3 Minute Reading: Red Lingerie

Its 2135 hrs – Nairobi time. I’m in my boxers right now, red checked boxers. Lying in bed, I’m covered by a blue, cotton quilt with grey checkers dotted across its surface. Two pillows support my head, and my (now-ageing) phone is clutched between my two front paws.

I type this while staring at my clothing rack, heavy-ladden with my small collection of shirts and scarves, as they too eye me in return. One red, navy blue, and white checked shirt in particular, seems to be begging for personal attention. Craving for it even. Its look holds eerie telltales of desperation. Desperate desire to beckon me over for a little tete-a-tete. Maybe even hoping I’ll invite it over for some late-night pillow-talk. But it knows those puppy eyes won’t work on me. Its place is beside that double-coloured, red and grey scarf besides it. And that’s where its going to stay all night. Right underneath the red, Manchester United, polo shirt, and the red and black lumberjack; both thrown recklessly over their neat order.

That’s five times now that I’ve used the word ‘red’. I too have just discovered how many red items are in my possession, and the statistics are crazy, I tell you. Even my pencil sharpener is of the same colour as these shirts I speak of. Do I love the colour red? Not particularly. Yet everywhere I turn, all I see is red. Like tiny warning signs scattered all across the room.

Red hand-towel; red curtains; red scented candle; one or two scarves with at least a hint of red; a red box of five half coronas; Fahrenheit deodorant in a red, metallic container; a glass, sugar jar with a red lid…..I could go on, but I believe you get the point, don’t you? Oh sorry, let me add _ even red pencils.

Now, so that you don’t view me as a freak, allow me to inform you that most of my shirts are actually in various shades of blue, _ and some brown, and _ I see numerous pinks too. No red shoes or blazers, and no red lipstick for that matter. None of all my beddings either, is of the colour red. But I still feel so naked knowing that if ever my girlfriend was to buy me a gift, it would be as simple as getting almost anything in the colour red; and nailing it.

Perhaps that’s why she bought me this box of Henri Wintermans, that devious woman. Using shortcuts and dodgy bypasses to get me all smiley, and soapy eyed. Well if you’re reading this, girlfriend, better be careful how you tread with these gifts. Or I might just adopt a shortcut of my own to get you the same. Something along the lines of: buy anything that looks/feels/smells like the person that would be interested in it, once believed in fairies. Those that fly over fields of bright and sweet scented flowers, kissing butterflies along the way, spreading cheer and happiness all day. I mean, that’s what excites you – right? No?

Well for me, the colour red does. It gives me jolts of joy and tinges of love each time I see it, or wear anything of its likeness. It gives my skies extra rays of light, and makes the sun shine even more closely. The natural flow of things gets distorted when I’m in a red item, or when this red, vanilla scented candle by my bed is lit. Burning ever so softly, its scent gracefully wafting through the air. Getting my body systems all warm and covered with beads of hot, sweaty thoughts. I’m not trying to be suggestive with you, BUT _ if you were in red lingerie, well I just don’t know??? I really don’t know what things the cover of night, the sounds of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’, and these scented candles would altogether make me do. All I know, and can say, is that I would plead innocence for the panoramic view your night might just take. Don’t they call it the colour of passion too?

So pardon the affinity, or my excitement. Its just that such tiny, red things give me so much pleasure. Well, except for that red lipstick your friend stained my white polo shirt with. I mean, who does that _ especially when hugging someone? And I’m not saying she has big lips or anything, no. Don’t accuse me of that. But damn, who does that?


A Man’s Honesty, A Son’s Tears

#np All That I Got Is You – Ghostface Killah (feat. Mary J. Blige)

I pace around my newly rented space, silently, pointlessly, thoughtlessly. There’s a song playing. Sweet melodies from the violin are all I hear, the piano too. My mind reads through the story of struggle told by the artiste. His honest take on life with a single mom helps simmer down my thoughts. It takes my mind back to a different time. A time when I was still young. Young and emotionally vulnerable. Filled with hurt from the struggles some of us humans must endure.

I crack open an egg, and pour its contents onto the already heating pan. Then crack open a second, and do the same. The sizzle of the cooking oil, cutting short the life of a would-be chick, seems to extend a calming effect my way. Perhaps I’m in a Freddy vs. Jason state of mind, I don’t know. To be honest I don’t care. All that matters right now are these eggs. Scrambled, or whatever they turn-out to be. They’re all I can afford to think about right now. That, and my parents. For the song playing reflects a part of me. A part of my life that people who know me will rarely fathom. A part that I hate as much as I appreciate. Good or bad, this part of me has made me everything I am.

I click through the images from my past. Those that float inside my head without inhibition. Those of happy times, and some of sad times. I gaze at the stars from my younger days, whose glow still lingers in the hidden depths of my optical senses. I’m spinning in circles, floating in the fragrance of the open fields at Kilimani Junior Academy. Amidst tall trees somewhere in the heart of Karen, it was here that I learnt not to wish, but dare to dream.

As the artist of the class, I would stand in front of my fellow second grade classmates, day to day, taking them through the strokes of a hand, the motions of an art. My art. With this gift, I – an instrument made from clay – would embrace my chances at making the Almighty proud. For if we are made in His image, is He not the one that’s gifted, and talented, even celebrated? Little did I know that this was to be just the first sketch on my life’s canvas, but it felt great to have the entire blackboard at my fingertips. It felt wonderful. Almost magical. A seven year old kid, with the world at the tips of his fingers, and the mercy of his creativity. I must say it helped me grow mentally – real fast.

From a young age, I knew and embraced challenges. For each time I looked at a clear piece of paper, or even blackboard, all I saw were pictures and drawings. It was the challenge of turning this clear and unused medium into a work of art that has helped me become the risk taker that I am today. Plunging into the world of self-employment without any of the tools, or financial support, that most people say the lack.

Fast forward through the years, and my life turned black. A dark cloud engulfed my life, killing my bright, sun-shining eyes ever so softly. You could say I began staring out of Stevie Wonder’s glasses. Yet as the first born, and as is for every first born, I was expected to brave it out. No show of defeat was I to portray, no amount of sadness was I to be overwhelmed by. It was I to help my younger siblings pull through this storm. To face this monster that is life. These were lessons fast learned, not by choice, but by circumstance. By the lack of any alternative routes to take.

I would spend my schooldays with my mom, back and forth this Nairobi city. As a teacher at my school, I had the unwilling chance to be her student, and she my class-teacher. Never have you been tormented by noise-making demons, until you have your own parent as your class-teacher. Still, I pulled through. Still I made those years count. For in our silent journeys across the worlds that lay in our way, I learnt the art of perseverance, of sacrifice, of persistence, and of prayer. I learnt to understand the hard-work, and effort, it takes to be a dad – my dad; and the love and sacrifice it takes to be all that is expected of a mom – my mom.

And that’s why I write to you both, mom and dad.

From neglecting your own hunger, just so we, your children, could have a meal, to staying up all night when you were overwhelmed with life. The endless nights and countless thoughts you must have had, they seem more than what you should have had to endure, to raise me and my siblings right. But now I understand, now I appreciate. Being a mother means more than just giving birth; being a father means more than just being the man of the house. It means hard-work, prayer, sacrifice, tears, laughter, joy, sadness – all because of your undying love for your kids.

I remember one outing we went to, neither of you was there, when I had to forsake my hunger, because my younger siblings were as hungry as I was. Leaving them the first share of what was a fairly decent meal. Making sure they were fully satisfied, before I sat down and took to satisfying my own hunger. This, I learnt from you. I think about all the times that we did without. All the days of hopeless stares and silent cries. Of the letter I once wrote to an anonymous reader, saying how I wish I could help change the world we lived in. Those were the thoughts of an ambitious nine year old. And having just read through that letter, it’s so heart warming to think of how wild my thoughts were back then.

In spite of it all, I sit here and thank God that I am alive, that we are alive. That the love is still there, despite the invisible lines your children have now drawn in the sand. Saying you can only do this much, and only interfere with our lives this little. You and dad have been the inspiration for all that I am. It is you two that have given me the strength to cope with life, and its struggles. The understanding of how hard one has to work at making a better life for themselves, and their kids. The faith of a better tomorrow, no matter how bleak things may be. The power of prayer, and faith in God. The sacrifice that is love; and most of all – the conviction that we all rise out from the ashes, no matter how terribly burnt we are.

As I sit here, alone in this room, I’m caught up in a whirlwind of thought. Reeling from the sad and lonely feeling that is the aftermath of reminiscence. Still listening to music you repeatedly told me was too noisy. Yes, I admit, I was too infatuated with loud, nonsensical music back then. But I’m grown now. More composed, more introspective. No longer the nuisance I was in my high school years. I now look at my life through different eyes. I now look beyond the surface of life, and that’s why this song gives me tears. That’s why it might just make me break down and cry, even as I write this.

The lyrics go “Sometimes I look up at the stars and ask “Was I meant to be here? Why?”.” Well each time I do ask this, it is these pictures of our past, lying on my table as I type this, that remind me of how far we have come from, and how far we still have to go. It is the thought of your tears that gives me strength. The days I would sometimes hide and cry, just seeing the pain in your eyes, made me swear never to see you struggle. Yet here I am, trying to make sense of the mess that is life on my own. Not enough joy or romance with the world as I trudge through the ruthless streets of self-employment.

It pains that you had to go through all you did just to raise us right. You may hate the conditions that you raised us in, but be proud of what you’ve raised. Me, my two sisters, and brother. Despite our faults, and weaknesses, I know there are things about us that still give you hope, that still give you strength. I’m sure there are still moments of joy you find in our everyday lives, moments that renew your love for us. And even though emotion is now getting the better of me, tears now clouding my sight, I have to finish this letter.

May the blessings in our lives mean to you what they’re really worth. May we always make you proud. May your hearts find comfort in the long future ahead. May you live long enough to see your great-grandchildren. And of the things I wish I could do, things I want to do, just to prove to you, that you were getting through – may this tears I cry be the keys to the house of happiness that we couldn’t afford.

#np Family Business – Kanye West

Men Too Are Sensitive

#np Roses – Nas

It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. (Paulo Coelho)

The skies are still gloomy. Monkeys still stare down at you atop the neighbourhood trees. And the watchman, huddled underneath layer upon layer of ‘protective shells’, still asks you for a little something-something.

You realize what’s changed, is you.

For in the few days that you were gone, lumbering along a different lane of life, criss-crossing the mazes of experience; you somehow changed. New experiences, new people met, new stories to tell. All these alter the perspectives you previously held about any number of things in life.

Yet one truism remains. That regardless of how old we are, how far and wide we travel, or how mature we claim to have grown; our emotions will forever be existent. They will forever be ours. They will forever remain as just that – emotions. No one will ever get to throw their hands in the air and shout, “Yeah, I’ve become so mature that my heart just turned to stone. No more emotional roller-coasters for me.” For this life we live is driven by emotions. They are the fuel for life’s endeavours, the one thing that keep us in check of the realities of the world. Pain and pleasure; joy and sadness; grief & rejoice; there wouldn’t be any of these if it weren’t for how we perceive them – through our hearts.


The other day, that would be a few weeks ago, one of my bosom buddies received that death-threatening call from his girlfriend. The kind of call that has a strange and ominous ring to it. Its sound reverberates through your senses with an emotionless chill. You can feel the sorrow from the angels that watch over you. The tiny devils around probably share some hearty laughter, with each chuckle even more sinister than the previous. For what is about to happen, is that your boyfriend/girlfriend is about to end things with you. And somehow, someway, you knew that something was amiss. You felt it as soon as that ringtone on your phone came to life. In some strange way, your heart could perceive that something not so joyous was about to happen…

I bear no knowledge of how much emotion their conversation held. Or whether either of them sobbed during their talk. So please don’t quiz me about any of that. All I know is that at the end of it all, they were no longer a pair. What was once looked at as a long-standing affair, one that was probably headed for a lifetime companionship – is no more.

The first day of it all saw my dear brother exclaim at how he saw it coming. And why he wasn’t the least bit shocked at the way things had turned out. I could tell he didn’t want to go into the details, for he skirted around my questions like a prom dress about to lose its innocence. Our conversation lasted as long as any ordinary human can hold their breath. In true “macho” fashion, he brought the two-minute discussion to a close by stating that he never wanted to talk about it again. Ever.


Yet as it is, men are all sensitive creatures who constantly try and deny the fact that they too are sensitive beings. Treating sensitivity as a trait of lesser beings. Matters of the heart as best left for discussion within the confines of a bottomless glass of vodka. One sporting a dash of brandy, and maybe some gin, and some whisky, just for safe measure. Only with such a concoction will most men open up. The kind of concoction that tests all your senses. (Sight) You stare; (Touch) your fingers then play around with the glass as you prep your brain for suicide; (Smell) yes, you smell it; (Taste) – the odd-coloured waters finally hit your tongue, sending wave upon wave of chills down your body; (Auditory) the sound of a choir, humming a solemn hymn in acknowledgement of your brave endeavours, echoes through your now induced brain.

That, dear brethren, is what might get a man talking about his emotional woes. I repeat: MIGHT.

I must say it’s one stupid paradox. One that has gripped most males by the balls of their existence. Driving them to do insane things when they find no way of dealing with their hurt emotions. My dear brother here chose not talking about it as his avenue to emotional redemption. (Sick, isn’t it?)

Most men are like that.

I on my part, was ready to give him as much a crying shoulder as the next brother should. As a matter of fact, I believe I already did give him the most crying shoulder a man should ever give another “heart-broken” man. I offered to buy him the most ping-pong tiddly in whatever nuclear-sub our plums set foot in. Which, in lay-man’s terms, is an offer to buy him the strongest, most potent, alcoholic beverage at whichever liquor store we could find.

We set a date, and whatever was to unfold would unfold then. It’s now three weeks later, and he’s still unavailable. (I think emotionally _ in a bromance kind of way.)


But what does this have to do with my absence? Everything.

For in the same way I’ve wound up home, there comes a time when we all find our way home. No matter how deep in the dirt our emotions have taken us, or how many unexplored seas we drown in – there will come a time when my dear brother will wake up and realize that nothing in the world will have changed.

Nairobi’s unpredictable weather will still be just that – unpredictable. T.V. anchors will still switch from one media house to the other. The men that run this country will still neglect the plight of teachers, policemen and other hard-working civil servants – while spending more on themselves and their cronies. And his neighbourhood watchman will still try to beat the cold whichever way he can. Sure enough, he still will ask for a little something something for the eyes. (Direct translation for: kitu kidogo ya macho.)

In the many months it takes him to get his emotions back in check, he’ll turn out a different man. New emotions to deal with. New experiences to have. New stories to tell….

He’ll realize that what will have changed, is him.

#np Keepin The Faith – De La Soul

My Kind of Woman

#np Mumford & Sons – Ghosts That We Knew

There’s a certain sense of exuberance we all get when things are going okay for us.

A cloud of joy descends upon our lives, and our days are filled with endless smiles and cheery laughter. We wear effervescent glows to match the sprightly feelings floating within our shallow hearts. A world flowing with milk and honey is what we see the earth to be. And each step we make feels like a giant leap towards a heavenly realm filled with clear skies and sweet-scented flowers, that is, when things are going okay for us. Yet the beauty about life is that the world isn’t as benevolent as we wish it would be, and there’s always a mean bend on every smooth path we tread on. If you’ve never reached it, damn you for being such a darling of the gods. If you have, well congratulations, you are human and are (un)lucky enough to have experienced as much reality as every average worldling ever will.

Yet in these fickle experiences of reality, I do get this thought that despite each human being worlds apart from the next, there’s a difference between a reality check, and what’s a mere test of our perception about reality.


Quick question: Have you ever arrived home feeling both extremely tired, and extremely hungry? With each feeling being so extreme you feel as though you’re on the brink of demise? You never really know which to do first – sleep or cook, because either way, doing one will so tremendously impact the other. Maybe even escalate the torture to greater heights…


More than once, I have questioned myself on what it is that makes a female worthy of the title ‘a woman’. Not in a biblical or theoretic sense, but in a more definitive sense of the derivative word ‘womanhood’. As unrealistic as it may sound, I feel as though there needs to be a guideline on the various types of females around, and what it is to expect out of each type – including the ‘woman’.

My Dictionary graciously states that as a noun, the word womanhood refers to: 1. female maturity 2. womanly instinct. These, to me, represent traits lacking in many a female, hence this discussion on what I feel defines my kind of ‘real woman’. I repeat, “hence this discussion on what I feel defines MY kind of ‘real woman’ “, okay. So, heat yourself some popcorn; draw down the curtains and the portière if you have one; turn off the lights; grab yourself a seat; and press play.

My mother is what you would call simple, and unsophisticated. Being at an age where most women would definitely be fed up of some of life’s routines, she chose going to the salon as that customary routine which she wished to do away with, completely. So in the unordinary state of things, she decided to trim her hair down to a manageable length (which, for this piece, would go by the ordinary name of ‘shaved her hair’). I remember her coming home, after no more than thirty minutes of absence from the house, looking like a young girl preparing to be shipped off to a super strict Catholic school, one that prohibited long hair. Everyone in the house was stunned. Turns out, what we had previously assumed was a short trip to the neighbourhood kiosk, was actually a visit to the barbers. Most stunned of all was my immediate younger sister, who has never caused a fuss as she did that day. “What were you thinking?”; “Are you insane?”; “Now how will you look in photos?”…these were just some of the questions she put my mom through.

This got me thinking as to what would prompt a woman to shed off that part of her features that is most closely associated with being the quintessence of her femininity. Her renunciation of this myth that ‘hair maketh a woman’ sparked a curiosity that lacks any form or definition, as I pondered about all the women I know who have taken the same route of abnegation as concerns doctrines on what makes, and what doesn’t make a woman.

Legend has it that a certain prince fell in love with a (certain) girl (or lady, I don’t know which) who was locked up in a castle, by some wicked somebody. If I remember the story right, the princess was never allowed to leave the castle, and only got to experience the world through the gaze of her tiny window. From this window, she would gaze at the sky, the vast green fields and the birds flying about. Soon though, this picturesque view was taken over by the love of her life, as she stared at him and he back at her. They probably even blew each other wet, innocent kisses once in a while – as they wandered through fields of conversation while holding hands and chatting each other up in romantic prose. The story goes on to state that one day, the prince decided to take matters into his hands, both literally and figuratively, and visited the girl. I think he did so due to the limitless feelings he had for her, but I’m not one to “judge”. Yet he did, and how? He used her long, fair hair as a rope, to scale the castle wall all the way up to her solitary room. (In my version of the story, however, this prince was so in love that he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the princess and share the world, the flesh and the devil with her. For as any normal human would have it, pure sight never really marks the end of satisfaction for a man or woman in love.)

Maybe this is the point at which our African ladies were duped into believing that men would do anything for a female with long, fair hair. Maybe the (fictional) prince’s love made them believe that silky-smooth hair would get you a prince willing to scale walls for you. Psh…!!! I mean like – Puh_lease ladies!!! For one, none of you lives in a castle. Moreover, there are no tall castles (of which I have heard) inhabited by beautiful ladies anywhere on this blessed land of Africa. And even if you did live in a castle, the current state of things has it that most of today’s men are more worried about their biceps, or ruining their (fake) “designer” clothing and manicured nails, to even spare a thought about a wall that will lead them up to your room.

To me, all this weave-therapy most of our dear skirt-wearers put themselves through – at the expense of their natural beauty – is nothing but waste. The weaves and add-ons many ladies most graciously stink the environs with are all part of a commercial plan that a horse-owner once proposed to the business world, and by the looks of it, did one heck of a presentation; since it has seen him afford the horsing industry runaway success. Everywhere you go, everywhere you turn, there’s a lady, who was brought into the world with very dark and nappy hair, trying to look like a singing sensation from a B-movie. With her face padded up with layer upon layer of complexion additives (read: make-up), she will go on to swish her head now and then so as to try and get her hair, to float in the air. (I hope you uhmm, noted – that last bit rhymes. You know hair, and air – they rhyme, right). This she would do, while she courses her fingers through the miserable horse braided onto her scalp, trying to theatrically pull off the whole ‘Look-At-Me – I’m Beautiful’ move.

Exactly as it sounds, I do not for once love ‘fake hair’. I also do not believe that hair does make a woman; but I do stand by the conviction that natural hair does complement the true nature of a woman. I say this with the reasoning of a man brought up around women who never in their lives took up weaves as their way towards beauty. Yet in their natural scheme of things, still managed to attract enough attention from men and boys alike. Perhaps you could blame my upbringing for being backward and lame, I can take that shot. But as long as I have words to put to use, my argument at least begs address. For as I have come to realize, women with natural hair come across as being ‘realer’, and even more down to earth, than their add-on contemporaries.

Susan, a cashier at a local supermarket, is a young and vibrant cotton-ball who always has more than enough paws chasing after her. She is well fed, has the right proportions in the right areas, and thus attracts more attention than is normally accorded to ladies of her profession. Her immediate manager, a single lady in her late thirties, is but her least admirer. With no man in her life, Deborah – the manager, is devilishly jealous of the beautiful cashier at post number 6. Even with her short skirt, high heels and latest hair-do, none of her efforts at attracting male attention seem to work in her favour.

It could be because she isn’t as curvy as Susan is, or maybe the guidebook to sexual attractiveness just didn’t get its way into her cheat-sheet. Maybe her age just isn’t a match for the youthful, and beautiful, cashier who’s just been passed a business-card by a well dressed fellow of the handsome sort. Maybe. But I’ll tell you what it is. It is that ‘realness’ that women comfortable in their natural skin possess, and synthetic ladies totally lack. This lack of a unique selling factor to help you (as a synthetic female) match up against the entire female kingdom, is what makes our desperate Deborah lose out in her search for a man.

There is a certain rareness that is seen in a few, and not all, women who wear their hair as natural as it came. The manner in which they walk, talk, and behave exudes a certain lack of pretension, and more honest approach to their walk of life. Even their search for companions revolves less around revealing skirts and low-cut tops/blouses, and more around a ‘get-to-know-my-personality’ approach. When around such a female, the air feels different, as though it were a cool breeze brushing against your face after a trip to the northern end of the Majabi desert. You feel overcome by a peace that you’ve never felt when in the company of a member of the opposite sex. Each word shared between the two of you feels sweet to the taste, the laughter like crackles in a campsite fire, the stares like endless voyages into the soul of the sea. The chemistry feels so enchanting, the experience feels magical.

I don’t know whether men think of such experiences objectively, because many wouldn’t know to put it in words or even describe it, but I’m sure some few ones do feel it. That difference in room temperature whenever you’re around an all-natural woman; that room to be yourself and rid yourself of all chivalric pretences. It’s all in the works of a true African woman.

This, compared with the girl you met at the bar last Saturday: dressed in a purple jumpsuit and purple stilettos, in purple braids and purple make-up, (a purple extravaganza if you may) with each accessory ill-assorted with regards to the whole do; is a contrast light years apart. Because when with a female so inclined to a synthetic approach to life, especially those with undying love for multiple layers of make-up, everything feels synthetic. The air feels hot, sweaty and icky. Conversation feels like the buzz of houseflies flying about an empty farm on a hot, Sunday afternoon somewhere in Texas. When you stare at her over-emphasized eyebrows, your thoughts constantly have to pull themselves out of pools of contempt and disgust, as you picture mud-slides occurring on her very face. Chances are her English will be no good, and that pea-brain of hers might only spew forth words like ‘As in like’, ‘Ahaa’, and probably some ‘For real’. I can go on about how ugly things could be with such a female, but the long and short of it all is that, nothing seems real about such a female, nothing at all. Not even her very name. You feel cheated by the very sight of her, and the sight of a woman in all her natural majesty feels like a very welcome change. A very welcome one at that.

Each time I see a high waisted woman in fake assets, fake hair, fake lashes, ‘fake facial-complexion’ (read: light-skinned on her face while black and blue elsewhere) – my mind immediately shuts itself from any beauty that she might otherwise have in her. Because honestly, from the onset – she really isn’t selling herself, but rather the many fake products her body can handle. As for an ebony woman in a ponytail, plain-old blow-dried hair, all-natural hair, dreadlocks, even shaved hair if it works well – I immediately think about how easy it would be to converse with her in a poorly lit, and none air-conditioned club; about the ease with which I would approach my parents and introduce her simple, and unmolested, beauty as my companion’s; about how much I would enjoy buying her gifts since the purity of her fashion taste is so virginal it hurts; most of all, I would think about how honest my feelings for her beauty would be.

Simple dress/pants, unpretentious jacket, flat shoes, natural hair, little or no make-up, and an impregnating smile – now that is my kind of woman. The kind who I have always fallen for and always will. Never have I dated, or even taken a second look, at any woman who wears shoes taller than the length of my middle finger. Or one who uses excessive make-up as her only way to feel “beautiful”. I’m a keep-it-real sort of guy, so I sure as hell will only breathe for a woman who keeps it the same.

My woman should be the one with enough wit and emotional maturity about her to help me through my reality checks. One who’ll fuel the sense of exuberance I will get when things are going okay for us. One whose presence feels like a cloud of joy descended upon my life. Who will share with me days filled with endless smiles and cheery laughter. Together we’ll wear effervescent glows to match the sprightly feelings floating within our shallow hearts. A world flowing with milk and honey is what we will see the earth to be, and each step we will make will feel like a giant leap towards a heavenly realm. One filled with clear skies and sweet-scented flowers.

And if ever things go awry, we – that’s me and her – will take that mean bend along every smooth path we tread on in real style.

#np Robin Thicke – Teach U a Lesson

Hand-Induced Pleasures

#np Jazmine Sullivan – Need You Bad

coitus more ferarum

Directly translated as: ‘congress in the way of beasts’. A medical euphemism for the doggy-style sexual position. Quite a good choice of words, aye? Especially when that being described is one of men’s favourite choices, or maybe it’s just me, when it comes to bedroom matters. A posture we would want women to constantly maintain, every second, every day (checks for men in support of this view). Just seeing those curvaceous hips and the sight of those voluptuous cheeks, all day, every day…ooh – if only… Well, that would work for most men, unless you’re one of those rare ones who’s into feet, or nails perhaps (choke). Nonetheless, I bet you that if the Roman gods had any arguments on just what position was the best to give it to a woman right, Doggy-Styleus was their go-to guy. I mean, look at the way he described his art: coitus more ferarum. Too tasty…

Back to present-day though…

The week is finally over. How about that guys? No more work, no more traffic snarl-ups, and no more dealing with bosses or clients. Its just you and the world that begins by your door-step. The world that full-time employees only get to see over the weekend – when not compensating for the lack of sleep or drinking themselves to near-death of course. So give yourself a hearty round of applause dear readers, for making it through yet another week filled with the bustles of life. Come on, I mean it guys. Clap as hard as you possibly can, because we’re ushering in a weekend filled with the many pleasures that we can and cannot afford. From those that put you at the risk of being arrested by the authorities; to those that leave you in dazed and clueless bewilderment, come Monday, as to what actually happened; and not forgetting those (really) sweaty indulgences that happen underneath the glare of closed doors. And I mean, the really, really sweaty, and crazed-kind-of activities. Those that pleasure every inch of your damn frame, and make you want to scream and shout in wild pleasure. From, uhmm….carrying a glass of water, to – you know….looking for the remote control. They really work up a sweat, don’t you say? Yeah…I knew you love such indulgent affairs.

Aaanyways, I’m a wiser man. Even wiser than last week, and wiser than I’ve ever been. Because it just occurred to me that men and women celebrate/show their happiness/express fun – in different ways from each other. (Take notes.) Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve noted that a majority of our males (grown men and young boys alike) celebrate by clenching their hands in a fist, and running about in wild joy. The exception is that the grown folk have an uncanny talent in losing their masculinity and reverting into kids. Scampering around as they jump, shout and chest-bump anyone in sight; exactly as young male adolescents who just had their first kiss would. On the flipside, the females (grown ladies and young girls alike) make their celebrations a teensy bit classier. When their celebrity crush walks onto stage or the team they support gets a point, they throw their hands up with open palms, and scream or shout something close to ‘Woooooooh…’ or ‘Yeeeeeeah…’. Simple as that. No sweat lost, no calories burnt. Just a few eardrums shattered by the screeching noises made.

Note, if you may, that the key difference here is this: boys/men – clenched fists; girls/ladies/women – open palms. Where does this trail of thought leave you and I? Well I did think about it, and in the same process of growing wiser, took on a different approach to rationalize this newly learnt concept.

Here’s my first breakdown of the concept:

Biologically, (most) men are all about the ‘hardness’ of life. Theirs is a world where everything boils down to the following: taking on (difficult) endeavours that will somehow result in a conquest or praise of some sort; going to the gym to carve and chisel out their muscles; working hard so as to buy the biggest, boldest car; and living a life where they are in charge of doing the hard stuff (eg. fixing broken items in the house, getting greasy as he repairs his wife’s stalled car, which almost always happens at twelve in the night etc.) Basically, men love making bold statements, about themselves, to both their partners and the wider public.

Women, the biological inferiors to men – yet superior to us in more ways than we are led to believe, are naturally more timid in their approach to life. A larger percentage of our dear ladies, not all, live a life where: looking pretty and feeling sexy is a must-have, daily experience; their sense of attractiveness comes from how beautiful or curvy they are as compared to the next woman; and when they do workout or go to the gym, tend to do it out of a need to get a more curvy shape, shed excess weight or tone up their curves/muscles. Theirs is a life driven by the need to look, feel and be their sexiest, with the essence of success taking a totally different route as compared to men eg. bagging the manliest/ most handsome man; having the sweetest boyfriend/husband and the happiest relationship/marriage; having the (boyfriend/husband with the) most financial means – all these in comparison with their friends. (Ladies, you can gouge out my eyes and crucify me later)

To the second bit of my hapless explanation:

Men are more suitably built and raised to ‘grow‘ into ‘being hard‘. Dad will stress the importance of how it’s not proper for a man to be soft, or even cry, and how ladies are the only ones (on the entire face of the earth) who are supposed to shed tears. When dad’s not around, the Godfather will tell you that only women and children are allowed to make mistakes, while men can never afford that luxury. Women, however, are groomed into being sweet, approachable, emotional, and hesitant to taking a knife-edge approach to life. Hence, there are fewer women willing to take great risks, while they too account for an almost perfect 90 percent of the crying human population.

A recap please: so far, we see young boys being taught how to stop being soft, and being tougher in life. While young girls are taught how not to sit when around men, and why it is important not to be tough-mannered or behave as boys do: which would be, lacking emotion, playing boyish games, or wearing boyish clothes.

Now if that’s not enough, as a man, your gentleman sausage will always grows from soft to hard, not the other way round. Only going soft once the sexual excitement is over and you have experienced the supple-soft side of life at the hands of a woman’s soft breasts, soft behinds, and juicy sex. This biological structure (of the path of excitement) would (kind of) explain why a man would go from watching, or playing, a game with his hands at an ordinary stance up until the moment that the ball gets past the try-line, or into the arms of the net, or into that golf-hole. Almost instantaneously, the arm muscles get tightened, the fist gets clenched; and the mouth pours forth a croaky sound we think is a roar similar to that of a lion. Only when the excitement is over will his muscles loosen up and his clenched fist be pried open. From soft to hard, and back to soft – the biological nature of a man’s ‘limbs’.

Onto women: When women see attractive men, or men with tight bums, high muscle tone and a six pack to boot – they (get this) ‘claim’ to go all soft. They claim (cough) that the view of such eye-candy makes them want to be touched all over by the attractive man/men in question. Furthermore, “widely-accessible literature” states that their knees get weak, their minds get dizzy and their talking gets slurred. So, a quick review of facts at hand will show that the sight of muscular men, with chiselled-out muscles and abs, makes most women, literally – weak and submissive. Basically, women want ‘things that excite them’ packaged in ‘hard’ gift-boxes. Hence the reason that they enjoy the sight of hard-bodied men, love the feel of an erect willy, want ‘it‘ given to them hard; all-in-all, they love everything ‘nice’ being hard (hard-cash, hard-core men, hard-on’s etc.) Since all these hard-stuff makes them ‘soft and ready for more’, it would only be biologically reasoned that when men show a hard-clenched fist, they – as women, wave palms that are figuratively open and willing.

So that’s my flimsy attempt at explaining the reason why men clench their fists during celebrations, while women throw open palms into the air – and sometimes wave them like they don’t care. But if all these theories still don’t make sense to you, then my last theory will be as basic as basic has ever been.

Men pleasure themselves with a clenched fist, while women do it with an open palm, and a few choice fingers sticking out. So excitement for a man is equated to a clenched fist as he roars out in ecstasy, while for a woman, it is equated to an open palm as she writhes about screaming something close to ‘Woooooooh…’, ‘(Oh) Yeeeeeeah…’ or ‘(Oh) Yeeessssss’.

Simple as that…

#np TLC – Red Light Special