Sex…sexes… and MORE SEX!!!

Our generation-the Y generation- has been accused of a lot of failings in our culture but the inability to talk about sex isn’t one of them. (Caroline Mutoko is constantly bitching about the Y generation nosedive on radio). Sex.  It’s something we do, we do it a lot, and we do it well- at least, most people claim to. If you listen keenly though, most of our sexual talk is simply an attempt to avoid addressing real issues concerning sex. Gossip about what, or who we do, who we want to have our way with or who is bonking who are fine as far as they go but they are more licentious than liberating.  It is rare for people to open up about their true sexual feelings, needs or fantasies. Difficulty in expressing intimacy is endemic to being human although their manifestations may be influenced by gender, religion, race, ethnicity and class factors.

While talk about sex has become a salient and a seemingly vital part of our culture today, honest discussion about sex is as scarce as a good Kenyan love song (am sorry but it’s true, Kenyans are not smooth). We, including I, find it hard to talk about the more intimate aspects of our sexual lives; not how many times we get laid in a week ,but how we felt about it and what it meant to us. Masturbation, the most natural, common and private sexual act most of us engage in (some with astonishing regularity) is never discussed. I went out on a limb and asked a handful of people what was the one single thought in their minds while they pleasured themselves. Well, you can guess how fast most people clammed up on the subject. I had obviously ventured into dangerous territory. The results I got from those who chose to participate in my little pseudo-Synovate survey were, though interesting, more or likely the same.

Most of the guys thought about women. The women they were physically attracted to. Not how much they liked/loved their “awesome” personalities or bird nest weaves, but how it would feel to have their warmth wrapped around their oh-so- magnificent-helmeted warriors of love. (The Internet has very funny penis metaphors). Others answers I got were: nothing…blankness…oblivion…peace; How good it felt; to cum! ...cum!!...CUM!!! ; past experiences, mixed with vivid imagination (read BDSM); giant synthetic breasts; bubble booties; girl on girl action; being penetrated; a woman’s supplicating moan and anal sex. From these findings, I couldn’t figure out if these were true fantasies or if most were masking their genuine thoughts with worn out, commercialized erotic porn site fantasies.

A number of women refused to admit to ever pleasuring themselves in their whole lives. Hardly surprising in a culture where most sexual feelings are considered bad or taboo. Women are encouraged to be independent, successful, beautiful, but God forbid overtly sexual. Scriptures are non-sparing on other sexual situations and pervasions, in great detail no less, but when it comes to masturbation, they are interestingly silent on the issue. Nevertheless, religion and strict moral upbringing has contributed to women suppressing their sexuality and curiosity to well…flick the bean. It is considered “dirty” and “slutty” by few. Others are overwhelmed by the intensity of their own desires; they are scared they might get addicted to self love. They fail to realize that refusing to succumb to our sexual frustrations in that manner may only worsen the situation. We are sexual volcanoes and without occasional self assisted release we are likely to blow up or shut down completely, which is more often the case. Yet another group believes that once they achieve orgasm that way they are never going to be able to do so with their partners essentially demonstrating lack of faith in their lovers’ sexual ability. The remaining considers masturbation a substitute for sex and would rather save their excitement for their partners.

The ease in which we, the Y generation, talk about intercourse stems from a desire of self expression and an urge to be socially rebellious. We have learned to use our sexuality as a way to disrupt social and sexual status quo and to make our presence felt in the world. As a consequence, this has blurred the ability and importance of talking about a more personal private sexuality. An intimate personal language of passion and desire has been replaced by a dialogue filled with rhetoric and language of commercialized pornographic phrases combined with advertising slogans. Evocative but not provocative. We can chat about sex all day without ever revealing personal things about ourselves.

If we are to grow as a generation, we have to breach our inhibitions, anxieties and terrors and have open honest conversations about our actual thoughts, sexual fears and longings.

AN APPLE A DAY KEEPS THE DOCTOR AWAY…if aimed right!

Poor diet…could be; living with my dad is like living in campus hostels! You basically live hand to mouth and more often than not eat junk. Don’t get me wrong, the old man doesn’t starve us or rather he doesn’t intend to. Let me try and make you understand. First of all, he knows diddly squat about how a kitchen is run or food preparation.

Me: Dad, there is no flour to make chapattis

Dad: what about those ones?

Me: those are self raising flour…

Dad: it says wheat on the packet, why can’t you use it?

Me: they have baking powder in them 

Dad: well, you are not going to bake the chapattis. What difference does it make?

Me: *face palm*

Imagine dealing with that on everything about everything. Secondly, he thinks we are all crooks; always trying to swindle money for food to fund airtime and imbibe in alcohol and genetically modified foods (KFC). Consequently, the kitchen budget is tight. Whoever’s turn it is to ask for money should have thoroughly prepared to be subjected to the third degree and a budget review that could put the Ministry of Finance to shame. Not forgetting to mask items like Royco and pilau masala as soap and any other “sensible” items as a must-have because my grandmother cooked for him scrumptious healthy meals without those “unnecessary embellishments that lack nutritional value.” You can never hear the end of that one! Lord, December cannot get here fast enough for my mother to come save us from this spices Nazi!!

Menstruation…

Before I forget to let you in on what am blogging about. I suspect I am anemic again (it’s that word again that worries me) hence attempting to carry out a clinical diagnosis based on signs and symptoms and possible supporting factors.  I am aware that medical students are inclined to hypochondria and self diagnosis is prone to error therefore potentially dangerous and frowned upon by physicians. I just don’t want to leave my cocoon for non prescription medication. Don’t look at me like that, wouldn’t you want to be sure before you pay consultation fee of Ksh. 500 for stupid Paracetamol!

Aaarggghh!!The horror..the horror!!

Where was I?  Oh menstruation! “Each month, the blood sheets down like good red rain ~Erica jong.” Well, that can’t be good if your BMI is already slightly underweight. This brings me to the psychological exploitation bellied by false advertising. Sanitary towel companies leave a lot to be desired when they deliberately omit the ugly truths about the “time of the month,” which is EVERYTHING about the process. Cramps, bloating, fatigue, change in sex drive, breast tenderness, nausea and mood swings.  I am yet to meet a woman who is “happy always” and “free” to choreograph dance moves with foreign synthetic fibers stuffed between her legs.

Parasitic worms…as horrifying as the thought is wriggling, fornicating and ferocious intestinal parasites may have possibly inhabited my gut.  That would explain the sporadic hunger pangs, pica and insomnia. Talk about uninvited guests at every meal!  They gobble down everything I eat, with or without Royco and have the nerve to wait until it’s all nicely digested before helping themselves to the finer stuff like vitamins, minerals and simple sugars! Like all ungrateful guests they most surely defecate all over my gut, secrete toxins and invite all manner of pathogens to this unsanctioned bash. In the event I do have worms (which you know euww!), I expect to soon be grunting and gnashing my teeth in the toilet with no result from my rear end. In the lucky event the aforementioned grunting yields fruit, the resulting stool is nothing to write home about. This will also demonstrate my grasp of concept in microbiology unit...which is a good thing.

In retrospect, I would much rather prefer leeching intruders in my gut than a malignant “blood eating” tumor or a primary immunodeficiency. Anemia is more often than not a symptom of an aggressive underlying ailment or body deficiency. I have to admit that its dumb being a sitting duck waiting for the weekend so that Wolf can kiss it away whilst possibly endangering my health and wellbeing.  In as much as self diagnosis is inexpensive and convenient, it’s better to be safe than sorry so here is to paying Ksh. 500 and then some for de-wormers and Ranferon…ALBEIT GRUDGINGLY!

BLIND DATES AND BLEEDIN ‘ HEARTS!

I have the unfortunate knack of attracting the douchiest, whackiest, creepiest...human beings on this planet. I am pretty sure if intelligent extraterrestrial life actually existed, and not that crop circle cock and bull, my telepathic channel would be jammed by a majority of arsehats and weirdo aliens. Eventually, it would be detrimental to my overall well being and soon my brain would start leaking through my nose.

 It does feel like a cosmic joke sometimes. The gods and guardians of the universe get this demure  pretty young woman, all cheek bones and knees, child-like nature and a voice to match, spray her generously with creep trail pheromones then sit back and watch from the heavens as her life unravels. In as much as my better twisted, dark half knows me better than most people, Wolf would  probably join the masses in suspecting that some of my claims are grossly exaggerated or figments of my wild imagination; I swear to you (and you all know it’s bad to swear) you cannot make this stuff up!

Once I spent 8 hours …8 long excruciating hours listening to this guy I just met days before, prattle on about himself and his imaginary wealth and admiration for Hitler (yes the Nazi)! I could not get a word in edgewise and not for a lack of trying. So the whole time I sat there with this baffled expression on my face which he must have mistaken for interest and awe. When I finally couldn’t take a word more or will my ears to bleed profusely and drown the self delusional sanctimonious prick, I asked him politely to leave; to which he replied he couldn’t because the rain had just started drizzling and he was asthmatic. Though I hoped for the sake of humanity he would go into an asthmatic coma there and then, I still couldn’t find it in me to kick him out!

Wasn’t that bad right?  Okay let me up the ante. One time, I was chatting with this acquaintance I had made a few weeks back and when I had my back turned this Neanderthal  jumped me, pinned my hands to my sides, his hard member pressing into my inner thigh and in the ensuing struggle a searing pain shot through my chest. Rapist son of a bitch had bit my boob!  What a wimp! Back then I must have weighed 45 kg but he still opted for the sneak attack. When I finally managed to wrestle him off me and barricade myself in the house, he said and I quote “there is no denying there is something strong between us” I sure hoped he was referring to his teeth on my breasts. Well, the creep stalked me for weeks after that and I had to call in favors and muscles to scare him way.

These were just but a few acquaintances worth mentioning.  Strangers have not been left out of the skewed sense of being swept off my feet…literally. I was at a rave in Westlands (I don’t understand the attraction of freaks, perverts and teenage boys to Westlands. The clubs are really tiny spaces with no seats). There I was, forever young, riding a vodka high, wiggling my bony behind to intoxicated oblivion, when suddenly I couldn’t feel my feet planted on the floor yet I was moving…floating.  I was being carried off by a strange hideous man…probably to the trunk of his car, I couldn’t know for sure.  The shocker is I have been a close victim of dance floor abduction on two different occasions, with two different strange weird men!! What are the odds of that happening to a person twice?! Luckily, my male friends came to my rescue...on both occasions.  One of the abductors actually stalked me the whole night in that club. At one point, I thought he had gotten bored and left or had  been scared off by my “protection detail” and I attempted to go back to the dance floor when rough hands grabbed me by the belt and it broke off at the buckle as I made a run for it.

The funniest club encounter was this tipsy old geezer in his fifties who kept on slobbering in my ear about how he loves me and asking if I loved him back, his arms tight around my waist as I tried to wriggle free. It was paternalistic and creepy. My skin crawled out of sheer revulsion; I scrubbed myself like a rape victim when I got home! Those are among the few experiences that I have managed to get over.

You are probably thinking I just have bad run in with men but good people, women have pulled a number on me too! Back in the day when all my relationships were at the peak of dysfunction and Wolf would have gladly set me up on a blind date with a bag of shit just to appease my temperament or whatever twisted experiment or test I was on depending on the shape and position of the moon. I went on one of the most memorable blind dates ever. Suffice to say, it was horrible! She came in red Bata bathroom slippers…I am not that much of a snob but I draw the line at slippers; you only get one chance at first impressions. I didn’t however pretend to answer a call and cross the road in spite my instincts urging me to. Her smile revealed this arresting gap between her front teeth. Honestly, it was distracting. One of the things she did happen to mention after exchanging the usual awkward pleasantries was that she didn’t have any money on her (surprise! surprise!). I bought her a soda and watched transfixed, the straw wobbling between her teeth as she slurped noisily. She proceeded to tell me her whole life story at the orphanage, her adopted family and unmasked desperation for somebody to smother between those bra-less mounds. Turning her down wasn’t a walk in the park either. She inquired on why she couldn’t be my happily-ever-after and what sacrifices she was prepared to make to be my type, though she failed to mention the slippers. I tried to break it down for her in the simplest, roundabout way possible but it was like explaining alpha behavior to a lap dog. Despite Wolf’s insistence to split, I stuck it out till she was done.  She eventually gave up and asked me to hook her up with my least favorite ex. I didn’t. Not to toot my own horn, but I am a nice person…too nice maybe.

I finally had enough of blind dates when I had lunch with these two butch women, on separate occasions who tried to go all PDA on me during the date yet I barely knew them; talked about their ex-girlfriends and imaginary haters the whole time. After the date, they incessantly called and texted. One of them actually dropped the L-bomb before the night was over. When I finally got fed up, I stopped picking calls and texting back. She went all psycho on a text message and never contacted me again!(phew!). Some lesbians do U-haul on the first date!!!

Consequently, I have become jaded and disenchanted about meeting new people, making new friends and going on first dates. When you meet that one person who keeps you on your toes, in constant wonderment; someone you can talk to about everything under the sun, have deep discussions with, gossip with, get stoned, drunk and stupid with; fight, cry and whine to, have bitch fits at; who makes you smile, blush furiously and laugh hysterically, life is good. At the end of the day, the consummation of our passion takes me to the edge of nowhere and back to earth! Red riding hood is in no hurry to meet up for that one drink. She is supercalifragilisticexpealidociously trotting across the sands of time with the Wolf on her scent trail!

HAVING YOUR CAKE AND EATING IT… (You greedy swine!)

For starters, congratulations to me for not having used a cuss word in my first sentence. F or those who have had the pleasure of interacting with me know how monumental that is. This is not to imply that I go about  my daily interactions like one of those annoying vulgar blithering morons,… we all have our moments, don’t we? I really don’t mean to call bisexuals gluttonous pigs. Well I do but then again I don’t.(oh just stay with me on this)  Human sexuality is a gem with many facets, I’m not one to judge, discriminate or condemn, though I draw my line at rapists.

Wolf, the ying to my yang, in one of those psychoanalytic philosophical episodes (read stoned moments) tried to explain to me how initial seemingly insignificant events culminate into large unforeseen consequences over time. An example being the simple tipping over of dominoes. (Did I hear you ask what the hell dominoes are?)  For those of us who played actual games outside, recall this movie “butterfly effect”…starring Ashton Kutcher and his hair…those flared hipster trousers were just in…Kenyan music scene awash with that group “necessary noise” … good times.(Dude, she is too young for you if she was still in diapers trying to make sense of teletubbies when this movie hit)For those who blockbusters continuously pass them by, like my wolf, we shall remember you by updating Google and Wikipedia entries. The movie is self explanatory. (I don’t have to give you everything, do I?)

Yes… I don’t hate bisexuals; there must have been a chain reaction of events in their lives that led to that sexual orientation. No one can purport to play judge and jury unless you have lived in those same shoes. Life is ridiculously short, I advocate live and let live. I still would never consider dating a bisexual woman. This raises the question.To start off it’s just gross.  Not to come off as porn-like and R-rated in my first post I will use butterflies, crayons, coloring as euphemism for you-know-what. Here goes; I do not wish to color on a butterfly that has been colored using crayons because the idea  of being in contact with crayon residue makes me sick to my stomach, I do hope you have caught my drift by now. Just writing that has got all sorts of nasty images in my head. My imagination tends to be wild and free, knowing no bounds!  (That’s the definition of imagination you boring prudes!)Second, risks of getting heinous incurable STDs and STIs are heightened. One just needs to trawl online pictures, medical journals and entries, what you will come across is enough to make you asexual. More so when there is no way to initially ascertain whether the bisexual woman in question is a skanky tramp or uses protection with her boyfriends. Men lie, women lie, it’s hard enough to take precaution during woman to woman sex! Dental dams are expensive and hard to come by.  As if venereal genital warts and purulent discharges are not enough, why don’t I just throw in unplanned pregnancies into the mix and voila! A colossal mess is born!

Many bisexual women do it for sexual experimentation. Trying to discover what makes them tick, Going along for the adventure perhaps just to say they kissed a girl once and liked it. (thank you katy perry!!) I for one am least interested in being a post adolescent or premenopausal sexual crisis lab rat! (Do spare my feelings and get nipple rings instead!!)One of my many childish fears is comparison. In my head she will always compare me to him in every aspect of the relationship. For some unexplained reason many of them expect you to be 100% on board with dating you and a guy concurrently just to have the best of both worlds. (This is where I come off calling them greedy pigs!!). Despite the modern notion that what a man can do a woman can do tenfold better, in this particular case, it’s simply not a level playing field.  They say men are from mars and women Venus; they are bound to bring radically different things to the table. Thence comes the pros and cons, weighing of options, relationship vetting process, consequently unhealthy competition would stem from that. I wouldn’t risk throwing my hat in that ring. (Need I disclose my fragile ego?)There is a fine line between having a bisexual girlfriend and having one of those friends-with-benefit arrangements that is lost on many bisexuals or at least the ones I’m acquainted with or have heard about. They have this irking tendency to volunteer tid bits about the men they are with or have been with in gruesome graphic details. It’s obvious how it titillates their fancy yammering on about their experiences when coloring with crayons. You are thrown into the role of agony aunt and before you and know it your breaking a bottle of beer over some innocent guys head because you can’t get the image of his rough hands on her bossom,backside and wherever else there is flesh to fondle! Oh sweet rage!(Am dark and twisty)

Regardless of the coloring, I don’t want to know what has been coloring your butterfly and neither does anybody with a pulse who is interested that way…fetishes are exempted. (Citing the butterfly effect, what do you think happened to an individual whose fetish is gang rape?)At the end of the day, its prince charming who gets to take her home to his well meaning but judgmental and overbearing mother.Its prince charming who gets to give her babies and get a pat on the back at the drinking den if it’s a boy.Its prince charming who gets to be her happily ever after if such a concept truly exists! Despite nay saying bisexuality, I suppose it all boils down to personal preferences. Loving an individual and not a label. To each his own, right? All  I know is I don’t want to be the one left behind jaded and desolate, holding a rainbow banner on a float in a gay pride parade because our heteronormative homophobic society will always win by default.Nobody gets to have their cake and eat it in my world!