Reasons Why A Girl’s Dryspell Is Worse Than Yours

The last two years have been the worst in terms of my sexual luck. Best in sexual lack actually. *sigh*

I know what you’re going to say, girls can’t have dry spells…well, that is one of the myths and misconceptions of our sexual generation. We do have dry spells and they’re way way worse than a guy’s simply because of the stunning variety of men we’re expected to choose from!

Yeah, yeah, I know how that sounds. You boys are about to ‘check your privilege‘ me. Girls, I know it sounds counterintuitive but you’ll see why the more wolves you have baying at the moon between your thighs, the less likely you are to be having sex.

The problem is the quality of men asking for your hand in marriage pussy. If it were just dick we search for, picking a willing male would be easy as pie. But Nooo, our bodies are built different. It’s not just any old phallus that’ll make us tingle and spurt genital juice in orgasmic splendor. (Isn’t that the point?) No, we need way way more than just penetration, a little in and out action and some clit play.

First and foremost, we need to actually be attracted to the guy inserting himself into us. Is it the same for guys? No, the pussy works for him either way. Yes, even when dead, a female will still give some necromaniac mortuary attendant the time of his life. Trouble is that that treacherous organ, pussy, only works for its holder after she’s met some excessively high standards for the man her brain thinks she deserves.

Do you think Njoki Chege likes that her body has taken all the dick holders that own blue subarus out of the equation for vigorous horizontal hugging? I’m sure she realizes that there’s some good dick hiding amongst the beer guts in that subgroup. And don’t forget all the men below that subgroup (Subaru group?) she’s inexplicably excluded from her list of eligible cocks to suck. There’s definitely some of that magical fucking she’ll never get to experience á la poor sex. Poor boys just give the best dick. I’m not even going to debate this, all you ladies know that this is the goddamn truth!

These guys have literally nothing else to offer that’s as concrete as their rock hard dicks, veins all filled, stiff and pulsing, unclogged and healthy from all the beer and fatty nyama choma they could never afford to feast on, always standing straight, little eye winking at you begging for a little kiss….*looks around* I swear I wasn’t touching myself!

Now just imagine that Njoki Chege’s brain refuses to let her pussy partake in the delicacy that is the horny poor boy and enjoy it! Yes, she may part her legs for Johnny wa mtaa after reading the paragraph above, but she will not know earth shattering release because her brain, and ultimately the all important nerves in her coochie will reject him because she craves sex in a Range Rover Vogue!

So do not condemn that shallow girl that says she won’t sleep with a man if he doesn’t have a car! Do not tell me that my dry spell is my fault when all my Minx desires is a man that’s in my bed but my brain won’t give up the long distance relationship with a sexy intellectual for nothing!

Our bodies are at war people, some more than others. Organs fighting for supremacy. Boys are lucky, their dicks won the war at the beginning of time. The ‘who to fuck’ decision comes easy to them. Girls are perpetually trying to pick the right outfit from a closet filled with clothes that don’t fit!

Do not mock Njoki Chege, pity her. It is not her fault that you boys prefer your Blue Subarus to her.

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Charlie’s Rage

“Don’t ever make me jealous” He says. I nod, too confused to speak. Flashback on the events that preceded me being tied up and teased into submission.
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He is screaming blue murder as he rams his fist into Jack’s face over and over. I am screaming, begging him to stop as the people from the party rush out to see the commotion. Some guys finally hold him back. Jack staggers onto his feet, his face is bloody. “WHAT THE FUCK BRO?” he shouts at my man…I tell him to get back in the house to avoid more chaos. The host is angry because the neighbours have started calling her asking about the whole melee and in that instance I get sober.

He scares me when he gets angry, it’s a part of him that I avoid at all costs. He is seated on the hood of his car, his body visibly shaking in anger. I walk towards him, slowly.

You…damn.YOU HAVE NO SHAME” he shouts.

I’m crying.

You call me up to pick you then i find you and him frolicking right outside the gate…Zero shame

Our gazes are levelled now. He is breathing fire and brimstone.

“Your tears don’t move me.” I try and touch him and he slaps my hand away. This is bad.

By now everyone has gotten back to the house for the initial housewarming party and its just us two outside in the cold. The cold that I don’t even feel for the fear that fills me to the core.

“Babe, please, he didn’t touch me!!!” I cry! “I don’t care, I have warned you about that…boy enough times” he says voice full of pained disgust.

“I’m sorry!!!” I beg and hug him forcefully. He stands there like a boulder, unmoved. I hold him like a vice as I sob into his chest, hoping the tears will quench some of his thirst for vengeance. They don’t.

“Stop it!” he is calm now.”I said stop! Here, my hands are hurt, take the keys…some lessons need to be learnt in a manner that you will become accustomed to, let’s go home.”
I know what he means and that my body cannot withstand that torture.

As I drive down from Kitengela I keep on apologizing hoping to deter him. He just rubs his sore knuckles in silence. We stop at South C’s Oil Libya and get a bottle of Famous Grouse, he opens it on site and takes a huge gulp. That’s it, he is still angry.

We get to his place, I suck at parking  so it takes a while, but then again it could just be stalling tactics and he calls me out on it.

He leads me towards his apartment as he takes more gulps. I know what this is, we’ve been here before, but am afraid of him and what he might will do to me.
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Don’t ever make me jealous!

He is peeling of my dress roughly and tearing my thigh high stockings.

“Sit!” he orders. I comply. He takes another gulp from the bottle.

“Part your legs!” He is treating me like a whore…I cry.

” Whaaaaaat?” he is removing my bra and pulling my nipples roughly. The pleasure and the pain have my body in disarray. He kneels between my spread legs and pushes me back to lay on the bed.

“I won’t share this,” he kisses my inner thigh. I squirm in pleasure. “Relax woman!”

He is leaving  a trail of kisses down my thighs then takes a pause to look at me and desire rips me apart at the seems.

“New panties,” he says as he playfully tags on the hem. I nod. “I like them.” He kisses the little triangle of fabric then slowly removes them and buries his head…there.That tongue, those lips and ultimate surrender to his lusty nature sends me cumming in ways that are unknown.
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He is on top of me now, biting my ear as he rams me endlessly. Too rough. Aiming for his own pleasure. He stops and looks at me “Will you let him touch what’s mine??” I shake my head. His look softens, placated, and he goes slow as he looks at me dead in the eyes. We watch each other as we get consumed in that fire we know all too well. We swear our love to each other as we climax and go limp.

I know that it has just begun, he is a marathon man and that was just the warm up.
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Sins of the Father

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The pelting rain diluted his steady stream of tears. The crowd dispersed after the casket was lowered. He was left standing there alone. His were a concoction of emotions. He was devastated after the loss of his Father, a man he’d idolized his whole life, the one who had taught him how to ride a bike, how to make a woman smile and most importantly, how to be a man.

His admiration was threatened by the news that had emerged soon after his father’s passing. An unknown woman had showed up at their home, alleging to be his wife. He’d always found such situations hilarious! Kenyan funerals were littered with such occurrences but to have it at your doorstep was to rub salt in an already festering wound. it wasn’t funny at all.

The proof was in plenty. Joint bank account statements, holiday photos, most painfully, some items of clothing that the deceased’s wife had bought him on many of his birthdays.

‘The times he was away at a company retreat in Nyali must have been spent with her,’ Mason thought to himself.

His sister took it hardest of all, the perfect picture of her hero, tainted. He was human after all. His mother, sort of always knew. At a certain age that intrinsic female intuition became as good as a forensic report. But she loved the man he was, a husband, a provider, a monument to his kin. His shortcomings were of little consequence to her. He was the star-crossed love of her life.

Mason stood there in the rain, wishing it would wash away the smut, and the leave that loving memory, that he was desperately trying to hold on to.

As the last of the cars exited the cemetery, Mason willed himself to walk away from his father’s grave. He didn’t want to accompany the family back home. He wanted, he needed to be by himself and gather his already wandering thoughts.

He walked to his car and got in. The one place he thought of heading to first was Mo’s, a small lounge in the Business District. A double shot of a 12 year old Macallan would do him good. He also remembered that it was Saturday, Jazz night. Leonard and his band, did a wonderful rendition of “Over the Rainbow”. Eager to balm his injured soul with drink and song, Mason turned on the ignition. The vintage Mercedes 190 series roared to life, his tail lights disappearing into the now torrential rain.

He was understandably a million miles away in thought as he entered the lounge, because he didn’t see Kamau, the bouncer nod at the bartender. He sat at the counter. The music from Leonard’s Sax wafted through the dimly-lit ambience of Mo’s lounge. He was jolted from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to find the tall figure of the lounge’s proprietor, Mo stretching out his hand to greet him. He shook his hand.

“I was saddened to learn of your father’s demise Mason. I lost my father two years ago, so I know how you feel. Pole sana. ”

“Thank you Mo”

Mo motioned the bartender over.

“Kasee, tonight Mason’s drinks are on the house, sawa!? ”

” Sawa boss”, Kasee replied, at once reaching for the top shelf where all the premium stuff sat. Mason nodded in gratitude at Mo. Grief had a twisted way of bringing the best out of people, as Mo had never exchanged two words with Mason, but had empathized with him as though they were inseparable from the same womb.

Mason sipped his whiskey, the oak notes caressing his taste buds as the warmth trickled down his throat. The evening crowd wasn’t a large one. Jazz had a distinct audience, the unassuming patron who came for the art, not the noise. The real cool kids.

He stared into space, memories of his father reeling in his mind like one of those old silent Hollywood movies. For every tear that teetered at the edge of his eyelids, he took another swig. In his peripheral, he saw the next bar stool move, but he couldn’t be bothered tonight.

“Johhny Walker Gold label, neat”

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Mason turned to look at the person who had ordered the drink. He’d never heard a lady order such a sophisticated whiskey. Most dames were busy chugging Guarana like there were keys to a Range Vogue at the bottom of the can.

The once over he usually gave girls, wouldn’t fly here. She wasn’t one to have a gander at once. The thing that caught you off guard was her eyes. Large, almond shaped eyes, her irises like large brown marbles floating in milk. The pouty lips looked like they were always begging for a kiss, Angelina Jolie would be green with envy at these. Her biker jacket was open, her breasts peaking out of a low cut T-shirt. Even though she was seated, you could make out that her derriere was ample enough to bring tears to a donkey’s eyes. Her hips were thick, raring to rip through the seams of her denim pants.

For a fleeting second, his sly dog instincts took over. The growing bulge in his pants reminded him that even in times like these, the comfort of pussy was a welcome distraction.

“Gold Label huh? The only gold most women know, they wear around their necks,” Mason spoke whilst staring into space. She looked at him and smiled.

“I’m not surprised you said that. You look like the kind of man who thinks he knows women.”

Mason chuckled. Feisty girl! He now shifted in his seat to have a clear look at this sassy lady, who he now put squarely in his cross hairs.

“My name is Mason”, he stated, offering her his hand. She looked him dead in the eye for what seemed an eternity, then calmly shook his hand.

“My name is Sawyer”

And so it begun.
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Of Ungrateful Homo Sapiens

It is said the road to perdition is paved with good intentions. I’m afraid i’m about to become a poster boy for this saying very soon. My end is nigh but if I’m to serve as a cautionary tale I’d rather it be in my own words for the sake accuracy. You see I’m not a relationship expert, I don’t do counseling. That’s the sphere of shrinks. However, my magnanimity disposes me to offer my assistance in whatever way possible when it is sought. My efforts towards that end are not always appreciated and the circumstances that led to me being a marked a man are a testament to the unthankful nature of homo sapiens.

A lady colleague turned to me recently with her marital woes. To my credit I did warn her that I’m no guru in matters marriage having yet to encounter a lass crazy enough to gaol my ass for the rest of her existence. She insisted though, saying another colleague who has graced my coital abboitre had spoken highly of my slaughter skills. This perked my interest, I do indeed know a thing or two about inducing multiple orgasms. Now we were in Mofeas zone, I was all ears.

Apparently her hubby of a few years was stale and monotonous in bed. He was a one trick ninja solely versed in the kendo technique of stab, stab, stab, collapse. She wanted to take charge but her inexperience in the coital arts prior to marriage meant she had no idea how to spice things up. She was also not about to ask for help from her girlfriends since that would be akin to issuing a press release on her deficiencies – her words, not mine. She needed discretion and had decided she could only confide in and find succor from yours truly. I couldn’t help but oblige after such a passionate plea, at last my porn stash was going to be an educational aid apart from serving its higher purpose of as a fap aid.

I took sweet little missy to class ardently. I was determined to make make a bedroom warrior princess out of her. I took her through literature studies ranging from 50 Shades of Grey and Cosmo to the Kamasutra. We had marathon sessions on premium Pornhub and old school role play porn, you have to know how to instigate a rough pounding from mundane activities like doing the dishes. I had her doing pilates, kegels and gag reflex control routines till she was doing things to a banana that would amount to criminal abuse of flora. Boy was she a good student! In a fortnight’s time she could comfortably accommodate my king sized kong down her throat and look sexy as fuck as she swallowed every drop of jizz she’d coaxed out my grapes with her skillful tongue.

After running the gamut of all her orifices, I felt my work was done. I was such a proud tutor. I issued my seal of approval with a good rimming and reluctantly with a tear in my eye and a throb in my gonads gave her power to practice all that pertains to her new prowess on her husband, the lucky bastard! I felt good about myself, no one would ever say I have never done a selfless act after that.

Next morning, I’m in the office bright and early eagerly awaiting feedback. Madam walks in looking disheveled and out of sorts. I take that as a good sign, she must have rocked ninja’s world a good one yester night. Then the saga unfolds. So ninja had come prepared for his usual swordplay but he had another thing coming. Madam had taken over and unleashed her new found kata moves, this wasn’t going to be the usual one man show. Ninja was surprised at first but soon seemed to take it in his stride, after all no one can resist the linguini executed with a touch of reverse cow girl. In fact ninja was putting up a decent fight for once. His sword was miraculously transformed from a weak alloy to one made of valayrian steel. It endured bravely for four rounds only finally honorably bowing out when madam sheathed it in her posterior outpost, hemispheres it had hitherto never experienced. Ninja was thoroughly worn out but spotting a stupefied grin by the end of that pelvic combat. As they lay there panting, he sat up all of a sudden and grabbed madam. She was pleasantly surprised still revelling in her afterglow thinking another round was forthcoming, but woe unto her.

She was served three abrupt kumanyoko slaps. Apparently, it had just occurred to ninja that her transformation from expert in kifo cha mende to Nefertiti come to life could not be a miracle. He went ape shit cray on her demanding to know where she had learnt the extreme stingos she had just pulled on him and self preservation led her to blurt out that I was responsible complete with my address. She was walloped a good one and last she had seen ninja he was assembling an arsenal of crude weapons while singing war songs and chanting the various varieties of heinous acts he was going to perpetrate on my person before dispatching me to my maker.

I’ve been forced into hiding hoping reason will eventually prevail and he’ll understand that I was actually doing him a pro bono service. In the meantime, I can’t go back to my day job so I’m offering coitus improvement classes for y’all lasses stuck in missionary land. All you have to do is feed me and hide me. A man’s got to eat and if i’m to die then i’ll have done my bit for society. Holla.

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Chuma’s Dilemma

Originally posted on Adventures From The Bedrooms Of African Women here

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Slick

Chuma lay in the dark and tried to stop his dick from rising. He tried – and failed – to stop his ears hearing his girlfriend Amanda disrobe.  First the tud tud of her cloth-covered buttons as they slid roughly out of the button holes. He could hear it slide over her shoulders, her arms and drop to the floor. Chuma pictured the downy, fair hair on her arms. In even the weakest sunlight, she seemed to be covered by a layer of beach sand. He thought about how that blonde hair lightened, became almost white against her orangey skin in the summer.

“Chummy? You awake, Chummy?” Amanda whispered.

Chuma could smell the heat from her skin, the perfume she applied between her breasts wafted into the still air in the room. He could smell her armpits through the failing deodorant she wore; a symptom of long hours kept at the office. He heard the slight tink that told him she had unclasped her bra, followed by a soft sigh. It joined the blouse on the floor. Chuma’s dick pushed against his trousers. It hurt. Denim was no good when it came to erections, but Chuma could not afford to wear pyjamas to bed any more.  Not if he wanted to be on time for his 2 am graveyard shift at the taxi rank.

“Chummy? I know you’re awake.” Zip. 

“There goes her skirt,” thought Chuma. His body stiffened. His dick grew harder. Chuma trembled as if from the cold. If anything, he was warm. Too warm. The essence of Amanda took up every bit of room in and around him.

“Com’on Chummy. You promised this would be the night.”

Chuma shut his eyes tight. He could feel her walking around to his side of the bed. Her jagged pencil heels ripped out bits of carpet as she walked.

“Chummy?”

Chuma could feel her peering into his face. The warmth from her breasts was like the sun. He was not sleeping and he knew she could see he was not sleeping.

“Fine,” Amanda sighed. “I’ll do it myself then.”

Chuma missed the heat on his face as she walked away, taking off her shoes as she went. A dip as she got into bed beside him. The duvet moved. Sweat prickled all over his scalp. By the time the slap slap and the sticky squelching began it was all Chuma could do not to cry. Amanada moaned as she fingered herself. Chuma knew all her motions by now; round by gummy round, the slapping, the tweak and pull, one finger; two fingers, up one side; down the other, followed by more slapping. Swallowing his saliva felt to him like eating cotton. He wanted to turn around and grab one of her heavy pink-tipped breasts, making small, farting sounds from where they had fallen into her moist armpits. He wanted to suck and suck and suck and bury himself in her until his balls were high on his waist and covered in her juice.

But of course he could not. He would be late for work again.

And of course, he was no longer allowed. Not until he was willing to use his tongue on the pink, swollen flesh dripping with thick sap like the broken leaves of an aloe plant.

“Chummy! Chummy! Chummy! Oh! Oh! Fuck! Oh! I’m coming!” Amanda screamed in that silent way only she knew how. A shudder went through him as he soiled his pants. It was all over. Amanda mewled like a cat, licking her fingers one after the other. Her harsh, laboured breathing settled into softer moans and relaxed sighs. Chuma waited until she started snoring before he got out of bed to clean himself in the bathroom.

Closing the door, he switched on the light and pulled out his dick. The dick which gave Amanda so much joy when they first met on the Tube six months ago. The dick which she now did not want near her when she found out he could not do what she seemed to need the most. It lay half-limp in his hand covered in his sperm like a vomiting snake.  Amanda had crossed her legs and he’d caught a glimpse of the thick pink flesh, like lips through the blonde beard of her pubic hair. He had looked away guiltily but when he looked back she winked at him and crossed her legs again. The men on either side of Chuma nearly expired. One, the dark-haired man to his left, actually winked back at her. Amanda pretended not to see.

“What’s your name?” she said loudly over the aisle.

“Sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“It’s Chuma.”

“Nice name. Does it mean anything?”

“No.” He didn’t want to get into the meaning of his name in such a manner, over the rumbling tube, with eyes and ears paying attention.

“Liar.” Her eyes flashed with amusement and Chuma smiled. He knew she understood.

When he got to his stop the woman had stood as well. The dark-haired man to Chuma’s left gave him an evil look.

“I’m getting off here too. Fancy that,” she said even though nobody asked her.

“Which way are you going? Me too!” She said when she heard his answer. And then she took Chuma by the hand and led him in the opposite direction to where he as going and fucked his brains out, half-standing in the doorway to her flat, not caring who could see. Chuma hadn’t even known he could find white women attractive until then. And he hadn’t left her since. His possessions were in a duffel bag in her wardrobe. All he owned in the world; a few shirts, trousers, a flat cap, a pair of trainers which were worn from being passed down. He kept them as a reminder after even Amanda bought him a new pair of sturdy black boots. A reminder of his good fortune in meeting her.

Not that he needed to. His colleagues at the rank reminded him how lucky he was every day. They thought him a fool for not acquiescing.

“You be fool o,” said Kofi. “If na me, if she talk say make I chop her asshole I go ask if she wan make I put salt!”

They’d all laughed because Kofi was as rascally as he was gay. But he’d caught their pitying looks behind the smiles, the curiosity as to what he had that could keep a woman like Amanda. Chuma wouldn’t let her drop in to see him at work. He was ashamed of his status, of how his friends would look beside her. He was also cautious. He did not need anyone to spoil his good fortune.

The thought of putting his mouth on that part of Amanda that drew like okro soup made his stomach cold. It felt good on his dick, especially without a condom. But the one time he had tried, he’d clutched his tummy and puked all over the bathroom floor.

“Brother, just chop small lemon before you start,” Obi advised. Obi was tall and quiet with a round, bleached Igbo face; a man who had quiet, loftly dreams. “It’s not bad at all. I was even doing it in Nigeria, small-small. Now the thing it sweets me o. And even our women like it, not only for oyibo.”

Of course Obi got married the next year, to Shirlee his darling and moved to Hertfordshire where they owned an African restaurant. Obi was doing well.

Chuma turned on the tap and rinsed his penis in cold water, wincing as it wilted. He dried it on the hand towel, cleaned out his boxer shorts with toilet roll and tucked the whole thing neatly away.  Amanda still lay snoring. She clutched the tip of one breast in a sleepy fist like a greedy child. Her bras fit Chuma’s head. Her pussy glistened dully in the light from the street lamps behind the drawn blinds.

Chuma approached her gingerly, so as not to wake her. He did not want to offer her false hope.  He sniffed her. She smelled of sweat and a bouquet of other things he had no name for, having always washed himself the moment he was done. The heat from her almost singed his eyebrows off. He closed his eyes, stuck out his tongue and gave it a little lick.

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El-shaddai, The Great Cockblocker

So Huddah Monroe (Njoroge) revealed her HIV status and she’s (surprise, surprise) Negative. I’m sure that was a relief to all who have walked down that dark alley especially after that man whore Prezzo had staggered and stumbled through it. For me it means that I can finally remove the two magnum XL’s I’ve been wearing to bed daily after viewing her instagram account so I can quadruple tap that posterior in my dreams in relative safety. From
now on it’s bareback back baby, full contact is what it’s about! Of course they didn’t test for gonorrhea and syphilis but i’m pretty sure only HIV can be transmitted in dreams.

The only reason I can dream so big is because I’m finally getting my groove back. For a while there I’d started getting mired in self doubt.
There’s nothing as depressing as starting to believe that your mojo has gone dodo. When you can no longer get the most frigid of women
to soak their small clothes with but a hint of a smile. When red seas are no longer parted at your rod’s behest. When you are no longer Thor and your hammer of the Gods lays silent, no longer laying asunder maidenheads.

This was the situation that befell me in the first few months after I moved next to Courage, Eustace and Muriel Bagge in Nowhere
Nyahururu. At first, the custodians of ovaries in the vicinity of Nowhere were very eager to sample the hammer of the god from Nairobi. I was the one refusing to oblige, still nursing hangovers from the uptown sweet meats I’d grown accustomed to. I still harbored some notion of class and I was hoping against all hope that my sojourn in Nowhere would be a short one. Three months down the line and negroe was parched! The thirst was intolerable, standards had to be whittled to the simple singular universal truism that K is
constant. If marinated T-bone steaks were not to be found, coal roasted innards aka mturas would have to do.

So I set out to hunt down the village girls I had previously looked down on. Problem was, while they were only too happy to do the village foreplay routine-you know, big toe dust cartography, laughing at anything you say and exclaiming ‘aki wewe uko na tabia mbaya!’ when you finally asked for the southern cuisine – none would let me explore their southern hemisphere. It seemed all the village lasses were experiencing
El-nino in that geographical region when I requested to tour. I knew other negros were getting some and the realization that I was no
longer King Cobra drove me to a blue ball exercebated depression.
This was until a little birdie disclosed to me the cause of my woes. El-Shaddai.

No, not the great ‘I Am El-Shaddai’, although I can’t completely discount his hand in any of my woes. This was my bosom buddy, Shadrack, fellow exile from the city whom I found already growing roots in Nowhere when I landed here. We became fast friends even announcing to the villagers that
we were brothers. I always thought the nickname El-shaddai was because he was a swell person. He kept away from village women
generally and encouraged me not to engage in village banter too much lest I lose my city aura and be doomed to be considered a fellow villager. This I found out wasn’t entirely the truth.

El-shaddai, I found, wasn’t used to describe his character at all, but rather a certain characteristic of his anatomy. It is said that the dude carries the sceptre of the gods in his skivvies. Apparently, upon his arrival in Nowhere, he had
wreaked havoc with his bazooka leaving mushroom clouds and infrastructure damage in every southern oasis he had been welcomed into. His reputation had spread quickly and a conference of all the village guardians of southern oases of pleasure had resolved to declare him persona non grata in their little kingdoms.

Now enter my good self fresh from the same lands that El-shaddai hailed from and worse declaring myself his brother. That was like
papa doc bringing baby doc to continue his reign of destruction. The council of guardians had found me guilty by association and
extended denial of access to me. I found out all this from a sympathetic guardian who found me wasting away with depression in my bed. Now that I knew it wasn’t me after all, I rose to the
occasion and cajoled her into granting me access on humanitarian grounds. Never have I been happier to be an average sword carrier. I let loose all the skill my blade of valayrian steel had mastered over the years. That guardian had never had a better swordsman in her kingdom.

So that is how I got my groove back. My guardian sought to keep her new found treasure to herself for a while but eventually word got
out and now I’m a protector and benefactor of the most appealing village guardians and can dare dream of the Huddahs of this world ever again.

There is a lesson to be learnt here, always vet your friends thoroughly, you are what people perceive your friends to be.

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Dropping the Mic

Happy New Year to all you purveyors of boner inducing, clit tickling literature!! Can’t wait to see what 2015 has in store, or if you’re in Ethiopia what 2008 has in store (poor bastards, as if traveling back in time wasn’t hard enough).

During the Christmas period, in a humanitarian effort to aid your blossoming relationships, I had sex. Lots and lots of the stuff. Sigh, I know. Tedious thing that. I humped, spanked, licked, sucked all for you guys (group hug) It all ended the same way in numerous occasions, lots of calling the good Lords name, emptying of seminal fluids, changing the sheets and tears. Same old, same old.

The thing with relationships though is bae is sort of obligated to fuck you. It’s an obligation if unmet, would result in them getting your orgasms from another source. So at some point, you become a chore to your partner, they have to fuck you or you’ll fuck their friend or worse, leave. As if that wasn’t enough, since you bring more than genitals to the relationship, ie money, they also have to suckle your knob to keep you around. That holidays in Zanzibar won’t pay for itself, get on you knees little girl. Put a dick in ya mouf!

That isn’t good enough for me though. I have an ego large enough to butt fuck a Dinosaur, I am no one’s chore! I decided there must be a way to make sure bae isn’t thinking about which bracelet I’m going to buy her for Christmas instead of screaming her brains out for me not to stop during coitus. Took the usual route, watched more porn, read more articles, talked to my female buddies, and in all those inquiries I came across three vital pieces of information.

First, women produce a hormone called Oxytocin when they orgasm, scientists call it the “bonding hormone”. Meaning when they orgasm, they feel closer to the person that made them cum. Second, women love being spoilt, dotted upon. Why do you think they are obsessed with being princesses, the attention and care royalty receives. Third, women love bad boys. Bad boys are conquerors, they ooze raw power and distinction, they are man in the purest form and nothing excites a woman more than a powerful man.

The conundrum was, how was I going to incorporate those pearls of wisdom into my dick game?

The first was a given, you have to make your woman cum. Apart from pissing, this is the sole use for your dick bro. I had that covered. I was however skeptical about the other two. You can’t be Mr. Lovey Dovey and still a Ruffneck at the same time, or so I thought!

A female friend of mine regaled me with tales of how she bathes and feeds her conquests after sex! Fuck! I know man! That’s some Japanese Geisha shit right there! Then the next morning, she tosses the buggers out onto the street in the wee hours, when it’s still dark out! The poor sod is so confused because no other woman treats him that way, so he keeps on coming back for more. Reward and punishment in equal measure, does things to the human brain you couldn’t possibly conceive. It germinates a craving for approval from this person whom you first deem worthy, then unworthy of your affections. Unfair, but effective.

I decided to put this trick to the test, after all, science demands an experiment. Started with the bracelet (yes, I bought it) then sat through her favourite girly series that I always refuse to watch. Made her a few cocktails (is it just me or does that word make you want to go put some cock into some tail). When we got to the bedroom, I was down for some Miguel and Alejandro shit! French kissing the pussy, slowly, working that kitty tenderly like I was prunning the wings of an Angel. Toe sucking, caressing and soft whispers of “I love you”. Strokes were easy, orgasms gradual. I was going to get a Nobel because I left that girl at peace. After a small break of pillow talk and tickle fights, round two beckoned. This time was more like the Desolation of Smaug! Ass grabbing, deep thrusting! Shit went from 0-100 in the twitch of a clit! The back shots were so real, I was going to call a lab to do forensics afterwards! Pulled that hair and dug her face into the pillow, her muffled screams urging me deeper and harder. Before she knew it, she was trembling and digging her nails into the sheets. The second time she came, she took my nut with her! I pulled out, didn’t say shit, wrapped a towel around my waist and left her twitching on the bed. Went to the living room and turned on the playstation, then won the Dutch league with FC TWENTE. Bawse.

Moments later, she came to me with a ham sandwich and fruit juice. That’s what I’m talking about!!! A round of hi5’s are totally acceptable here gents.

This may seem like a case of manipulation, and it probably is, but in every relationship there has to be an Alpha. It’s not even wrong if the Alpha is the girl. That’s cool. But lust is an irreplaceable component in a romantic relationship. You have to cultivate that lust, it doesn’t come that easy!

It’s 2015,a new year, a time for new realizations. So, are you a bawse or a bitch? *Drops Mic*

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