Brokeness

It has been long since i last blogged but now that the #UgBloggingWeek is here, let me give it a try.

The biggest leap one can take in life is finishing university and move into the cruel world where everyone is willing to take advantage of you.

You may think you have many friends who are genuine but when it comes to money, only a handful are willing to bail you out in case of anything.

Have you ever been so broke that you feared getting out of the house just because someone may entice you to buy something with the last 1k you have?

Have you ever cooked the last half kilo of rice with g.nuts and divided that meal into half such that you can get what to consume for supper?

Have you ever taken tea without sugar and convinced yourself that it’s healthy, yet you just didn’t have money for sugar?

Have you ever moved in a taxi with only a Shs500 coin only to see a guy pull out a 50,000 note to pay the conductor and all you can do is wish that the guy would donate a 2,000 note to you?

Brokeness teaches you so much about life and in any case you get out of it, spend the rest of your life avoiding it.

‘No fingers in my Nini please’, says Chili

Well, this blog started as a real porno story till she gradually slowed it down, on twitter i would say “awa maney” but anyway things happen. I felt it was worth it….hope you enjoy the read.

First he kisses you on the lips. If he is any good he places his lips on yours first then parts your lips and seeks your tongue with his tongue. If you are any good you respond with equal gusto and input. While your lips are relishing each others and your tongues probing further,your hands are feeling and caressing. If you are any good you start by cupping his face in your palms and as you progress, moving those hands down his neck, his chest, his back, while simultaneously freeing his shirt or any restrictions on them. If he is good he would have held you in a warm, tight embrace, with one hand cradling your head. And as he kisses you more urgently, his hand would move down, unzipping, or untying, or unbuttoning your outfit, feeling for your breasts and feeling your breasts. Pause.

You tear yourselves apart to cast off all inhibitions- and all clothing. If he’s good- and you are patient- he undresses you, kissing each exposed body area or body part, tenderly. He lingers on your breasts, licking the nipples, cupping them gingerly. He kisses your stomach, your navel. He stops short of your pelvic area. If he is good he undresses himself quickly and efficiently, flinging his clothes with abandon, never taking his eyes off your face. If you are good you undress him, taking off his shirt, running your hands on his chest, on his nipples, and gently nibbling on them.
Pause.

You both lie down; whether he gently leads you to the bed, or roughly tosses you into it, or you both fall into it, is irrelevant. If he is good he kisses your lips some more, and with his lips traces his way to your breasts giving each equal attention, then to your belly button and down to your jeans or skirt. If he’s good he undoes your belt buckle or your buttons in a flash, lifts your hips up slightly and peels off your jeans. If he’s really good he begins afresh with your breasts and your nipples, with slightly more pressure, as if oblivious to the crazy orchestra playing downstairs. Finally his fingers race downwards, finding their way to your clitoris. He probes… What?! STOP!!!

I HATE fingers! Never understood what the hell they were doing in my most delicate, most sensitive, precious area. To me fingers in my vagina are like two blind men leading each other: stumbling, falling, lacking bearing. What are you looking for? And if you find it will you know? Any time a lover places his fingers in my pussy my mother instinct kicks in. I am thinking,’ did you wash those hands, what was the last thing you touched, will you wash your hands afterwards’. Some men use their fingers to simulate the penis, thrusting and prodding somewhat strategically- I could have done that myself, Sir. Fingers are for caressing the lips of my vagina, and gently holding them open so you can gently flick your tongue on my clit and drive me wild. If I let you, fingers – one finger- is to stick in my ass while you eat my pussy and I writhe and moan. Other than that fingers are abrupt, and rude, and cold. And a turn-off.
And that’s why I hate fingers. Am I the only one who feels this way?

My Nankani is the Revolution by Miss Ruby Woo

Society never wants people to openly express themselves sexually. I had this in mind but was looking for words to express it until i read this nice piece.

I had to use the “Nankani” word because the word “pussy” would raise alarms and the Ugandan police would be at my doorsteps.

The morning after: I am laying in bed, still (on a) high, listening to Crown Royal, thinking about the epicness that was last night.
Oh last night?
Last night was fierce.
It was powerful. Sensual. Healing. So fucking erotic. Last nightwas a reminder of how enriching it is to let yourself get lost in pleasure and desire. It was a reminder of why we need sex-positivity in our movements.
Set the scene: Westlands, Nairobi. Dark smokey room. Electric rainbow lights. And a pole.
Then: Tassels. Lingerie. Thighs. Thickness. Luscious cheeks. Breasts. Legs. Cunt. Tongues. Oooooh-
But wait, let me back up and start from the beginning. Two weeks ago, an Afrifem sister of mine in Nairobi, Zawadi said she was going to organize a stripper party in collaboration with a sex-positive NGO that fights for sexworkers’ rights in Kenya, called Knight Nurse.
Naturally, my interest was piqued.
See, I had never been to a stripper party before. Never engaged in any sex work. Other than your garden-variety Internet porn, I was really new to the world of sex work (-or so I thought, Zawadi and I had a good exchange about this on a ciggy break that night). And yet, the sex-positive feminist I have always claimed myself to be always said that she would do a strip club if the opportunity presented itself. So I was hyped.
So less than one week of heavy advertising on social media, and #MakeItTsunami became a wonderment to many people. For better or worse, everyone was curious about this party. Who would attend? Who would perform? As pictures, promo videos and sultry sexy booty songs were being plastered on twitter and the Facebook event page, I could feel myself growing increasingly hot and bothered by the thought of what
could happen at my very first stripper party. Between this party and the new ebony thang I’ve been seeing, just
walking to the fridge was making me cum that week.

*******
Thursday night: I get dressed and make my way through late night Nairobi traffic to make it to Westlands. After circling Woodvale Grove (aka Electric Avenue) a couple times with a very perplexed and listless taxi driver, we find the venue.
As I make my way upstairs, I can smell sex. Mostly in my head, but I am turnt the fuck up right now. I can feel my pussy pulsating with excitement. It reverberates down to my heels, and now I am floating. A quick e-ticket confirmation. Yellow wristband on. And I am in.
I spot Zawadi in a hot pink skin-tight mini-dress. Her locs pinned up Janelle Monae-style/50s style. Home-girl knows how to command an audience. And I’m here for all of it.
In what seems like 5,4,3,2,1 seconds, I am seated, sippin’ white wine and flirting shamelessly with the Rwandan chick sitting next to me.
There is anxiousness in the air. Anticipation, maybe. We are all awaiting the moment of truth. Zawadi, our hostess with the mo(i)stest announces that the ladies will be ready in less than half an hour. We all continue sippin’ gingerly on our drinks. Everybody’s playing it cool.

***********
Tasha leads the pack. She is first up on the pole. She is soon surrounded by three (3) wildly beautiful young womyn. So let me pause here to say that I always imagined that the strippers in a club would all have the same body types. It was a pleasant surprise to see how diverse these womyn’s bodies were. Each with their own character. Silver Bullet has a leanback with legs for days. Sonia’s titties sit high up in her corset bra -her face, all caramel brown roundness. Bianca’s petite frame sways as she two-steps timidly. Tasha is all ass – and y’all KNOW she is my favourite.
She moves her way to the crowd, and in what seems like a millisecond, Tasha is spread face down, ass up on my table. Her command of furniture is astounding. She is joined by Sonia, who proceeds to apply strawberry yoghurt all over her. Tasha arches her back and cocks her head up in excitement. I am literally 2 feet away from her. She turns her head to reveal desire in her eyes. To my own surprise, I lean in and ask “Can I touch you?”
She responds in the affirmative.
As I gently run my fingers along Tasha’s torso, chest and collar-bone, the men at my table are dumbfounded. They alternate their gaze from me to Tasha to me again.
One man signals me to tell Tasha to turn around to face him. Tasha does not seem to notice this request. I smile sheepishly, but do not acquiesce.
*********
My favourite part of the night, of course is my lap dance from Tasha. I spot Tasha plopped on top of a rotund fella in the middle of the room. He whispers something in her ear. She responds dryly with a peck on his cheek, as she climbs off of him and leans against him in his seat. He places his chubby arm around her waist, occasionally sliding his hand down to caress her ass. I imagine she is bored with him. I imagine she is counting down the minutes until his lap dance is over. My gaze stays fixated on her. I am determined to tame her. Once again, to my own damn surprise, I summon her with my eyes. As she finishes up with Mr. Protruding Belly, she makes her way over to me. She sits down casually and places her hand in my lap.
“Hi.”
“Hi” I giggle.
“You are very cute.” Tasha leans in to whisper.
“Thank you.” More giggling.
“Do you want a lap dance? Only 2000 shillings.” We lock eyes. I smile and nod.
Like a carpenter preparing her workstation, Tasha rises to her feet, places her hands at either side of my thighs, and gently shifts me to the middle of the booth seat. She climbs carefully, intently on my lap. I can see her outer labia peeking out from under her sarong. I can feel the heat rising from my pussy. I want to fuck the shit out of her. But it’s not time for that. Tasha wines her waist in my lap. She pulls my freshly cut head towards her chest with her left hand, while offering her left breast with her right hand. I cup both breasts in my hands. Her nipples are hard in my mouth. I bite down gently.
She moans.
We have already broken rule #1 set out on the Facebook page: “Ask before touching.” [1]
But not a single fuck is given. The baseline is thumping and the white wine has settled in. She is hot for me. Tasha is stacked like a brickhouse. I am at once amazed and embarrassed by how #turnt up and #turnt out I am. This is, after all, a public place. But my Ghanaian Methodist conservative upbringing has long since gone out the window, and no one seems to notice. Not in the least.
Tasha cups my face in her hands. “I think you are beautiful,” she states. My pussy is on fire. I am no longer in control.
“Thank you.” I lower my eyes.
As she continues to ride me, I am euphoric. Tasha appears to be in a sex-induced trance. She dizzies me. I am certain she enjoys this more than I do.
After a few minutes, I look up. “I am wet,” I manage to blurt out.
“I want to see. Can I touch your pussy?” I search her face for a hint of sarcasm. There is none. Tasha is dead serious.
I look around at the dark room, to see if there are any eyes on us. The party-goers seem indifferent, each in their own world of sin. I turn back to Tasha, nodding vigorously. She raises my ankle-length pink chiffon skirt and pulls down my panties. Her fingers press against my orifice. They are warm, like her. She strokes me gently for a couple minutes. I throw my head back in delight.
After what seems like a lifetime of ecstasy, Tasha rises casually and turns around to greet me with her plump buttocks. Before I understand what is happening, she bends over, places her hands firmly on the table in front of me, and positions her legs at either side of me on the booth seat. Tasha is now suspended in air between the table and my booth. Her ass is spread across my lap and I can feel her vagina pressed against my chiffon skirt. I place my hands on her hot flesh, and gently squeeze each butt cheek, parting her warmth to expose her outer labia. Her ass jiggles ferociously. I am dripping buckets.
She wants me to touch her. Down there. This silent request sobers me and I pull back –but only lightly. Tasha knows she is still holding my attention.
She turns her head back to face me. “Touch me,” she gestures.
A smirk across my face, I reach forward to massage my thumbs on her inner labia. I feel wetness. Her legs tremble, but only slightly. Damn. I am undone. I cannot tell if this is the real thing, or if she is just a damn good performer. But fuck it. It no longer matters.
Before I know it, Tasha climbs off of me, and I know my time is up. But I am not salty about it. In fact, I am one satisfied customer. I reach into my purse and pull out two thousand shillings as agreed upon.
In a strange turn of events, Tasha collects the money and embraces me with a hug before strutting off. I am tickled with amusement, as I adjust my chiffon skirt, and reach for my glass of wine.

********
I cannot stress how liberating this night was for me. In a deep and powerful way, sex-workers facilitate the space for us to completely rid ourselves of inhibition and become engrossed in our innermost sexual fantasies. In fact, I am almost embarrassed to say that I spent the entire next day in bed, masturbating a total of five (5) times trying to relive that pleasure.
You see, sometimes, we get so preoccupied with fighting for the improvement of the material conditions of womyn and minoritized folks, that we forget that pleasure is essential to our happiness as human beings, also. Pleasure humanizes us. For those of us who grew up in uber-conservative households, and are just beginning to rid ourselves of the stink that is religious fundamentalism, the importance of experimenting with desire is crucial to our well-being. The other night I lost myself in the world of sexual play that completely transformed the way I understand my sexual body. It was a moment of absolutely zero shame, which is unfortunately rare in my sexual life. I also developed a newfound respect for womyn and men who engage in this work, regardless of their reasons. It was a night without judgment or pretense. That night, I re-learned the idea that my pussy is the revolution, and the revolution is in my pussy. The revolution may not be televised, but it should make us cum.

Straight Girls, Sex and Curiosity by Kagure Mugo

I enjoy reading blogs but after taking my time to read this masterpiece, I felt it would be good to share it….hope you enjoy.

I had always found women intriguing. I did not necessarily see it as a sexual , more like a sense of admiration for everything they were. I was drawn in to how strong they were, how soft at the same time. They were beautiful, wise whilst still sometimes being so hopeful to the point of naiveté. How vulnerable they could be whilst being guarded at the same time. All of this fused together within one entity coming together to form something that is both awe inspiring in its confusion.
The sexual component of my esteem of women was never apparent, but clearly it was omnipresent. The eventual revelation that I was attracted to women should have come as no surprise. I guess it was easier to conceptualise a mental connection rather than physical desirability. But the attraction was there and once it came to light it bloomed. Grew, into something as beautiful and ripe as the women who were the objects of it.

When it came through it was strong. And it was new. And with anything new it was exciting. Especially the sex. It was hot, wet, novel and uninhibited. With no road made on how to be with another woman it was all unchartered territory that was being explored. Questions and curitosities were answered by experiences that only led to more queries and mysteries. Always going deeper, further submerged. The cycle was exhilarating. Everything was fair game, everyone a potential playmate.
Including the numerous straight women I encountered. I did not particularly care at the time what drew them to me.

The ‘courtship’ was the most addictive part. The conversations that skirted around the real issue. The chase in the guise of friendly interaction. The sexual nuances hiding behind platonic gestures. The constant question that hung in the air. It always started with the talk of a boyfriend, a crush or some other male who was the object of amour.  Knowing the nature of my sexual attractions they would be careful to set up defences with these tales, convinced that at any given moment they would become the focus of seduction. They would lay the foundations for a wall, built to keep me out. To keep whatever could potentially happen at bay. What always amused me was the fact that these defences were not so much to keep me out, but to keep themselves in. at no point had I given a hint that an attack on their neatly constructed existence was pending yet they wall was built, sometimes with great haste and fortification. I would sit back and engage with the woman, watching the wall rise higher, thinking how much effort it would be for her to (later) have to tear it down, brick by brick, layer of clothing by layer of clothing.

The war dance would continue, she would build up her defences and I would sit on the outskirts amused and seemingly unarmed. Their words spoke to convince me that under no circumstances would I ever have them, but their bodies said the opposite. As the interaction went on I would become funnier, smarter, more engaging. An outsider would say that I would draw them in but this isn’t necessarily true. They drew themselves in if such a thing is even possible. There is no ‘magic’ on my part. No magnetism. Their curiosity and wants is the gravity that draws them into my atmosphere.

The conversation turns. As it always does with these women. The questions begin to pour out and the curiosity begins to show and with it the first crack in the wall appears. And that was the part that always made me smile. The war dance was over and the terms of surrender would now be discussed. Questions such as ‘what is it like to be with a woman?’ and ‘who is the man in bed?’ begin to set the basis for future peaceful relations. I answer knowing where the conversation is going, where the line of inquiry leads. I must play the game because it is important to them. They cannot simply jump in and ask for what they want. There must be a negotiation, the dance must change from one of war to something else. But it is important there must be a dance. They are not allowed to wonder what I can do in bed, let alone voice it. The man they see over there, they may wonder and possibly speak of it, but not me. So I patiently play the game. Good things are always worth waiting for. I know the curiosity will eventually overpower all other fears and emotions. If questioned why they want to know you will always get the standard ‘I was curious’ but something else simmers below that answers and it is that that propels them forward into the unknown. They want it as much as they want to know about it. There is an adorable element to it all which is underlined by something a little more raw, caged. As part of my quest for excitement I wanted to unleash that, or at the very least see what it was.

On my side all I wanted was that one night. One night in which I would try and tame whatever wild animal lay hibernating beneath the surface. It was callous. It was selfish. It was extremely indulgent. I knew as much as she did it would be one night. Possibly two. For her it was an experience for me it was pure unadulterated sexual pleasure. Feeding that need for that power that stemmed from giving a woman an orgasm and possibly getting one in return. From how I saw it, everyone won.

The dance could be demanding but eventually it all fell away, everything that came before discarded as the music ended. They would eventually offer themselves to me. On my bed they lay bare. On the kitchen floor they expose it all. In the shower all their inhibitions are washed away. Against the wall they sigh out all internal prejudices. All that is left is carnal want that is barely contained within its naked vessel.
I would get my one night. They would come and cloak my reality with their fantasy. I would cover their reality with an air of mystery. I did not have their days but I had their nights. I did not have their midday conversations but I had their midnight moans. There were a lot of things I did not have but I had their secrets, and their bodies. And other than that, I did not care. When I would touch them, they were wet. If I cupped a breast their nipples responded. When I went down on them they gripped my hair and arched their backs. When I pleasured them, they came. And when the dawn came they went.
They left leaving their scent on the pillows, their mark on the sheets. The aroma mixed with the must of sex lingering into the afternoon. The memory of them was always, literally, at my fingertips. I was glad that we did not have to have the awkward conversations about when it was appropriate to leave (right now,) or if anyone should call (no). I was grateful I did not have to spend a fortune on breakfasts. Their fear and confusion as to the intensity of what had just happen would propel them out of the door I so kindly held open for them. Granted some came back, some more than once. It is hard to give up a good thing, if I do say so myself. But even those who did not come back it did not matter, the flow never ran dry (excuse the pun).

As some people say ‘I got mine.’ So at the time I did not care. Now, a little older and wiser, I hope that I left them with something more than a fond memory and tingling between their legs every time they thought about good sex. Reminiscing also got me to thinking about how I wasn’t the only one who continuously swam in the flowing waters of heterosexual curiosity. There were some out there who made me look like an amateur managing to hone it to a fine art that could take them to the Olympics. What I did was only made possible by the fact that this was far more of a natural phenomenon than women (or men for that matter) care to think about. The hot springs of sexual fluidity burst forth from somewhere deep within society wetting the surrounding area.

I chose to bathe in it.

The Girl Named Liz

One thing i’ve learnt in my profession is that you will always meet people…. beautiful or ugly, fully brained or empty and loners or socialists.

One day as I was working, there was this girl who passed and was so lightskinned and cute.
I told my colleague that I would find all possible ways to attract her attention.

As the lightskin and her friend were crossing the road, the friend called her name which I noted.

So as they came back from shopping, I called Liz by her name and she was shocked.
She actually begged to know how I knew her name but I couldn’t let the cat out of the bag.

We later exchanged numbers and I’m yet to take her for pork and a few smirnoffs.

Bottomline is if we actually pay attention to what goes on in life, we may actually shock some who are not paying attention.