Love at first...shag?

I'm not often at a loss for words. I am often gobsmacked by unexpected brilliance, but that's the whole point of brilliance, to smack you across the face and make you sit up and take notice. That's not what I'm talking about.  I mean I am rarely struck dumb.  Come now, I have too much to say, on damn near everything, irrespective of whether or not I actually know anything about anything.  So you can imagine my surprise last week when a reply from Ann* left me speechless.  This is not an exaggeration, for the record, I truly had no response to what she said...

I asked:

My next question should then be, did you shag with him with the idea that it could possibly blossom (always wanted to say that) into a relationship, or was it simply a shag because you both wanted to and could? For the record, either answer is perfectly acceptable (\o/), I'm just trying to get a better idea of where your head is/was at. Did you talk about relationships prior to the shag?

She replied:

I prefer my hook ups to bloom into relationships. I have been accused of reversing the process, hookup-> relationship instead of relationship->hookup.

It took me three days to formulate a basic reply, in my head:

Eh?

And why, you ask, was I struck dumb?  If you've read any of my sewer tales you may have picked up on my, umm, aversion to looking for love in between the legs of another.  I've said it, many times, don’t have sex as a means to the end that is love.  So for me to find someone who is a firm believer in said practice here, on my front page no less...  It's like I stumbled upon a pink unicorn in my living room.  “What in the actual fuck?” I exclaimed, Katt Williams expression on my face.  Understand me, it's not that I object to this choice, whatever rocks your boat is my motto, no?  It's that I don’t understand how she ended up here, amongst the deviants looking for a good shag and not much else.

Eh?

Incidentally, how many more of you unicorns are out here lurking in my closets?  Reveal yourselves...  No really, reveal yourselves, I'm curious.  I am, really.  I won't give you a hard time, this is more of an educational head count, for me, she adds, looking away in what can only be described as a very suspicious manner.

Looking for some education
I made my way into the night
All that bullshit conversation
Baby can't you read the signs?

I won't bore you with the details baby

I don't even want to waste your time
Let's just say that maybe
You could help to ease my mind
Baby, I ain't Mr. Right

But if you're looking for fast love...

After a couple of days, the shock wore off and I got to thinking, perhaps I'm too jaded (I am, no?). What if casual sex really can lead to a meaningful relationship, love, happiness, all that stuff?  My first impression was this may be an age thing, where younglings shag first and stick around long enough to ask questions later, and the older you get the more hesitant you become, for a myriad of reasons.  That theory made sense for about two minutes, until I recalled having a conversation with someone older than me about their messy relationship with an idiot who was originally supposed to be just a one night stand.  It's clearly not an age thing.  My next theory was even better, it's that we've gotten more liberal, sexually, thus we're having more no strings sex even as we still look for strings.  Problem with this theory, if we're looking for strings, then doesn’t that mean the sex automatically is not no strings sex?  Put differently, if you have no strings sex, and then catch feelings and want the bloody strings, was the initial sex really sans strings?   Does it matter, in the grand scheme of things?  That, my lovelies, is today's 67 bob question.

I have to issue a disclaimer at this point and state my bias upfront: I think this is all bollocks.  Bollocks.  I'm writing this post with one eye, which is to say I'll be shaking my head vehemently, scoffing at the scientists and 'It worked for me!' essays I shall no doubt have to quote.  Wait, don’t click off in a huff just yet.  Inasmuch as I am not a believer, this is the one time I will be extremely happy to disabuse myself of a few misguided notions, if only so I can have more sex with new people, instead of wasting time on silly preliminaries like tedious questionnaires, plans and such.  There's also the possibility that I'll finally prove to all you unicorns (I see you...) once and for all that the horn thingi on your foreheads is an illusion.  Win/win either way, no?  Probably not.

Because I know there is that one genius smartass who'll rock up pale chini and start a discussion on the proper meaning of 'casual sex', definitions.

Wikipedia takes romance out of the equation:

Casual sex are certain types of sexual activity outside of romantic relationships that imply an absence of commitment, emotional attachment, or familiarity between sexual partners. Examples are sex in casual relationships, one-night stands, extramarital sex, prostitution, or swinging.

My problem with this definition is the absence of attachment or familiarity bit, because that implies that casual sex can only be had with a stranger.  Also, lumping one night stands and prostitution together is not helpful, but maybe that's just me.

Urban dictionary makes it simpler, as always:

Having sexual contact with another person with no plans on furthering a long term/committed relationship with that person.

Simple, no?  Sex without future plans.  Sounds about right.

Or not, as the lovely shrinks at Psychology Today explain:

Because human sexual behavior(sic) is so various, the phrase "casual sex" turns out to be a most treacherously roomy category. Casual sex" applies indiscriminately to one-night stands, playful sex with a friend-with-benefit's, exploratory sex with an acquaintance or roommate. It describes some sex between long-married couples, some open marriage encounters and masturbation (with or without porn or phone sex). It can be accurately applied to sex-junkets in colonized countries, adventures arranged on Web dating sites or swingers clubs...

(Random question, what the hell are 'sex-junkets in colonized countries'?  Every so often I suspect some of these wazungus I read are undeclared racists.  Don’t laugh at me, these buggers are devious, hiding their imperialist tendencies under a cloak of advanced knowledge.  That was a detour.)  The gist of that article is simple, your definition of casual sex depends almost entirely on your personal bias, which in turn means that what I consider casual sex may not be what you consider casual sex, which in turn means any definition I attempt here will be subject to lengthy discussion with aforementioned smartass in the comments section.  I know, the shrinks always complicate everything.

Casual sex is an umbrella term that encompasses many forms of sex that are similar in the fact that they do not involve committed relationships. This can include one night stands, friends with benefit's, and swinging. Other terms that are used to desribe(sic) casual sex are no strings attached sex and hooking up.

This is the definition I'm using today, from the sexy people over at Kinkly, sex minus commitment.  This covers everything from Friday night fungas to booty calls to Freddie Jackson 'Rock Me Tonight' sex with the ex to your biannual orgy with six of your closest friends; it's all casual, until flags are planted and declarations are made.  Yes?  Yes.

Now as it turns out, the term 'hook up' is not synonymous with casual sex. I assumed it was, but apparently the Americans who coined the phrase insist it isn’t.  From the earlier Wikipedia page:

A hookup (colloquial American English) is a casual sexual encounter involving physical pleasure without necessarily including emotional bonding or long-term commitment; it can range from kissing (for example, making out) to other sexual activities. Hooking up became a widespread practice among young people in the 1980s and 1990s. Researchers say that what differentiates hooking up from casual sex in previous generations of young people is the "virtual disappearance" of dating, which had been dominant from the postwar period onwards. Today, researchers say, casual sex rather than dating is the primary path for young people into having a relationship.

Where I assumed that the hook up meant no strings sex, and it sometimes does, it might be that same hook up is this generation's (I mean people in their teens/20's right now, the generation that grew up with FM radio, yaani, not me) way of getting to know someone, i.e. dating, but without the date.  

Yes, I can see my flawed theories beginning to tumble down.  Stop smirking.

Looking for some affirmation
I made my way into the sun
My friends got their ladies
They're all having babies
I just wannna have some fun

I won't bore you with the details baby

Gotta get there in your own sweet time
Let's just say that maybe
You could help to ease my mind
Baby, I ain't Mr. Right

But if you're looking for fast love...

Despite this definition, I can't help wondering if perhaps they've got it wrong.  Thing is, older people inevitably try to impart their own meaning when they don’t understand what's going on.  That's why all the magazines now have way too long articles on how 'hook-up culture' hurts young people, young women in particular, often along the lines of 9 Ways The Hook-Up Culture Is Ruining Love As We Know It (don’t bother with that list, unless you're sanctimonious and/or prudish).  It's not that us geriatrics oppose casual sex, or that we didn’t do it in our misguided youth, it's just that (cue melodramatic clutching of pearls) we think it's making these kids numb to real relationships (gasp!).

Shock on us oldies, then, when research shows us that:

Millennials have fewer sexual partners than their parents’ generation.

Specifically, boomers had an average of 11 sexual partners as adults, whereas those born in the ’80s and ’90s had eight. Gen-Xers, who came in-between, had an average of 10 lays.

Yup, younglings are less freaky than my geriatric ass. Woobloodyhoo. Unrelated, this explains so much...

Casual sex can have psychological benefit's ... if you like casual sex. 

“If you’re the sort of person who likes casual sex, then having casual sex will probably make you feel better about things. If you're not, it won't.”

Sounds legit, no? Wait for the best bit...

'Hookups' can turn into meaningful relationships, study suggests 

Relationships that start with a spark and not much else aren't necessarily doomed from the get-go, new research suggests. Couples who became sexually involved as friends or acquaintances and were open to a serious relationship ended up just as happy as those who dated and waited.

I can see all my unicorns doing a wee dance of joy right now, smug rainbow-tailed bastards...

My people, turns out I've been wrong all along. You can find love in between the legs of another:

In an analysis of relationship surveys, UI sociologist Anthony Paik found that average relationship quality was higher for individuals who waited until things were serious to have sex compared to those who became sexually involved in "hookups," "friends with benefit's," or casual dating relationships. But having sex early on wasn't to blame for the disparity. When Paik factored out people who weren't interested in getting serious, he found no real difference in relationship quality. That is, couples who became sexually involved as friends or acquaintances and were open to a serious relationship ended up just as happy as those who dated and waited. [emphasis mine]

"We didn't see much evidence that relationships were lower quality because they started off as hookups," said Paik, an assistant professor in the UI College of Liberal Arts and Sciences. "The study suggests that rewarding relationships are possible for those who delay sex. But it's also possible for true love to emerge if things start off with a more 'Sex and the City' approach, when people spot each other across the room, become sexually involved and then build a relationship."

Before you start waxing romantic, read the fine print...

So if not the context of sexual involvement, what is behind the lower quality scores for relationships initiated as hookups? Paik points to selection: Certain people are prone to finding relationships unrewarding, and those individuals are more likely to form hookups.[emphasis mine]

"The question is whether it's the type of relationship that causes lower quality or whether it's the people," he said. "The finding is that it's something about the people."

People with higher numbers of past sexual partners were more likely to form hookups, and to report lower relationship quality. Through the acquisition of partners, Paik said, they begin to favor(sic) short-term relationships and find the long-term ones less rewarding. It's also likely that people who are predisposed to short-term relationships are screened out of serious ones because they don't invest the time and energy to develop long-term ties, Paik said.

What they're saying is the nature of the relationship depends on the people in said relationship. Sounds obvious, but it's not always that clear, is it?  Simply put, odds are either you or your casual partner, or both of you, are uninterested in commitment, which is how you ended up casually shagging to begin with.  Which means, there's no guarantee that casual sex will become anything more, not unless both parties are actively looking to get into something more meaningful.  I clarify this bit because it's often the cause of possibly the number one agony aunt question in this age of random shags, “I've fallen for my fuck buddy/friend with benefit's/no strings shag, what do I do?”

But if you're looking for fast love
Fast love in your eyes
It's more than enough
Had some bad love
Some fast love is all that I've got on my mind...

I figure if anyone knows anything about casual sex, then it's George Michael.  One could even argue that he is intimately acquainted with the ins and outs of the random shag.  Ahem.  He also knows a fair share about unrequited love, and love that doesn’t work out as planned, if his music is anything to go by.

In the absence of security

I made my way into the night
Stupid cupid keeps on calling me
And I see nothing in his eyes...

Listen, I'm usually quite happy to take the scientists at their word, but not today.  If there's one thing I've learnt in this my peculiar life, it's that casual sex is just that, casual.  That doesn’t mean it's bad, or meaningless, or boring, or something to avoid, it's just casual.  Frankly, I think that's what makes it so good, when it is good.  (When it's bad it's always the twat's fault.  Default position unless proven otherwise, yes? Yes.)  Thing is, this is what works for me and my issues, so feel free to ignore me and do your own thing.  Can't hurt, can it?

Can you form a relationship from a random shag?  It would appear so.  Does it matter how the relationship began?  It would appear not.  Will said relationship last?  That's entirely up to you, my lovely little unicorn.

Day 6: syn·co·pa·tion

Ooh, I miss that syncopation,
I guess I'll never really understand,
She gave no indication,
that she was loving any other man...

Folks, these musicians have been lying to me all my (not so) innocent life. When I first heard this song, 'Syncopation', I thought the word meant in sync, as in, together. It's a bloody love song, for crying out loud, what else could the word possibly mean? Then I'm googling the lyrics, last year, getting ready to stick it in a post and lo and behold, that is not what the word means, at all.

syn·co·pa·tion [sing-kuh-pey-shuh-n]

noun

1. Music. a shifting of the normal accent, usually by stressing the normally unaccented beats.
2. something, as a rhythm or a passage of music, that is syncopated.
3. Also called counterpoint, counterpoint rhythm. Prosody. the use of rhetorical stress at variance with the metrical stress of a line of verse.

Simply put, syncopation is a general term for "a disturbance or interruption of the regular flow of rhythm": a "placement of rhythmic stresses or accents where they wouldn't normally occur."  Wikipedia 

Now I ask you, how does the man miss a disturbance? Is a disturbance not a bad thing, sir? Bloody nkt! I'm starting to wonder about his Caribbean woman now, in light of his comprehension problems, perhaps she was from Sudan or something. Don’t look at me like that, you don’t know where I’m coming from. Billy Ocean practically a small god when I was growing up. When this man sang about the mythical love zone, I was the idiot looking at his curly kit and thinking how lovely it would be to pat (dry). This man was the man! And this song was a lovely tale of longing...

When she holds me, her body does strange things to mine,
When she loves me, then I know she's one of a kind,She's really special,

She knows what good love is all about,
Ooh, yeah...

Happy love song, without a doubt. Or not. In verse two he reveals...

I can't imagine, my baby with somebody new,
Oh, no, no. I'm so confused, that I don't know what to do,
I took love for granted,
and now I'm left here all alone,
Alone and crying,
You're all I'm wanting,
so girl won't you come back home?

Clearly my attention span as a child was wanting. If I had stuck around long enough I might have realised that this was not a happy love song, more a tale of abandonment, and longing. And it was a bloody riddle.

I wrote that intro ages ago, and then I tossed it in the trash once I realised the song and the post didn’t fit together. Problem is, as with all good songs, Billy was stuck in my head, and the bloody word with him. It's such a lovely word this, syncopation. Musical, no? It got me thinking about music, and why we love what we love, what makes one song a good tune and the other a mess of sound. Don't fret my pet, this post isn’t about music, it's about dating. Why do we pick the people we pick to date? More to the point, why are we often syncopated with the people we date? (Syncopated is a real word. Yes, I saw you frowning.) Is that disturbance in the rhythm the key to a good rhythm?

Do you ever get the impression you and your lover are not in sync? I do. All the time, man. If I had to point out the one thing that went wrong in my relationships over the last couple of years it would be this, we were not in any sort of rhythm, all the damn time. Sure, there were odd moments of happy melding of mind (and body...), but for the most part I felt like I was in a reggae song and the bugger was playing classical music (I can't think of two more different genres). When I was getting excited and falling, he was getting cautious and pulling away. When I was hesitant, he was barrelling full steam ahead, scaring me off with his enthusiasm. When I was committing, he was still playing the field. Any example you can think of, odds are I’ve been there, done that, read the book, saw the movie, went to the damn theme park and bought the fucking t-shirt. And why exactly do I tend to end up with discordant partners? This is where it gets good. I’ve always believed that the best matches are two people who are happy to be together while remaining individuals. That 'and two shall become one' story has never held any appeal to me. Why would I, fully formed brilliant creature that I am (ahem) want to become part of some mutant creature with 'one heart'? Then what the hell have I being doing with my life all this time, I ask you? I should have just stayed home knitting sweaters, no? Before you laugh, I’d just like to point out that I can knit like a mother..., but I still went out and got me some other interests and skills, because that's what life is about, no? I figure, until I'm a complete person, only then will I be able to have a complete relationship.

Yeah...no.

The more complete I get, the more I find out I will never be complete. There’s no end to this growing (up), is there? I’m pretty sure I will never get to that day when I can sit back and say I’m done. Strange thing is, I’m fine with that, these days anyhow. I have to be completely honest with you, these days I love knowing I don’t have it all figured out, it means I get to keep learning, plus I can't be held criminally liable for any of my frequent fuck ups (ignorance can be a defence, if you play dumb enough, and flash some bosom). Haven’t I told you how much I love to learn? That's how I finally figured out that the complete relationship is a bit of a myth, like unicorns, only less pretty. Complete implies finished, which implies static, which implies dead. Dead relationships aren’t relationships. That analogy may have run away from me, and disturbingly fast. Moving right along. My (possibly misguided) independent streak is why I always look for similarly minded independent types, which would be great except for the minor matter of, well, independence. People who don't want to couple tend to make lousy coupling partners, if only because they don’t see the need to couple. Folks, stubborn and stubborn rarely make a good match, is all I'm saying, but dammit if it doesn’t always make for interesting matches. Troubling matches, but interesting all the same.

For those of you playing the song (all two of you), listen to this bit at 3:19 (ignore the lyrics, listen to the music)...

Ooh, how I miss that syncopation.
(Baby's found another.)
(Baby's found another.)
(She's found another lover.)
Ooh my baby.
Woooh, how I miss that syncopation...

My understanding of syncopation is that 'tripping over itself' rhythm, kinda like they're skipping beats every so often, like a scratched CD, but somehow not skipping anything. It sounds broken, yet whole. This is not a technical description, clearly, but it might be the closest analogy to the nature of relationships I've made yet. This is what my relationships feel like most times, skipping, tripping, slightly unpredictable, not entirely settled. When I was 10 years younger and much more dramatic, it was the most exhilarating feeling ever. I loved the inherent instability of the awkward pairing of two idiots who wanted to be together, yet didn’t, it made me feel blissfully untethered. These days, however, not so much. Listen, I'm all for a little disruption once in a while, but tripping all day every day? No. That requires way too much effort, effort my old ass has no time for. These days my theory is simple, if we're not in sync, then maybe we shouldn’t be syncing.

Or not.

I’m not sure.

I started this post off as an anti-syncopation ode. I was ready to declare that in the year of (y)our lord 2015, I was no longer going to date buggers who couldn’t match my rhythm perfectly, nor I theirs. To hell with this never ending quest for like minded independent (read, stubborn and unyielding) spirits, I was convinced that I was going to change my ways and become a 'one heart'-er. In this year of (y)our lord. Then I sat back and listened to Billy a couple more times. The reason this song is so brilliant is because of the syncopation, without it this would be just another bland love song, monotonous woowoowoo bullshit. Put differently, breaking the rhythm makes the rhythm better, as counter-intuitive as that sounds. See, now I finally understand why he's pining for this woman...

You see I never had a lover
who could make me over like this, like this...

Billy didn't lie to me (thank you, gods of all things R&B), disturbance is something worth pining over. Disturbance, it seems, is a good thing. Lovers don’t have to be perfectly matched, if anything they work better when they're not. Ignore everything else I may have said tonight to the contrary.

Some things bear repeating.

You know how they say the universe gives you what you ask for?  I’m here today to tell you that it does, and oh how it does.  This is one of those instances I regret everything I have said leading up to this exact moment.  See, I went out and told the universe that I was looking for a good man, and good sex (ideally with a man, but I’m considering being more flexible if need be, take that as you will), and perhaps a bit of good money, and a half decent president, and some good steel cookware.  I asked, with earnestness.  This is what the universe sent me.  A relatively good man, who cannot be mine.  Good sex, with a not too good man.  The possibility of good money, from the most corrupt government fixer type I’ve met in years (and I work in construction, possibly the most corrupt industry known to man, second only to politics).  A president who is trying very hard to make me move countries, what with his idiotic proclamations every bloody week.  And a non-stick pan that sticks to pretty much everything (the pan itself sticks to everything, I’m not sure how).

I think the universe might be fucking with me...

Hello, my lovelies, how’ve you been?  It’s cold, no?  I’m sitting here in two fulanas, a pair of socks and a headscarf, trying to heat up my wine with nothing but sheer willpower.  You know it’s too cold when even the wine is near frozen.  Hang on...this is why the Russians drink vodka.  That was an epiphany.  Issues.  I need to tell you a couple of stories about my peculiar love life, get all my shit out, as it were.  Well, almost all.  About half.  Don’t worry, I’ll only tell you about the foolish stuff I’m allowed to talk about without it coming back to bite me in the ass.  This is going to come back and bite me in the ass, isn’t it?  Stop nodding.  Disclaimer: the language may get a bit coarse, but not sewer explicit, I hope.  

I met a man who tried to funga my ass, on the internet.  I didn’t think people still do that, at least not people my age, but there you have it, apparently men don’t care too much for learning new tricks.  The worst part is, he wasn’t even smooth about it, talking to me like I was a Njoki (read, idiot).  Gentlemen, I hate to break it to you, but you are probably not the first man to hit on that woman, women get hit on all the time on these interwebs, and always with the same old lines.  Even a technophobe, nay, Luddite like me has gone through online dating.  That should tell you something.  I understand that it can be hard to approach a woman, but try and be clever, dammit.  Or at least try and sound like you’ve read a book without pictures.  Wait, that’s a bit harsh, I am quite fond of books with pictures, or just pictures, if you know what I mean.  Gentlemen, and boys, try and sound like you’ve read a book with more than 100 pages, if only so it gives me a chance to have a conversation with you that extends beyond whatever idiot thing is captivating the masses online (probably an ass, real ass, not donkey...).

Do I sound particularly bitchy tonight?  Good.  I’m hoping this post will scare away any idiot with the misguided belief that my constant hanging out of dirty linen makes me desperate for his foolish behind.  Negroes talking to me like I’ve never written a bloody thesis?  To me?  What the fuck?  Now I’m laughing at myself.  The thesis was too much, no?  All I’m trying to say is I have half a brain, sometimes more, and I quite like it when someone attempts to get me to engage it.  Do I not look like someone who likes to think?  I don’t?  Shit.  That explains so much...

This is what I don’t understand about men.  Must the fact that I’m friendly mean I must be looking to get laid?  I know I’ve asked this before, but I’m asking again because I keep ending up in the same bullshit scenario.  Yes, I blog about sex, that’s because I quite like it.  No, that doesn’t mean I’m an easy lay, far from it in fact.  Yes, I do like to chat with random strangers, on and off the interwebs.  No, that doesn’t mean I want to share any, ANY, body fluids with said person, not unless I want to, in which case I’ll tell you.  Gentlemen, when a woman wants you, she will let you know, and if she doesn’t, then maybe she doesn’t want you.  Or maybe she’s a girl pretending to be a woman (read, a Njoki).

I have to detour here, if only to explain my relentless digs at the Njoki’s of this world.  That I have taken offence at that bullshit city girl page comes as no surprise, I’ve said as much at length. I take issue with the content, and the style, and the fact that someone higher up signs off on it each week.  I’m convinced that the female readers of the Daily Nation deserve better than mindless swill being peddled as 'sassy' opinion (yes, this from the woman who is peddling her own swill-like opinion, but at least I’m not making you pay for it, yes?).  I’ve said this before, I’ll say it again, a full page in a national paper is not to be wasted on inane bullshit, such as an article telling women they deserve to be cheated on because they don’t look like models, or the one advising women to prostitute themselves to get ahead (which just for the record was much, much more offensive).  The Njoki’s of this world (read, clueless idiots) have no business in my paper.  Then again, I’ve stopped buying the Saturday Nation, so what do I care?  Yes, I’m angry, and no, I will not let this one go.  Moving on swiftly...

People, I’m tired of meeting idiots on the internet.  Scratch that, I am done meeting men on the internet.  I’m declaring an official ban on any form of romantic liason-ing on these here interwebs.  And because I’ve just said that out loud, the universe is about to send me kendo 10 men, right now.  That karma mama can hold a grudge like you wouldn’t believe, and all because she was impregnated last year, and not even by me.  See, this is what you useless buggers do to me, setting me up for failure and whatnot, bloody nkt!  Seriously though, I have met enough people online that I know not to expect much of anything.  What we rarely admit to each other, we’re playing a role most of the time, showing only that which we think is pleasant, hiding the less than suitable behind well constructed façades.  And we don’t want to get to know the real person, because doing that requires us to show our real person, and who the fuck wants to be real when you can live a lie of your own choosing?  I know this sounds like my normal cynical, anti-technology bullshit, but look at the buggers around you; pretending to be oh so smart and oh so sexy and oh so rich (or broke, in the case of the gracefully starving artists) and oh so deep and oh so moved by the plight of Gaza...  We all have our carefully crafted masks.  Not a problem, needs must and all that jazz, but only for as long as we know it’s a mask, and we remember to take it off every so often.  

Please keep in mind that this is the opinion of a paranoid woman who doesn’t trust anyone, and I mean anyone, until I’ve known them for at least a year (and even then...).  Don’t look at me like that, I attract batshit insane people, like moths to my flame I tell you, but I digress.  On the rare occasions that meeting strangers turned into something meaningful, it only happened because these people I met were as interested in getting to know the real me as I was in getting to know the real them.  In every single case, these are people who met me and said, "Wacha wewe!"  Useless information, I’ve found that anyone willing to call bullshit on your bullshit, and that person is willing to let you do the same, that is someone worth getting to know.  This is not about romance, it’s about friendship.  Free information, use it as you will.

Which brings me to the next genius, he that should know better.

This guy I know, lovely fella, he gets it into his head to sext me.  Now ordinarily I love a good sext, although I’m more partial to a good s-chat (can’t be a shat, can it?), but the man was sexting me from not too far away.  It would have been faster for him to walk across the road and sex me, is all I’m saying.  Why didn’t he walk across?  That would be because he was in no position to walk across, because his family, or watchman, would probably enquire as to why he is walking across the road, at two in the morning.  In retrospect, I should have seen it coming when he complimented my ’warm smile’ (why do men talk about your smile when they want to shag you?  Is it like women and men’s eyes?), and then asked if there was any man who would object to football being watched in my house late at night.  I know, I can be really dense some times, but the man had given no prior indication of lustful tendencies.  No really, not so much as a surreptitious glance down my shirt in all of three years, and then the hand was on my back and I was thinking, eh?  Now before you give me a hard time about this, know that there was nothing said or done, on either side.  Up until the sext incident we were simply idiots who’d have a loose chat about siasa once in a while.  I’m lying through my teeth of course, I’d stared at him, but I had done nothing more than stare, and always undercover.  Stop judging me, we’ve all done it, stared at someone we shouldn’t have been staring at, what’s a woman to do, dammit?  At least I left it there, no?  So did he, for the record, save for the hand that one time, and the incident on the phone, he hasn’t said or done anything unbecoming.  We talked it out the following day , because you know I’m the idiot who will talk it out with you if you do something foolish, and things are back to normal, if somewhat more formal.

Why am I telling you about this non-event?  I’m not entirely sure.  I suspect I’m processing, trying to make sense of an awkward situation.  For the first couple of minutes, I was quite flattered that this man was hitting on me.  He’s attractive and intelligent, in another lifetime he’d be just the ticket.  Then I sat back and thought about it and it dawned upon me that, in hitting on me, he’s relegated me to that girl.  The one he could shag, no strings.  The one who would be open to that shag, no strings.  I know I always talk about women wanting to have sex just to have sex, but that rule doesn’t apply to men we might actually like, as in really like.  I didn’t see him as a walking dick, and I was slightly very miffed that he saw me as a walking p...part.  I was sitting there thinking, “What about me gave you the impression that I would be up for this?”  See, it’s one thing for a single man to try and funga your ass, he’s an opportunist bastard who may not have gotten laid in a while and is therefore willing to try his luck, and more power to him (I just wish there could be a bit more finesse).  When a married man pulls that stunt, he’s just being greedy.  It gets worse when said married man is honest about his intentions towards you and your parts.  I love the direct approach, but I do not like being treated like a random hole to be filled.  It’s a catch 22, but there you have it, you need to be direct without being offensive.

Problem is, the outcome of that incident was that I was left doubting myself.  Did I act like I was loose like a langa and ready to be the chick on the side?  Did I somehow indicate to this man, who I thought knew me relatively well, that I was that girl, a Njoki?

This is what offends me about how men choose to hit on women.  In approaching me for a mindless shag, without stopping to consider whether or not I am open to the idea of said mindless shag, you reduce me to nothing more that a pair of tits, an ass and a cunt.  Does that sound crass?  That’s about as crass as it feels.  I don’t expect chocolates and flowers when a man hits on me, I positively abhor the grand romantic gestures when it comes to sex.  I like the direct approach, people speaking plainly, stating intent clearly and without nonsense sweet talking.  That said, it would behove you to establish my level of interest before asking me to suck your dick.  It would behove you to establish that I have no objection to fucking somebody else’s husband before asking me to suck said dick.  It would behove you to establish all this, not on the internet, or via sms, but in person, ideally before you whip out said dick.

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? 

Next man who comes at me with foolishness gets slapped, yes?

Day of love, my ass!

Valentine's Day is bollocks.

It is.

I could end this post here and I’d have made my point, surely no one can contest this most obvious fact.

What's that?  You don't agree?  You must be the delusional one shopping for a suitably fluffy gift of (not too) great value.  And then there's the wine, the dinner, the trip out of town, and all so your lovely lady can feel, umm, loved.  On this one particular day.  You poor, special creature, come let mama give you a hug...   You're addicted, man, and a little foolish.

Just like sugar,

Girl you're so sweet,
Lip smacking, finger licking good, I wanna taste you,
Like a fine wine,

Smooth and intoxicating,
Sip it slow, never fast, try to make it last as long as I can...

Now I have a theory about the soundtrack, when writing about love and fluffy things always start with Johnny Gill.  This man is one of the few male R&B artists my brother and I ever agreed on, growing up, he thought my Freddie was too woowoowoo and I thought his obsession with Tracy Chapman was just plain peculiar ( I love the woman, but come on, my brother, turn the bloody cassette over...).  Johnny we agreed on, and thus, when looking to find a song both male and female readers will appreciate, I start with Mr Gill.  Clever, no?  Probably not.  'A Cute, Sweet Love Addiction' is off the genius 'Provocative' album, an album that should be a must have for anyone who claims to have love for new jack swing.  This song is so bloody happy, you can't help but smile and sway, which comes in handy when you consider it's an ode to addiction.

I gotta have it, fall in love,
What do they call it when you can't get enough...

I hate to break it to you, gentlemen, but you're being duped, and doped.  Buggers are getting you hooked on the drug that is (monetary) romance, and you, you lovely delusional creatures, have no choice but to go along, the addicts you are.  It's a huge, stinking pile of shit, this valentine's thing (note the small 'v'), but that’s just the way it goes.  Spend that money, or spend the rest of the year explaining why you didn’t, as it's thrown in your face every time you profess love, or lust.  

On the up side, and there is always an up side here on the dark side of the interwebs, the women have it worse than you, much worse, we got high on our own supply.  Ladies, am I lying?  No need to answer.

First, she has to look the part.  A woman has to wear a red dress, or a red blouse, and definitely red underwear, and odds are all these items will have to be new, because no one wants to be the chick in last year's red knickers.  Then the poor lass gets to spend a small fortune in a salon, getting pruned (not a typo) and plucked to within an inch of her life, just so she can look suitably romanceable.  See, we know that our chances of jewellery are directly linked to how bright we shine.  No one ever put a ring on the girl who looks like she shines Beyonce's shoes, no?  Nooooo...  We wanna look like Mrs Jay Z, in the hopes that you will make like Jay Z and buy us those carats, and gold sippy cups (so the arrogance of the man?  Nkt!).  I'm just saying.  Gentlemen, a trip to the salon will set her back anywhere between one thousand and twenty thousand bob, depending on how much hair she's adding on, or taking off.  And then you have the gall to whine about the 200 bob bar of Dairy Milk?  Nkt!  I digress.  If the woman is smart, she'll make you pay in advance for all the crap she has to endure on your behalf, but if not, best be knowing you will pay for it for the next eleven months.  Now you know.

After all that drama, she then has to act the part.  A woman on valentine's must display great joy, all the damn time.  If she's unlucky, her man will feel the need to send flowers to her office, thus she has to trudge around the city lugging a (and I use this term most loosely) bouquet around, answering all manner of irritating questions from nosy buggers looking for a spot of gossip (did she send them to herself or didn’t she? Hmmm...).  If she's really unlucky, he'll send a teddy bear too, because what grown ass woman doesn’t like a white, super-flammable, 'made in a Bangladesh sweat-shop' teddy bear, about yea tall?

And then there's what is almost always a disappointing night out, or in if the man is being a cheeky (read, cheap) bugger.   Seeing as how this year the bloody day falls on a Friday, you get to go to the same bar you go to each Friday and pay double for the same glass of wine you normally drink, but on the up side, because there's always an up side, the first 50 couples get a complimentary rose, no?  No.  It doesn’t matter if you show up at 5:05 pm, when the doors have just opened, the free flowers zitakuwa zimeisha (that's a true story, by the way, so be warned, don’t go thinking you'll get her free flowers at the door, that's a marketing gimmick to get you to the door, their door).  Going out on this one particular day consists of a night in a crowded bar or restaurant, with crap service, likely crap food, and definitely crap wine, and to cap it all off, a crap shag when she gets home, nothing but quick removal of fancy lingerie and 10 minutes later he's snoring, exhausted by all the romancing.

This shit is sexist, no?  I think we should have a men's equivalent, a day when the men get pretty (or die trying) and act happy, while the women swagger around (fake) moaning about the money we have to spend, and bragging about the great sex we'll get in return.   See, that's all its about, this fake holiday.  Valentine's day (I spit upon you) is about two things.  Money and sex.  No, no love.  No really, there's no love whatsoever.  Women want the money, or the things the money can buy them, how else will they know their men really care?  Did you read the article in the Saturday paper (To gift or not to gift?) about what gifts women really want?  There was a lady, sorry, woman, asking for land, as in ardhi, as in a ka-plot. Say it with me...EH?   There's no way you can read that and think that women aren’t in it for the money.  Don't go smirking, gentlemen, all you care about is the sex, why else do you think the condom companies are hustling the way they are, selling latex like its going out of fashion, all under the guise of love (because if you love her, you'll Durex her, no? Probably not...)?  Does that sound crass?  Good. 

This merchandising holiday was created for the sole purpose of exchanging goods and services, for a fee.  The flower guys make some cash; the Chinese guys making plastic flowers make a bit too; the evil Nestle-type multinationals ripping off cocoa farmers in Ghana make even more; the coffee shops and bars peddling overpriced coffee and wine earn their monthly profits in one night; the hotels dangling overnight packages at double the regular rate, for the couple that just has to get away for some romance (read, sex), they're on the gravy train too; and let's not forget the peddlers of love (well, sex), the working women, and men, they who take advantage of the lonely souls who've bought into the idea of a day for love (at any cost), the peddlers need some love too, no?  It's a commercial exercise this valentine's thing, and I for one refuse to part with my hard earned shillings to pay double for half (take that as you will).  Of course, it could also be that I have no one on whose behalf I would suffer the indignity, yaani I haven't drugged anyone (yet), but that's beside the point.  Ahem.  Money and sex.  Either you're selling or you're buying, so which is it?  And on a possibly related note, I have some lovely roses I'm selling, she says, glancing at her landlord's solitary rose bush, conveniently in bloom...

A functional condition (and they call it),
A cute sweet love addition (coming back for more),
Unconscious repetition (I can't get enough),
A cute sweet love addition...

Romantic, no?  No, dammit, it's just bloody addiction.  

You're still not sure about him, are you?

So you have the man, and it looks like he plans on sticking around for a minute, or two, but you're still not sure in what capacity he intends on doing so, right?  Men can be shifty like that, managing somehow to be both in and out of a relationship, at the same time.  You're probably sitting there wondering if the man is planning on giving you a key to his digs, or his ATM password, or if he's still wandering around out there looking for Ms Right, now that he's found Ms Right Now. You want to ask him, but you don’t want to scare him away with your neediness, right?  Right?  Don’t bother being shy, round here shy only earns you evil looks, and the odd nkt!  You don’t want to scare him away, God forbid you become like his ex who demanded a wedding ring after three weeks.

That's where I come in.  I'mma gon' tell you whatcha need to be doin'...  (Sorry, been watching stand up, now I'm speaking in ebonics every so often, sounding like Chenehneh and shit.)  Because I clearly know everything about relationships, I am now going to share with you the wisdom I have carefully distilled from years of being single.  If you do not see the irony in that statement, stop reading right now, you are way too serious.

The 2013 Kai Ni Kii? Guide To Finally Getting A Man (Funky Soundtrack Included).

BOOK 3: ARE YOU HIS BABY (read, baibee...), OR HIS BABY MAMA (current or future), OR HIS MAMA (as in woman, not mother, or perhaps both, depending)?

Thanks to the brilliance of Book 2, you now have a man who is feeling you, only now you want to know how much he's feeling you, because us women are never content unless we know exactly, and I do mean exactly, how the man feels.  Now you could make like an idiot (read, me) and ask him a bunch of questions he won't answer, or worse still, he answers with cruel honesty.  Alternatively, you could take the smarter route, and use my questionnaire.  Yes, I've created a questionnaire, and yes, you will thank me when you are done.  Or not, depending, but if you're unhappy just keep in mind that this brilliance is free (if you want quality advice you shouldn’t be looking for it on a bandia blog written by a crazy woman with no filter. Just saying...).

ARE YOU HIS BABY?

I said you wanna be startin' somethin'
You got to be startin' somethin'
It's too high to get over (yeah, yeah)
Too low to get under (yeah, yeah)
You're stuck in the middle (yeah, yeah)
And the pain is thunder (yeah, yeah)

1. Does he often call you after 9 pm?

a. yes

b. no

c. only when he's been drinking

d. he never calls me

2. Does he often call you baby?

a. yes

b. no

c. only when he's been drinking

d. he never calls me anything

3. Do you mind that he calls you baby?

a. no

b. yes

c. only when I'm sober

d. he never calls me anything

4. Do you still need me to tell you the obvious?

a. yes

b. no, dammit

c. what's obvious?

d. what are you trying to say?

Now if you answered a. to all, then you my dear are his baby.  Wake up and smell the coffee, he does NOT know your name.  You are that girl he calls when he needs whatever he needs, and odds are you are one of what I suspect are many.  'Baibee' is not a term of affection, its a random term used to refer to the girl whose name he can't be bothered to remember, sometimes interchanged with 'Mrembo', or 'Shoree'.  Please note that this rule does not apply to 'Babe' (as in, babe in the woods, another way of saying 'Hun'), that's a term of affection, kinda, which is a fancy way of saying that you are no longer random.  You may not be as close as you think, but you're not random.  Woohoo! for you.

For the rest of you, if you answered mostly b. then you're clearly not his baby, and you're way too clear-headed to be reading this nonsense.  If you're a c. kinda girl, you're either his booty call and you're in denial, or you're his booty call and you're too drunk to realise.  If you answered d. to any, you are a stalker, and perhaps delusional.

ARE YOU HIS BABY MAMA?

If you can't feed your baby (yeah, yeah)
Then don't have a baby (yeah, yeah)
And don't think maybe (yeah, yeah)
If you can't feed your baby (yeah, yeah)
You'll be always tryin'

To stop that child from cryin'
Hustlin', stealin', lyin'
Now baby's slowly dyin'

1. Are you having unprotected sex with the man?

a. yes

b. no

c. only when he's been drinking

d. we never have sex

2. Is that his decision or yours?

a. his

b. mine

c. both

3. Are you currently with child as a result of said sex?

a. yes

b. no

c. perhaps, I’m waiting to find out

4. Is he aware of said child?

a. yes

b. no

c. define aware

5. Is he happy about said child?

a. yes

b. no

c. define happy

When you hit a certain age, you quickly realise that protection is one of those calculated risks one takes in life.  Disease versus pregnancy, pregnancy now versus pregnancy later, emergency contraception versus plain ol' protection, implant versus pill?  Decisions, decisions...  Thing is, if there is unprotected sex being had, then the risk of possible babies (and/or death) has been calculated and accepted, hopefully by both of you, and therefore you are either his current/future baby mama, or you have no issues with abortion/morning-after contraception, or you're both too drunk to know better.  Don’t try to deny this, he may not have thought that far ahead, but you definitely have.

As to whether being his baby mama is a good thing or not, who the fuck knows?  I'm the idiot who's averse to children.  Hell, I only put it in because it made the sentence work better.  Baby...baby mama...mama.  See?  Stop frowning, it's free brilliance, remember?

ARE YOU HIS MAMA?

1. Have you met his friends?

a. yes

b. no

c. I've seen them from afar

2. Have you met his family?

a. yes

b. no

c. I've seen them from afar

3. Has he ever introduced you as anything other than 'a friend'?

a. yes

b. no

c. introduced?

If you answered c. you are a most persistent stalker.  You need therapy.  If you've picked b. anywhere, pole sana, it's not looking too good for you right now, but on the up side, it's early enough that you can still turn things around.  I'm lying, by the way, that ship has sailed, but I figure I don’t have to spell it out to you, being that you're smart enough to answer a questionnaire and everything.  I could be wrong though, I usually am.

Lift your head up high

And scream out to the world
I know I am someone

And let the truth unfurl
No one can hurt you now

Because you know what's true
Yes, I believe in me

So you believe in you
Help me sing it...

And if you answered a.'s, bite me, you bloody cow.  You already know you're his woman, you just wanted to show off, didn’t you?

ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma ku sa...

ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma ku sa...

I refuse to tell you about this song, because we must have some basic standards here, no?  Probably not.   

It bothers me.

Let go, my ass!  Oh come on, you have to have seen this coming, no?  There is no way an OCD idiot like me was going to sit back and go with the flow, just, what the hell do I look like, some tai chi loving hippie?  No no no...  I am not cut out for this easy going nonsense, I must have plans, and structure, and a list.  No really, I must.

You have no idea what I’m on about, do you?

In May I decided I was going with the flow, this as I attempted to turn around my dismal dating fortunes.  Woi...  I’ve managed to end up in what is either the easiest ’relationship’ I’ve ever had (not sure I get to call it a relationship, but that’s a story for another day), or the most elaborate pretence at an ’easy relationship’ I’ve ever had to pull off.  Seems that even when presented with a chance of achieving simple pleasures, I will somehow find the hardest possible path to get there.  Not only do I scupper my chances, unintentionally I hope, I then proceed to engage in delusion, denying said scuppering, to myself.  I am my own worst enemy.

If I was a better blogger, I would now describe how I feel, complete with emoticons, and perhaps a loose GIF, but alas, my tool box has all of two tools, and none are particularly descriptive.  Instead, I’ll play you a tune, or two.  I know I’m always ranting about covers and what not, but this one blew the original out of the water,  even though, strangely enough, it’s almost identical.  Maxwell didn’t change too much of Kate Bush’s original, if anything he stripped it down even further, and because I know you don’t believe me, I’ve put up both.

I should be crying but I just can't let it show, baby
I should be hoping but I can't stop thinking
Of all the things we should have said that we never said
All the things we should have done that we never did
All the things that you wanted from me
All the things that you needed from me
All the things I should have given but I didn't

Oh, darling, make it go away, just make it go away

Let me give you the run-down of recent events, a quick summary (brevity? A girl can always hope...).  Don’t worry, despite the lyrics above, this is not a sad tale, I hope.  It might come back to bite me in the ass, such as my tales tend to, but such is life.  Remember the guy I had a most excellent afternoon with?  Well, I have since seen more of said lovely gentleman, and it, he, has been pretty amazing.  He is...  He’s different.  That doesn’t sound very amazing, does it?  Let me try this again.  The man is intriguing, and sexy, opinionated, pushy, funny (clever funny, not just funny), and sexy (have to put it in twice), intense, complicated, unorthodox...  When I say the man is different, I mean that he is like no man I have ever been with.  Which is not to take away from men I have been with, all God’s creatures are special and all that jazz, all I’m saying is that this creature is a bit more special than the others, and by a bit I mean a lot.  That said, I quite like the special ones, the more special the better, if for no other reason than because they are seldom boring.  So what’s the problem then?  Apparently I struggle with unorthodox, and this from me, the self proclaimed queen of not doing things the way I’m supposed to.  See, for all my fancy talk of walking my own path, my default setting is still, well, narrow.  Perhaps limited is a better word.  I’ve realised that I get easily frustrated when thrown into new territory, relationships that aren’t the standard relationships.

I have to pause here to contemplate how much I have to tell you for you to understand, without telling you so much that it becomes awkward.  I’m not holding out on you, I’ve just come to appreciate the value of restraint, and discretion.  No one likes an over-sharer.  Stop laughing, I do see the irony of that statement, what am I if not the consummate over-sharer?  But that was then, and this is now, and I know bett... ah fuck it!  Just work with me as I dance the fine line between ’Aaaawww!’ and ’Eeeewww!’ inducing moments, yes?

You know how I keep saying I’m not looking for a husband, or kids?  I’ve been saying it long enough that it’s become my opening line when I meet a new man.  Watch the ’married with kids’ types leaning forward eagerly, waiting for me to eat my words.  No such luck, my lovelies, I’m still on my (possibly misguided) bus.  The flaw with my plan?  Making that statement, up at the beginning, is working against me, because it’s quickly translated into ’I’m not looking for anything serious’, right?  Don’t worry, you can nod.  Makes sense, I guess, except that’s not what I mean.  What I should say is that I’m looking for a relationship, a ’real’ relationship (not sure what that means exactly, but it sounds right), with a certain level of commitment and what not, just not one that will end up at the end of an aisle, or in a maternity room.  Just because I don’t see myself wed in the future, that doesn’t mean I want to be single for the foreseeable future.  I want a boyfriend, scratch that, I want a man, my man.  In theory that’s quite a simple concept, but in reality, not so much.  My problem, and I’m desperately hoping someone else here has the same problem, is that when push comes to shove, I often revert to old behaviour, saying what I think I have to say, for whatever reason, whether or not it’s true.  For instance, say a man I’ve just met asks if I mind us taking it slow and getting to know each other before making any decisions, my reply will be, ’Sounds perfect!’ complete with hand across brow, wiping off imaginary beads of tension, followed by relieved laughter.  However, at this point my mind is busy working overtime, asking me, ’Kwani, this guy is getting cold feet already?’ or ’Commitment phobia? Again?’ and so on and so forth.  This while my gut is slowly twisting, working itself into knots, wondering how soon it will be before I can let my guard down.

This is my problem with age, all attempts at optimism are thwarted by the fact that you know better.  While the girl in me is always eager and raring to go, the woman I’ve become is quick to rein in the (delusional) fantasies.  ’Whoa there girlie, where the hell do you think you’re going?’ she asks, fixing a leash around her other’s neck, ’You know we can’t go running off with every boy you meet. What if he’s a serial killer? Or what if he’s your cousin?’  My older and more rational self is disturbingly reluctant to let her emotions run wild, seeing as how she’s been to hell and back a couple of times, sometimes of her own volition, admittedly.  She prefers caution to optimism.  Ah hell, who am I kidding, I am a complete pessimist these days, always have been I suspect.  I’m waiting for things to go wrong, and not just some of the time, all the bloody time.  I may say I’m not, I may say I’m a changed woman, but once a man appears on the horizon, I revert to type.  Safe distance trumps messy intimacy.  I would rather deny wanting anything more than the odd shag, rather than deal with the fact that I do want more than the odd shag, and perhaps he doesn’t.  Why put myself out there like that?  But if I don’t put myself out there, then how will I find what I’m looking for, that mythical relationship with a grown man, I’ll say it again, a grown man, who is not looking to settle down and reproduce?  Yes, mythical. I’m not sure it even exists outside of my addled mind, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, I claim to be looking for unorthodox, which is just fine, different strokes and all, but shock on me when I find said unorthodox and I start thinking in the most orthodox of ways.  I don’t want to be tied down (obviously I’m not being literal...), but I’m bothered by the fact that the man doesn’t want to tie me down (also not literal)?  Eh?  Dammit!  I can’t win, not with a mind this confused.  Right now I’m trying to talk myself out of talking myself out of what is for all intents and purposes a good thing.  I don’t know if it’s fear of the unknown that’s making me chicken out, or if it’s my good sense finally kicking in (insert hysterical laughter), but half of me is saying, ’Run, run and don’t look back.’  And before you self righteous ’you must get married, reproduce and join Women’s Guild’ types get on my ass about this, know that the other half of me is standing there, arms akimbo and shit, asking, in quite a harsh tone I might add, ’Run to where exactly? Si this is where you want to be, you said so yourself, many, many times. Bloody nkt!’  It’s not that I’m reconsidering my ’no marriage no kids’ stance, I’m just troubled by the options being presented to me at this point.  This is not quite what I had in mind.  I had pictured a cross between muchos fun dating (I need to get out of the house, and for some reason I expect someone to do it for me, get me out that is.  I know, very silly...) and comfortable intimacy (staying in the house does have its benefits, no?), but without the underwear washing bit.  What seems to be on offer is not much of either.  Is this what unorthodox means, I wonder?  Those are my issues, remnants of fairytales not yet erased.

When it comes to this lovely man, I fear I may be acting, or at least talking, in a duplicitous manner.  I am not saying what I mean, and I’m not sure I mean what I say.  Turns out my mind and my mouth are not in sync, and once you throw in my langa bastard of a heart cum soul, then things go awry, fast.  My mouth says, ’I’m just looking for something casual, nothing too complicated,’ which, just for the record, is what I’ve got right now, at least I think I do.  Problem is, my mouth is an adept liar, that bugger has been known to proclaim great love for Achebe, when in reality I’ve never read the man.  My mind, meanwhile, is screaming, ’Woman, what are you smoking now? Tell the man you want a man, you silly cow!’  You gotta love my mind, it feels no hesitation at calling me names, that baby can swear in four languages, five if you count my crap Kuyo.  My heart cum soul (heart sounds too mushy, but soul sounds so touchy feely, no?) likes to wax poetic, as poetic as I can pull off with my limited alliteration skills, saying something along the lines of, ’But I want you to want me too...’  Yes, it likes to channel Marvin Gaye, and no, I have never bothered to find out why, it’s easier to just ignore it.

Please note that while this discussion is being had, the unlucky bastard is sitting there waiting for the answer to his simple question, ’What do you want?’

That bloody question!

Why can’t we just leave well enough alone?  Why must we go poking into each other’s heads?  I say we because I am disturbingly fond of asking it myself, despite the fact that I should know better.  I never give a straight answer when asked, hell, most times I flat out lie, even when I’m being completely honest.  It’s not that I don’t want to tell a man what I really want, it’s that my mouth often gets in the way of my mind, which in turn always gets in the way of my heart cum soul.  If I can’t be straight with myself, then how the hell will I be straight with someone else?  And why do I think they have it any easier than I do?  How do I get over my own issues long enough to, a. stop asking foolish questions, and b. stop giving foolish answers.  I am, for lack of a better way to put this, cock-blocking my own ass.  Surely that takes some skill, no?  No?  What, other people do this to themselves too?  Probably, we’re not all that different, are we?

My love child

I know you have a little life in you yet
Whatever you need
I know you have a lot of strength left
Give me your hand
I know you have a little life in you yet
Give me your hand
I know you have a lot of strength left

’This Woman's Work’ is my go to song for romantic angst, it plays in my head whenever I’m mulling (read, obsessing to no end).  I realise it reads like quite a sad song, but it sounds like the complete opposite.  Like I said before, the lyrics aren’t a perfect fit for the post, but the song is.  It’s that rare combination of tight control and a voice that's threatening to fly away, I don’t think I ever understood the phrase ’soaring melodies’ until I heard this man sing this particular song.  That tension, between rigid structure and chaos, that's my definition of a ’real’ relationship.  In case you were still wondering.

It bothers me that the clarity I claim to have found is so easily disturbed by the addition of an unknown into my equation.  It bothers me that I can’t let go of my silly issues long enough to enjoy myself, despite abandoning my lovely lists.  It bothers me that I’d rather pretend to be the woman who wants nothing, than be the woman who really does want something.  It bothers me that I can’t, or won’t, trust myself to trust him, or anyone else.  It bothers me that it’s easier to lie than be fragile.  

So you found a man, now what?

You went out and identified a man who you think might just be the right man for you.  Good for you. Problem is, now you have to figure out what to do with bastard, no?   No?   What, kwani you buggers know what to do with a random man when you angukia him?   Be honest...  Thought so.  These men they are confusing, just when you think it’s all good, they turn around and start acting like twats.  But not to worry, that’s what Dr A is for.  I am going to make like a bullshit expert and tell you how to move your newly acknowledged infatuation from ’Could it be?’ to ’Yeah...perhaps...no!’

The 2013 Kai Ni Kii? Guide To Finally Getting A Man (Funky Soundtrack Included).

BOOK 2: HOW TO TELL IF A GUY IS FEELING YOUR ASS, OR ONLY WANTS TO FEEL YOUR ASS, OR PERHAPS FEELS YOU SHOULD WALK YOUR ASS AWAY.

Because Book 1 proved so useful... 

What?  Si you have a man now?  Granted, you don’t know what to do with him, but that’s how I get to make money off your ignorant behind, with Book 2, see?  Good plan, no?  No?  You’re reading, aren’t you?  Insert my evil laughter here...

As I was saying, thanks to Book 1, you identified a man who really likes you.  Well woohoo! for you, you are one step closer to your happily ever after.  But wait, before you go out and buy your fluffy white dress, slow your roll for a minute and ask yourself, is the man looking to keep you, or just borrow you, or maybe give you away to someone else?  That’s right, after the giddy optimism of the initial heady days of electricity and unrequited (or perhaps requited) chemistry, all those lovely infatuated moments we love to get excited over, now comes the hard part, the harsh reality.  Once your hormones die down and your dopamine levels return to acceptable levels, you have the unenviable decision to make.  Should I stay or should I go?

THE TEST
Now because no self help on the internet is complete without a mindless test, let’s have one, shall we?  Listen to the three MJ tracks on the soundtrack (at the bottom of your screen, that thingi written THE SOUNDTRACK, click to play) and then answer the following:

1. Which of the three songs made you think about said man (or woman, because I know you buggers are playing along)?

a. 1
b. 2
c. 3

d. EH?

2. When you thought of him, did you?

a. SMILE, GOOFILY
b. SMILE, WISTFULLY
c. FROWN
d. GROWL
e. GROWL, IN A GOOD WAY
f. EH?

3. Now which of the three songs do you think he would use to describe you?

a. 1
b. 2
c. 3

d. EH?

4. The real answer this time, not the one you like?

a. 1
b. 2
c. 3

d. EH?

5. Last question, and I need you to think long and hard about this one. Isn’t the second song a bloody classic?

a. YES
b. HELL YES!
c. EH?

THE RESULTS

If you answered anything but b) to the last question, get out of my house, you ignorant philistine.  And if you answered EH?, leave too, because you can’t be bothered to play my tunes.  That’s why you don’t know what’s going on, bloody cheapass!

You want the other results, don’t you, because you think I may actually have some insight to offer?  Say it with me...really?  You just answered your own niggling questions, my lovelies, but because you need someone to tell you what you already know, you continue to give your money to a bunch of idiots who claim to have all the answers.  Ahem.  I will proceed.

1. Does he want you to move your ass the fuck on?

If at any point you picked the first song, ’Billie Jean’, my friend, the writing is on the wall.  Not only is your new found relationship on its death bead, the priest is standing over its rapidly cooling body smearing olive oil on its poor forehead.  Let it go, accept and move on.  Don’t even try and tell me sijui it has a funky beat, I gave you options.

I know (and you know I know this one only too well), this is a hard one to accept, because odds are you’re hoping he feels, how do you say, different.  In his defence though, it’s possible that he realised that it wasn’t going to work out only after he got to know you better, and found out that you have the unfortunate habit of picking your nose in public, and now he’s trying to figure out how best to bump you off.   Odds are he has taken to ignoring your phone calls, and texts, and generally being unavailable. Sound familiar?  You, my dear, are his Billie Jean.  Leave now while you still have some pride left, before you get to my CSW levels of desperation (creepy stalker woman, by the way, not commercial sex worker, although desperate times do call for desperate measures, no?  Perhaps not.).

For forty days and forty nights,
The law was on her side,
But who can stand when she’s in demand,
Her schemes and plans,
Cause we danced on the floor in the round,
So take my strong advice,
Just remember to always think twice...

Yes, it’s disappointing, but tell me you haven’t met a guy and realised he wasn’t quite what you were expecting, a month or two down the line?  You do it too, often I’m guessing.  Well, shoe’s on the other foot, so get over it, and get over yourself, and move on with your fine self.  More fish in the sea and what not.

2. Does he want to feel your ass, and not much else?

Love is a feeling,
Give it when I want it,
’Cause I’m on fire,
Quench my desire,
Give it when I want it,
Talk to me woman,
Give in to me...

If you picked ’Give In To Me’ (for ye stubborn buggers who still haven’t played the tunes, that would be the second track), especially in reply to number 1, then yours is lust.  Good growling lust, because you must have growled, in a good way, no?  The good news is, if you picked the same song for him in number 4, then you’re both horny little bastards.  Enjoy your blissfully carnal relationship.  At least until one of you gets bored and moves on in search of a new high.  I’m just saying...

If, however, this song was picked only once, then you might have a bit of a problem, because you two are not on the same page.  If you think this song describes how he feels for you, then you already know that he’s looking for a little sumthin’ sumthin’.  Yes, he may also be looking for love and happiness, all that good stuff, but if he was then you’d probably have picked the third song.  Come now, no one who wants more than sex readily admits to the object of their affection not wanting more as well, we are nothing if not delusional, no?  Unfortunately for us, if it walks like a duck, and it talks like a duck, my lovely, odds are it will fuck like a bloody duck (unless it’s a brightly coloured chicken masquerading as a duck, in which case...you’re a bit fucked, possibly over. Ah well...).  What should you do?  Well, you can hold out long enough for him to get tired of waiting and bugger off in search of an easier target.  Or perhaps he’ll relent and give you the deep and meaningful relationship you want, sans the sex he wants.  Then again, he might relent, and all the while keep getting what he wants from another, but at least you won’t be the one getting screwed.

I am so bad at this motivation crap, it’s a miracle I haven’t been sued yet...

The moral of the song is this.  If he’s growling lustily and you’re dancing through the proverbial flowers, Disney fantasy in mind, then do the safe thing and walk on by, you’ll live to prance another day.  Put differently, a single swallow doth not a summer make, so don’t go thinking if you shag him he’ll be more inclined to stick around. He won’t.

3. Is he feeling you?

The reason this comes last is because it’s a process of elimination, think Ockham’s razor, but with a slightly blunt razor (hence my possibly flawed logic).  Assuming that you’ve decided that the man isn’t trying to exit stage right, and he’s not just interested in your honey, honey, then you have no choice but to conclude that he’s interested in you, all of you, not just your woman bits.  Hence the song, ’I Just Can’t Stop Loving You’, a syrupy ballad if ever I heard one.  Hang on, not so fast.  Don’t start tripping fantastic yet, just because MJ likes to wax lyrical about love, that doesn’t mean you should, the man was not sane, and apparently he was high on expensive shit too (explains the genius bit though).  Feeling you does not equal love, it just means he wants more than a warm body on a cold night.  Remember, it’s early days yet.

You know how I feel,
This thing can’t go wrong,
I’m so proud to say I love you,
Your love’s got me high,
I long to get by,
This time is forever, love is the answer...

You really picked this song?  Remind me again how you ended up on my cynical blog?  I worry for you...

I’m guessing your romantic behind is not too satisfied with my simple elimination theory, yes?  Not enough drama for you?  Fine, let’s try a less scientific approach.  You could make like a creepy woman and engage in a bit of subterfuge, such as we do, stalk his facebook page, his twitter account, his home address, his work address, his bar...hell, just stalk the man, live and in person, if you feel so led.  You know, the usual.  Problem is, all that gets you is a lot of information about his drinking habits and his favourite football team, and not much else.  So he recently friended a girl with a hot picture and a stated fondness for body shots (and reading, because the hot chicks on facebook just love to read, don’t they?), that doesn’t mean he’s taking shots off her seemingly tight body, does it?  Does it?  The answer we’re looking for is no, yes?  Nod now.  Good girl.  Rather than drive yourself mad with random pieces of information, why not try the new improved Kai ni kii? approach, proven to work in most situations (not) involving normal people?  See, all you have to do is...wait for it...nothing.  Wait, don’t leave, there’s more.

Doing nothing is not as nothing as it sounds.  You simply need to sit back and watch, and listen.  If the man is feeling you, then the poor bastard can’t help himself, he’ll tell you, and show you, and then beg you if you appear unconvinced.  All you have to do is figure out what language he’s speaking, because you know he no speaka da english.  And how do you do that?  Do I even need to say it?  That’s right, wait for Book 3.

Yes, I’m laughing, and yes, it’s evil my laughter.  And yes, I do in fact have a lot of spare time on my hands, clearly.

POSTSCRIPT
The Only Relationship Book You Ever Need To Buy is definitely worth a read, and the comments are even better.