Date a girl who reads by Rosemarie Urquico

“You should date a girl who reads

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends
her money on books instead of clothes. She has
problems with closet space because she has too
many books. Date a girl who has a list of books
she wants to read, who has had a library card
since she was twelve.

 
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does
because she will always have an unread book in
her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the
shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly
cries out when she finds the book she wants.
You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an
old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the
reader. They can never resist smelling the
pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that
coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek
at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating
on top because she’s kind of engrossed already.
Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit
down. She might give you a glare, as most girls
who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her
if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of
Murakami. See if she got through the first
chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she
says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s
just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if
she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her

books for her birthday, for Christmas and for
anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in
poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound,
Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you
understand that words are love. Understand
that she knows the difference between books
and reality but by god, she’s going to try to
make her life a little like her favorite book. It
will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will
understand your need to lie. Behind words are
other things: motivation, value, nuance,
dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that
failure always leads up to the climax. Because
girls who read understand that all things will come
to end, but you can always write a sequel. That
you can begin again and again and still be the
hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are
not? Girls who read understand that people,
like characters, develop. Except in
the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close.
When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book
to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of
tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple
of hours but she will always come back to you.
She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are
real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during
a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s
sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why
your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over
your chest yet. You will write the story of your
lives, have kids with strange names and even
stranger tastes. She will introduce your
children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe
in the same day. You will walk the winters of
your old age together and she will recite Keats
under her breath while you shake the snow off
your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it.

You deserve a girl who can give you the most
colorful life imaginable. If you can only give
her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked
proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you
want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a
girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

Who died and made you GOD?

Religion is a central element in civilization that propagates basic values and ethical codes which provide integration to personality and cohesion to society. It plays an important role in the society.  This, unfortunately, is gradually turning into an excuse to exercise appalling barbarity. “If Christ was here, there is one thing he would not be; a Christian.”-Mark Twain- (he was an atheist eh?)

I do not want to stereotype a vast and diverse segment of the world population, but from personal experience…those who purport to be staunch “saved” Christians are the meanest pricks out there.  Have they always been this harsh, judgmental and intolerant and am I just starting to notice? Is Christianity deteriorating into a phony empty and hollow to the core religion? 

Who are these Christians? You pose that question.

These Christians who practice selective morality, where what suits them  and is palatable they cling to like saran wrap and shove down other people’s throats then ignore silently what is  obnoxious, inconvenient or self  denying. Excuse: applicable only to people who lived 2000 years ago. These bible thumping Christians, who will test you and wear you down to a few vertebrae and a pool cerebral spinal fluid, with randomly crammed verses to appear more superior in knowledge of God’s word. These Christians who give to the poor to be recognized by fellow men…posting your visit to children homes photos on every social site you can find.

Let one with no sin cast the first stone? That verse has obviously been omitted in most of your holy books. Born again Christians, quick to condemn sexual immorality (homosexuality) but are not too concerned about their lust. I will stay on this…obviously. If I can remember from my scanty knowledge of the bible, it says, ALL sex outside marriage is a sin. It doesn't matter if you have a long time “saved” boyfriend/girlfriend, you’re divorced, widowed or having same sex relations. It’s all sin and no sin is greater than the other. So where do these Christians get off calling homosexuals all sorts of derogatory unprintable filth in the name of “hating the sin, not the sinner.” Treating animals better than fellow human beings. Appointing yourselves as judge, jury and executioner. WHO DIED AND MADE YOU GOD?

You act like you are immune to wrong doing and sin. One barely sees past the huge mahogany logs jutting out of their eyes but they can clearly see the speck in their neighbors’ eye? Eh? Do not lie to us boss; you go on putting emphasis on the tiniest of religious details and ignore the most important and basic truths that this Christ you claim has saved you taught: love for God, secondly love for your neighbor. 

I do not go to church. I did not like it every time I tried. What with people prancing in like show ponies; cliques, I kid you not, like high school. The preaching of two faced idealism then passing these teachings off as “God’s personal feelings” (God hates fags). The intense focus on getting converts which ended up making me feel like a target to fulfill a quota rather than a spiritually impoverished human being. Being guilt tripped from here to Timbuktu about getting “saved” or baptized. What of the speaking in tongues, barking, holy laughter, convulsing and all that jazz…its loud, confusing, I can barely hear my own petition with all that going on and its arrogant to assume that certain spiritual experiences make you  better than everybody else . Pride: one of the seven deadly sins. It’s okay to be proud to be a Christian, but not en route to a put-down of your neighbor; “I am saved because of it but you are headed straight for hell to burn in sulfur and brimstone*smirks*.” All that and etcetera was enough to turn me off worldly churches and into my personal quiet time to commune with God without secondhand dilution by some middleman with an agenda.

I am calling on all of you to question the validity of calling yourselves Christians.  Where is the problem? Is your faith something you were born into; you know how to act, what to say but it wasn’t your choice, consequently it’s not real? Do you view your faith as intellectual knowledge and behavioral compliance, where you follow all the given rules and regulations (loopholes) but your hearts do not reflect that? Sowing seeds of tribalism and homophobia wherever you step, that shit is not cool. You are risking peoples’ lives, especially those who are in support of that Ugandan bill where homosexuality is punishable by death if that bill is passed. Non Christians seem nice and more caring than you lot; probably because their consciences are stronger and clearer.

Nothing seems to faze you though; your life is secure in heaven. Who gives a flying rat’s arse eh? At this point those suicide bombing jihadist people are looking pretty good from here. They actually give up their lives for what they believe in…they die and go away. We are stuck with this brand of mean spirited hypocritical cunts day in day out, with all that hate, negativity and judgment.

Jesus Christ simplified it for all of us. LOVE. Spread that gospel this election season, won’t you?

KISSED A FROG BEFORE?

Being single, especially after being in an exasperating, emotionally drenching, unfulfilling relationship is great; fantastic even. Up to the point where you get lonely and forget somebody’s bad qualities. You even think you miss them; get back with them and it's plain awful! A fine example of Rihanna, lovely dame, with the kind of bruised sensuous beauty that incites male aggression and the rancor of unfulfilled desires…bottom line: she can GET IT, ALL OF IT! -and she did. Unfortunately, not in the titillating BDSM way we all imagined.  By the time Chris Brown was done, her right eye was lost in the swelling flesh that had been her face and her clothes were soaked in her blood, snot and tears. Who knew Chris Brown was such a massive douche bag! Months down the line here she is, shining bright like a diamond , right next to the guy who had the cahones to tattoo her battered face on his neck, barely before his bruised knuckles had healed…like some kind of sociopathic trophy!  

The nerve!

I do not mean to reprove her actions; though I would give an arm to know what in the goddamn universe is Chris Brown giving her; citing that she is already beautiful, talented, rich and famous. We have at some point in life pulled a Rihanna, not necessarily in the extreme face battering sense. I for one am guilty of kissing the same douche-y frog twice. This week I am in the mood of exorcising those ego-bruising memories. In retrospect, I honestly doubt this woman ever gave a flying rat’s arse about me. Obviously, there were glaring warning signs, which for the life of me I don’t know why I ignored. Here goes my long-awaited bitch-fest!!

This post pubescent emotional bully would make snide comments about my body size or lack thereof. Lord knows how much that gets on my nerves. “Put down the cupcake then we can talk” (am I right??!). In what universe is this considered foreplay? Undress a woman then derisively call her pimple-chested with boy hips and expect to tap that?? (According to Wolf’s knowing hands, I am sufficiently endowed in those areas; well beyond training bras and padded underwear). If I did give a hoot about her lack of a filter, I would have kicked her in the lady balls and stomped away in a huff. But I didn’t care, and I was no more evolved than an alley cat on heat then. (*chuckle*) She was a walking contradiction especially since she would bash and make rude remarks about plus-sized women yet she wasn’t exactly a size 10. I never understood what that was about.

Another irritating behavior was constantly bringing up stale tales of exotic melon breasted women who were after her (for some reason, they sounded like they had gigantic synthetic porn star breasts!!), how many she had had carnal knowledge of and then in the same breath say I am a player, with a hint of accusation in her voice. She was mean-spirited too. One time she said my finger felt like a baby’s penis inside her. Total lady bone killer! I never made an attempt to pleasure her again after that. I was absolutely comfortable with being a pillow queen with her rather than get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome for thankless work though it was unfamiliar territory for me. I could live without the physical aspect of the relationship. It wasn’t exactly toe-curling! I don’t understand how some women do that; just lie there like a sack of potatoes and wait to spew forth cum. Don’t you get terribly bored? I will not even get into her Mercurial temperament. It would have been like living with the Hulk had I dared U-haul that one.

I finally had it to my pubes when this heifer went to the extreme of asking if she could make squelches with my younger teenage sister. The sheer nerve, regardless of whether she was joking or not (she wasn't) . I was so mad my butt twitched every time I thought of her. I suppose that would make her an ephebophile, which still sounds as rapy as pedophile.  Even Wolf‘s highly perceptive sense of people hadn't made me realize I was dating a vapid shallow black hole of a human being until then. It wasn't worth the short term happiness and superficiality I was striving for. I cut my losses and headed for the hills.

I had hardly healed when I met her couple of months later in town, uterus to her knees with child stomping around with the grace of a drunken hippo (she wasn't really that big I am just being mean; let me have it). I was more relieved than shocked. Given, I didn't even know she swung that way! The baby twinkie jab finally made sense; she could eat a bag of wieners for all I cared now! I believe I dodged a bullet with her and I was very grateful; who knows? She could have potentially risked my health by having undercover, black ops, unprotected sex with men. With all that cathartic venting aside, I wasn't the least bit deterred as I still went on to explore the deepest recesses of a few frog mouths before I finally let Wolf yank me from the cold moss covered pond and make an honest woman out of me.

FIFTY SHADES OF SOMETHING…

I don’t have girlfriends…let me rephrase that. I don’t have a coven of b/witches to hide behind as I fling poop at the unsuspecting masses *chuckles*. At least that’s what I have observed to be the main purpose of girlfriends since high school.  Look at somebody the wrong way in the dining hall and as soon as night preps are concluded, a search party is sent to your room, complete with dogs and trench coats, as you camp out in another house/dorm. In the event these gossipy superficial mean spirited materialists don’t find you, they are likely to overturn your beddings as a message, or wait for the next entertainment session and throw a shoe at your head as soon as lights go off in the TV room. Okay I may have exaggerated a little. You do (have to) agree there is something about having cronies that make individuals seem invincible and develop balls the size of melons.  

The desire to tend and befriend is ingrained in most females; but I don’t have friends… I have individual friends, just not that kind of “crony-ship”. The kind that you seek advice from, provide love hugs and a heartfelt primary support in times of distress e.g. when Wolf and I broke up once again for the umpteenth time. For the first time ever I resented my precious autonomy. Suddenly the surround sound bitching, the over familiarity and toxic over-sharing didn’t look that exasperating.

If you still think I let slip my break up without making a melodramatic gabfest out of it, You-should-know-people *chuckles*. Wolf and I annulled the unceasing onslaught of dysfunction we called a relationship. Oh hold onto your knickers foxes, it was for a minute; still spoken for. I went through the five stages of loss and I will share.

Denial and isolation: it is a normal reaction to attempt to rationalize overwhelming emotions. I initially wanted to believe it was just a rough patch. We were good together. Nobody just throws away 2 years over a lovers tiff, right? Wrong.

Anger: masking effects of denial and isolation begin to wear, reality and pain rears its ugly head. At this point, you want to curve a new fuck hole on a bitch’s torso and fist it! I refused to fully acknowledge this part of the process. My own anger terrifies me, so I tend to suppress it a lot of times. Wolf says I bottle up too much and just like a shaken can of soda, I will explode when I get the chance. I definitely don’t look forward to that.

Bargaining:  A need to regain control: The “if only I had” stage. If only I had given Wolf an outlet to vent frustrations with me. If only I hadn’t stayed home that fateful weekend. If only I was a demi-goddess…

Depression:  sadness and regret. I was a cluster of raw nerves, like a giant penis tip. Adverts on TV made me cry. I cried myself to the verge of dehydration a couple of times. Without Wolf, I felt like a brain damaged mule, lost in the desert, striking out alone for the first time. Every time I remembered all the Kodak moments we had, I curled up into a ball and screeched into my pillow.

Acceptance: withdrawal and calm set in. I involved myself in non-stimulating activities, which are only used in Manhattan to calm down drug addicts and the criminally insane (Robin Sherbatsky: HIMYM). I had no capacity for idle talk at this point. Although the masochist and the lover in me wanted Wolf back, I was not going to force, cajole, plead, beg, threaten or/and guilt trip her from here to Timbuktu. I started to let go…my resolve didn’t last, obviously. (I was having a serious case of vag-alzheimers too he he)

Relationships are like doorknobs. No instructions. You are just supposed to know what to do. Yet they always seem so complicated. Ours in particular is Fifty Shades of Grey like, Icarus flying too close to the sun (yes am reading the trilogy, thanks to Wolf and my friend Nelson for the PERFECT birthday gifts). All I know is we are nutbuggersMcloonytoons over each other. If we ever crash and burn, I will probably need years of therapy and electro-shock to get over it. My demon danced with Wolf’s devil and the fiddlers tune is far from over.

I still want friends…need that group of friends strictly from the LGBTI community. It is proving harder each day to be myself around straight folk. There is always a judgmental-hear-no-evil-see-no-evil-vibe they give off. In as much as Wolf is convinced we are not a “people couple” simply because every time I decide we should expand our non-existent social circle, we end up retreating into our own little world, close off and get engrossed in each other the whole time. Bid present company goodbye to “talk” more behind closed doors. I just have to muster the courage to step out of my comfort zone fast. Accepting applications drop your resumes!!! HAPPYNEW YEAR!!!

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!