You know how they say the universe gives you what you ask for? I’m here today to tell you that it does, and oh how it does. This is one of those instances I regret everything I have said leading up to this exact moment. See, I went out and told the universe that I was looking for a good man, and good sex (ideally with a man, but I’m considering being more flexible if need be, take that as you will), and perhaps a bit of good money, and a half decent president, and some good steel cookware. I asked, with earnestness. This is what the universe sent me. A relatively good man, who cannot be mine. Good sex, with a not too good man. The possibility of good money, from the most corrupt government fixer type I’ve met in years (and I work in construction, possibly the most corrupt industry known to man, second only to politics). A president who is trying very hard to make me move countries, what with his idiotic proclamations every bloody week. And a non-stick pan that sticks to pretty much everything (the pan itself sticks to everything, I’m not sure how).
I think the universe might be fucking with me…
Hello, my lovelies, how’ve you been? It’s cold, no? I’m sitting here in two fulanas, a pair of socks and a headscarf, trying to heat up my wine with nothing but sheer willpower. You know it’s too cold when even the wine is near frozen. Hang on…this is why the Russians drink vodka. That was an epiphany. Issues. I need to tell you a couple of stories about my peculiar love life, get all my shit out, as it were. Well, almost all. About half. Don’t worry, I’ll only tell you about the foolish stuff I’m allowed to talk about without it coming back to bite me in the ass. This is going to come back and bite me in the ass, isn’t it? Stop nodding. Disclaimer: the language may get a bit coarse, but not sewer explicit, I hope.
I met a man who tried to funga my ass, on the internet. I didn’t think people still do that, at least not people my age, but there you have it, apparently men don’t care too much for learning new tricks. The worst part is, he wasn’t even smooth about it, talking to me like I was a Njoki (read, idiot). Gentlemen, I hate to break it to you, but you are probably not the first man to hit on that woman, women get hit on all the time on these interwebs, and always with the same old lines. Even a technophobe, nay, Luddite like me has gone through online dating. That should tell you something. I understand that it can be hard to approach a woman, but try and be clever, dammit. Or at least try and sound like you’ve read a book without pictures. Wait, that’s a bit harsh, I am quite fond of books with pictures, or just pictures, if you know what I mean. Gentlemen, and boys, try and sound like you’ve read a book with more than 100 pages, if only so it gives me a chance to have a conversation with you that extends beyond whatever idiot thing is captivating the masses online (probably an ass, real ass, not donkey…).
Do I sound particularly bitchy tonight? Good. I’m hoping this post will scare away any idiot with the misguided belief that my constant hanging out of dirty linen makes me desperate for his foolish behind. Negroes talking to me like I’ve never written a bloody thesis? To me? What the fuck? Now I’m laughing at myself. The thesis was too much, no? All I’m trying to say is I have half a brain, sometimes more, and I quite like it when someone attempts to get me to engage it. Do I not look like someone who likes to think? I don’t? Shit. That explains so much…
This is what I don’t understand about men. Must the fact that I’m friendly mean I must be looking to get laid? I know I’ve asked this before, but I’m asking again because I keep ending up in the same bullshit scenario. Yes, I blog about sex, that’s because I quite like it. No, that doesn’t mean I’m an easy lay, far from it in fact. Yes, I do like to chat with random strangers, on and off the interwebs. No, that doesn’t mean I want to share any, ANY, body fluids with said person, not unless I want to, in which case I’ll tell you. Gentlemen, when a woman wants you, she will let you know, and if she doesn’t, then maybe she doesn’t want you. Or maybe she’s a girl pretending to be a woman (read, a Njoki).
I have to detour here, if only to explain my relentless digs at the Njoki’s of this world. That I have taken offence at that bullshit city girl page comes as no surprise, I’ve said as much at length. I take issue with the content, and the style, and the fact that someone higher up signs off on it each week. I’m convinced that the female readers of the Daily Nation deserve better than mindless swill being peddled as ‘sassy’ opinion (yes, this from the woman who is peddling her own swill-like opinion, but at least I’m not making you pay for it, yes?). I’ve said this before, I’ll say it again, a full page in a national paper is not to be wasted on inane bullshit, such as an article telling women they deserve to be cheated on because they don’t look like models, or the one advising women to prostitute themselves to get ahead (which just for the record was much, much more offensive). The Njoki’s of this world (read, clueless idiots) have no business in my paper. Then again, I’ve stopped buying the Saturday Nation, so what do I care? Yes, I’m angry, and no, I will not let this one go. Moving on swiftly…
People, I’m tired of meeting idiots on the internet. Scratch that, I am done meeting men on the internet. I’m declaring an official ban on any form of romantic liason-ing on these here interwebs. And because I’ve just said that out loud, the universe is about to send me kendo 10 men, right now. That karma mama can hold a grudge like you wouldn’t believe, and all because she was impregnated last year, and not even by me. See, this is what you useless buggers do to me, setting me up for failure and whatnot, bloody nkt! Seriously though, I have met enough people online that I know not to expect much of anything. What we rarely admit to each other, we’re playing a role most of the time, showing only that which we think is pleasant, hiding the less than suitable behind well constructed façades. And we don’t want to get to know the real person, because doing that requires us to show our real person, and who the fuck wants to be real when you can live a lie of your own choosing? I know this sounds like my normal cynical, anti-technology bullshit, but look at the buggers around you; pretending to be oh so smart and oh so sexy and oh so rich (or broke, in the case of the gracefully starving artists) and oh so deep and oh so moved by the plight of Gaza… We all have our carefully crafted masks. Not a problem, needs must and all that jazz, but only for as long as we know it’s a mask, and we remember to take it off every so often.
Please keep in mind that this is the opinion of a paranoid woman who doesn’t trust anyone, and I mean anyone, until I’ve known them for at least a year (and even then…). Don’t look at me like that, I attract batshit insane people, like moths to my flame I tell you, but I digress. On the rare occasions that meeting strangers turned into something meaningful, it only happened because these people I met were as interested in getting to know the real me as I was in getting to know the real them. In every single case, these are people who met me and said, “Wacha wewe!” Useless information, I’ve found that anyone willing to call bullshit on your bullshit, and that person is willing to let you do the same, that is someone worth getting to know. This is not about romance, it’s about friendship. Free information, use it as you will.
Which brings me to the next genius, he that should know better.
This guy I know, lovely fella, he gets it into his head to sext me. Now ordinarily I love a good sext, although I’m more partial to a good s-chat (can’t be a shat, can it?), but the man was sexting me from not too far away. It would have been faster for him to walk across the road and sex me, is all I’m saying. Why didn’t he walk across? That would be because he was in no position to walk across, because his family, or watchman, would probably enquire as to why he is walking across the road, at two in the morning. In retrospect, I should have seen it coming when he complimented my ’warm smile’ (why do men talk about your smile when they want to shag you? Is it like women and men’s eyes?), and then asked if there was any man who would object to football being watched in my house late at night. I know, I can be really dense some times, but the man had given no prior indication of lustful tendencies. No really, not so much as a surreptitious glance down my shirt in all of three years, and then the hand was on my back and I was thinking, eh? Now before you give me a hard time about this, know that there was nothing said or done, on either side. Up until the sext incident we were simply idiots who’d have a loose chat about siasa once in a while. I’m lying through my teeth of course, I’d stared at him, but I had done nothing more than stare, and always undercover. Stop judging me, we’ve all done it, stared at someone we shouldn’t have been staring at, what’s a woman to do, dammit? At least I left it there, no? So did he, for the record, save for the hand that one time, and the incident on the phone, he hasn’t said or done anything unbecoming. We talked it out the following day , because you know I’m the idiot who will talk it out with you if you do something foolish, and things are back to normal, if somewhat more formal.
Why am I telling you about this non-event? I’m not entirely sure. I suspect I’m processing, trying to make sense of an awkward situation. For the first couple of minutes, I was quite flattered that this man was hitting on me. He’s attractive and intelligent, in another lifetime he’d be just the ticket. Then I sat back and thought about it and it dawned upon me that, in hitting on me, he’s relegated me to that girl. The one he could shag, no strings. The one who would be open to that shag, no strings. I know I always talk about women wanting to have sex just to have sex, but that rule doesn’t apply to men we might actually like, as in really like. I didn’t see him as a walking dick, and I was slightly very miffed that he saw me as a walking p…part. I was sitting there thinking, “What about me gave you the impression that I would be up for this?” See, it’s one thing for a single man to try and funga your ass, he’s an opportunist bastard who may not have gotten laid in a while and is therefore willing to try his luck, and more power to him (I just wish there could be a bit more finesse). When a married man pulls that stunt, he’s just being greedy. It gets worse when said married man is honest about his intentions towards you and your parts. I love the direct approach, but I do not like being treated like a random hole to be filled. It’s a catch 22, but there you have it, you need to be direct without being offensive.
Problem is, the outcome of that incident was that I was left doubting myself. Did I act like I was loose like a langa and ready to be the chick on the side? Did I somehow indicate to this man, who I thought knew me relatively well, that I was that girl, a Njoki?
This is what offends me about how men choose to hit on women. In approaching me for a mindless shag, without stopping to consider whether or not I am open to the idea of said mindless shag, you reduce me to nothing more that a pair of tits, an ass and a cunt. Does that sound crass? That’s about as crass as it feels. I don’t expect chocolates and flowers when a man hits on me, I positively abhor the grand romantic gestures when it comes to sex. I like the direct approach, people speaking plainly, stating intent clearly and without nonsense sweet talking. That said, it would behove you to establish my level of interest before asking me to suck your dick. It would behove you to establish that I have no objection to fucking somebody else’s husband before asking me to suck said dick. It would behove you to establish all this, not on the internet, or via sms, but in person, ideally before you whip out said dick.
Next man who comes at me with foolishness gets slapped, yes?