I do it.  

I continue communicating with my former lovers, gradually cutting down on it.  And a time comes when I bid farewell, especially when other men come on board.  There’s never a need to make any man jealous, no? He wouldn’t understand, no one in their right senses would. For if one is still friends, good friends, with their former heartthrob then they must have shared a strong bond. And that would make a man, any man, stark raving mad.

My last relationship came after some years out in the cold.  It lasted only four months. But for the next one year, the friendship blossomed.  What was I doing, they would ask, even the lady herself.  Why did I still care about, meet and visit her?  Why were we having such good times, even better than when we were dating?  Is it that I was in denial?  Is it that I never let go?

I’ve seen painful breakups.  I’ve seen people tormented.  And that made me chart my own course.  I cannot do deflated tires, or abusive phone calls and shrieks.  I can’t withstand drama in public or bruises just to make a point.  That’s why I’m careful who I bring into my life.  And it has to begin with friendship.

I call myself lucky that I’m able to harness such friendships, as I wait for time to come and move on.  It actually surprises anyone I date, that I still seek friendships even when we both move on.  No, it’s not that I get lonely, even though I’m a private man.  And no, it’s not that I’ve dated angels, far from it.  I simply don’t let the tense ambers that come with breakups to flare up.

On my last journey, on the night after the breakup, she called me.  When I had immersed my mind with thoughts of moving on and starting all over again, she called me.  Not to try and reignite what was over, but to appreciate me for taking it in my stride and still having the courage to make her feel okay with her decision.  And she never stopped calling, even when we were no more.  Our friendship blossomed, even when nothing else changed.  To this day.

And that’s my school of thought.  There’s never a need to leave each other seething and loathing.  During those years I toiled alone, I was a confidante to many.  Their stories, their experiences were simply not good.  Is there a better way to kill everything off than to have someone in your house when you know your girlfriend or boyfriend is on the way over?  Is it worth to ignore someone’s calls when they have no idea what is going on?  Does one have to raise hell when calling it off?  No, I don’t think so.  You don’t need drama when you realize the relationship’s lights are dimming.  You need to be wise if you see the waters are about to wash you away.

I agree, it’s human nature to want to vent you anger when you are left, it’s anyone’s right to feel wasted, to feel a loss one considers unwarranted.  And many times that’s what makes relationships to end messy.  Because bitterness breeds anger.  Thankfully, patience is a virtue I have in some portions.

Yet again I know, it’s risky, very tricky, to still befriend your former lover.  For jealousy can grow in you, when you see them being treated like a queen by others, when you feel it was you who was supposed to do likewise.  It’s always advisable, at this instance, to keep your distance, it’s always better to cut off any communication channels.  Nevertheless, it never hurts to do it differently. You simply never know what the future holds.