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” 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.

About silwaxxy2013

Civil Engineer in the making, moved like a kite in the wind
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