…B.O.B. can’t help you take them Vickie Secrets off…
Folks, it’s a new month and that can only mean one thing, we’re headed back into the sewer, and this time we’re going into the deep dark reaches where few go and even fewer return. Mabibi na mabwana, gird your loins and follow me into the dark and murky world of the sex whose name we dare not speak. Not anal sex, you pervert, I’m talking about solo sex, a.k.a. wanking, a.k.a. masturbation. Okay, not masturbation, that just sounds…wrong.
As always, my sewer tale starts at the local, having a drink with a fella who has little to no shame, one who feels the need to tell me things I probably shouldn’t know. Remember Mr Man from sex(ist) therapy? Same idiot. So we’re sitting there having a quiet drink, unwinding from a long hard week, and he begins grilling me on the state of my sex life. Who, when, where, such like details. No why though, reasons are seldom required I’ve found, but I digress. When I told him that there was no update from the last time we talked, his mouth fell open in shock. Literally. “You’re telling me you haven’t gotten laid since then?” he asked, disbelief on his face, to which I replied in the affirmative. “You lie!” he cried out, horrified, to which I shook my head. “But how?” he wailed, distraught, to which I shrugged. “You lie!” he cried out, again. The conversation went on like this for a while, at one point I think he even gave me a hug, in sympathy, and then he called me a liar a couple more times.
“So if you’re not getting laid, do you…” he asks, one eyebrow raised.
“You know…” he gives me a gangsta nod and winks.
“Do I have a rap album coming out soon…”
“Wacha ujinga! Si you know…” another gangsta nod, then he wiggles his fingers near his crotch.
“So you do!” he grins, leers actually. “Do you use…you know…” another gangsta nod and a sleazy wink.
“A thingi…” he says, making a stabbing gesture with his fist at my crotch.
“So you do!” he grins, leers actually. “What colour is it?”
“I don’t have one, you idiot.”
“You lie!” he cried out, shrinking away in horror.
Unfortunately, this conversation also went on for a while, perhaps too long I’m guessing, because by the end of it, he’d not only drawn diagrams on the back of the bill and made stick figures out of straws (don’t ask), he’d gone to the extent of adding the number belonging to a lovely young lady, who just happens to be a purveyor of all things insertable, into my phonebook. According to Mr Man, a woman my age who’s not having sex on the regular and doesn’t have a sex toy is an anomaly that must be corrected, forthwith. What makes it worse is that I’m allegedly an open minded sorta gal, one who should not only have embraced the dildo revolution, I should be singing its praises from the rafters, no? “For crying out loud,” he exclaimed, “you’re acting like an uptight bitch!” He then proceeded to whip out his tablet thingi and googled said young lady’s website, so we could select the right tool for the job, so to speak. What surprised me most about that strange conversation, however, was how much the man enjoyed the (disturbingly detailed) discussion about wanking. That is, until I turned it back on him.
“So do you…” I asked him, during a rare pause in his lecture.
“Do I what?” he replied, frowning at me, eyes filled with suspicion.
“You know…” I replied, making a jerking gesture with my fist, then giving him a gangsta nod and a wink.
“Ugh! Never!” he shouted, disgust on his face.
Strange, no? It would appear that while wanking is seen as liberating for women, at least according to the enlightened (read freaky) ones, turns out that for men it’s still seen as shameful. “Only losers have to resort to getting themselves off!” was Mr Man’s retort, and this from the man who’d spent the better part of an hour breaking down the mechanics of the double ‘headed’ dildo to me (hence straw figurines). It would seem that for a man, admitting he jerks himself off is tantamount to an admission of failure, ‘I can’t get a woman so I’m reduced to this’. But that’s not it at all, is it gents? Wanking for men isn’t an ‘in case of emergency, break glass’ measure, as it tends to be with women, it’s an ‘I’m bored so I think I’ll have a bit of a wank’ measure. You buggers do it just because you can. And then you deny it. And then you try to get women to do it, ideally in your presence, with toys and shit. Go figure… But that’s a discussion for another day, today it’s all about the ladies.
Thanks to our collectively conservative upbringing, masturbation has always had a bad, or is it sad, reputation. For my generation it’s simply not spoken of, it’s either the butt of crude jokes and insults, or it’s a dirty little secret. Actually for women in this city, it’s just a dirty little secret, period. At least it used to be. Back then, as a single woman, you were expected to have no sex life whatsoever, even with yourself. Women who engaged in a bit of light wanking from time to time were considered a bit odd, and only one step from whore if the conservative types were to be believed. Yes folks, the way the story is told, masturbation opens the door to all manner of sexual perversions, it’s a gateway fuck. Then ‘Sex and the City’, ‘Cosmopolitan’ and other such like foreign ideas landed on our (formerly) virgin shores in the 90’s and women woke up, and now a decade later, young girls are posting pictures of (themselves using) their favourite toys online. These days wanking is still dirty, but in a good way. And if that’s not bad enough, sex toys have become the hot new accessory for any self-respecting, upwardly-mobile yuppie woman in this city, a must have. Look around, there’s women gushing about their collection of ‘imported’ shit (jua kali is really not the way you want to go here, is it?), ranging from humongous fluorescent pink dildos named after furry creatures to miniscule ‘massagers’ that fit in the crotch of your knickers, and all available at your nearest website for the friendly price of 2,999.00. Women of Nairobi rejoice, the dildo is the new Mohawk!
Now as much as I am disturbingly liberal when it comes to most things, this is where I draw my line. I have no objections to wanking, it’s just lovely, sometimes you’ve got to do what needs must and what not, especially if it will keep you from going out and getting yourself fungad by some misogynist twit who’s looking to use and abuse you. It’s like they say, solo sex is the only truly safe sex. That you don’t have to worry about shaving awkward areas and smelling nice is just a bonus. What? Don’t look at me like that… I have no objections to sex toys either, I’m all for anything that will make the experience better, this is the one instance where technology is a woman’s friend, especially seeing as how some of these idiots don’t have the foggiest. I’m just saying… Problem is, I look at dildos the same way I view tattoos, I really like the idea of them, but I don’t want one. No really, I’m good. It’s part fear, I admit. Have you seen the size of those things? That shit is scary, and slightly creepy! Then again, I suspect that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s also laziness on my part, I just don’t need another gadget in my life, I don’t care how handy it is. The last thing I want to be thinking when I’m getting into bed, alone or with company, is ‘Where did I put that spare pack of triple A’s?’ There’s no spontaneity in it, is all I’m saying, it’s all too clinical.
This all brings me, rather belatedly, to the song for this post, B.O.B. by Raheem Devaughn. Slight detour, this bugger should have won every possible award for the Masterpiece album from which this song is taken, the fact that he was denied is a travesty of justice that I have still not recovered from, useless Grammy giving bastards wouldn’t know good R&B if it jumped up and bit them on the ass. Nkt! Detour over, back to the song. In true R&B fashion, young Master Devaughn goes out of his way to explain just why that toy you cherish so much is simply not good enough, because “B.O.B. can’t kiss those thighs…” among other reasons.
My point? If I have to listen to one more idiot going on and on about how they don’t need a man, no mo’, now that they have a B.O.B. in their lives, I will run her over, twice! What the fuck are you saying, you daft cow? For all the obvious benefit(s) to having a plastic (piece of) man at your disposal, there are many things it cannot do for you, and no, I’m not going to spell them out, that’s what the song is for. At best, the sex toy is a substitute, an alternative, maybe even an accompaniment for the more adventurous amongst us, but definitely not a replacement. Frankly, anyone who thinks a toy can actually take the place of real live sex with a man has clearly never had good real live sex with a man. I know, usually I’d blame the man for this shameful state of affairs, but the fact that the woman in question is waxing lyrical about a rodent-resembling plastic dick is proof that, perhaps, she’s not a very discerning customer. Am I being harsh? Good! Someone needs to slap some sense into these allegedly freaky, but in reality slightly deranged, women, they’re giving all us freaky bastards a bad name.
This all goes back to the funga bullshit, doesn’t it? Instant gratification, only now it’s not only instant, it’s impersonal as well. Ladies, I commend you for taking your pleasure into your own hands, pun unintended, by all means, have a blast with your B.O.B., all night every night if that’s what floats your boat. All I ask is that when you’re done playing around with your toys, go out and get a real fucking Bob. From what I hear, Bob and B.O.B. may even hit it off, who knows? I’m just saying…
…see I can go harder than him
longer than your Battery Operated Boyfriend…