6 worst lies told by women in campus

Warning: This blog is for those with a sense of humour, DIRTY MINDED and those who lead realistic lives and don’t mind sexual, gender based jokes at any given time. The facts or opinions herein are confidential and not drawn from any experience of my own or that of friends:

Do we have virgins in campus?

Yes we do. I have dated one. I can attest. But they are as rare as incorruptible police men. Rarer than ice in the Sahara. Rarer than you can find an honest politician. Rarer than a happy marriage.

But quite surprisingly, you still find women who look you in the face without batting their eyelid and lie through their teeth that they are virgins. You put up that face of disbelief and they get offended.

Of course your doubts stem from the mind-blowing blow job that you just received and her uncanny foreplay methods. She goes on to explain that all the men she has met in her life, she has never done anything beyond foreplay. She has never been courageous enough to blow anyone. You are the first Mr. Lucky to receive the licking flames of her tongue.

It suffocates. It annoys. It irritates. It irks. Yet if you buy it, if only to let it role, she will be satisfied assuming that you such a sucker.

It a commonly peddled lie, and I have encountered many women who tried the virgin. I’m old enough to forgive their naiveté. If a woman tells you that she is virgin, it is a good prospect. The thought of unprotected sex quickly springs to mind. In this era, where unprotected sex with any average chick who ccomes by sex is outrageously unthinkable, it is often a welcome breather, if you can have it without the unwelcome discomfort of the condom, so much better. So much more.

So what are other lies that we listen to day in, day out in our mediocre, mundane courtships.

  1. She is doing the first blow job of her life with you

And you think you lucky, you lucky bastard!!!This is the current biggest lie peddled. When she tells you that you are her first, run for the hills. No sooner they tell you that, than they proceed to lick Musa with the dexterity of a profession. So where did she get the experience? From a lollipop? From Porn….?

I highly doubt. Today even the most innocent, naive woman would pull a surprise on you when she transports her hand down there, taking the joystick out and giving it a worshipful look, like it is a totem pole before doing the unthinkable.

You can tell a novice from a sexpert (sic). A novice is normally unsure but be careful about those feigned acts. A novice will wash, rinse and wipe it with saliva. With a novice you will have to hold your breath, clutch firmly onto the sheets and pray that she doesn’t bite it off, robbing you the sole reason of living. But a sexpert will give you confidence and if not careful you can spill the milk.

Too bad that all these sweet salacious lips, walking in Nairobi like their lollipop human. I have I mentioned that lately I’m afraid of kissing. Call me stupid if that will lighten up your Wednesday.

2. She broke with his last boyfriend because he was a perennial cheat.

This is a special lie. Contrary to the common assumption, not many men cheat. Only a few men can pull off cheating successfully. This player thing is unduly overplayed. Avoid any talk that revolves around the past men in her life. Treat her like a used car. Make do with the intact features, repair the mutilated ones, and move on.

She will cheat you blind. She can never disclose the number of men she has gone to bed. My vulgar friends have often joked that, down there is not a soap that ends. It is elastic. It is like a road that can be used for a million years to come. It is futile trying to establish that. So just move on.

The reasons for which they broke up are better left with her.

  1. She can be faithful

Faithfulness is a term that has been labeled ‘archaic’ in the dating dictionary. Any chick in campus you date, chances are that she is only yours at the times she spends with you. If 24/7, you are sorted. Shocking tales of women who take their supper in Hall 9, get laid in Hall 11 and still manage to be picked at her hall in that very night are the stuff that campus legends are made off. All between 7 pm to 11pm.

Campus women make the Hollywood actors seem wobbly at their thing. They are better actors. Someone teach me how to believe. My goodness. They cry for you on how you have hurt them and before even tears roll down their cheeks they are safe and secure in the arms of another man.

And these are not my bitter or ob relationship stories.

4. She can take care of her bills

Utterly hilarious. Impossibly funny. My man PO calls them bloodsuckers. I can’t agree more with him. Women in campus are the least sympathetic. No different than those you find at Simmers, who can spike your drink and rob out blind. Only that in campus, they do it in the guise of love.

The number of men who have been left because their pockets could no longer sustain relationships in campus is startling. It is about 13, 459 of the 22, 000 regular students.

Women are better off financially while in campus. She can get money from her parents, her yuppie boyfriend, the odd sugar daddy and some even have day and night jobs. But equality in Kenya means that a woman takes care of her bills and the man takes care of the two. Failure to which, she will be forever busy.

5. She can love you

May be I’m an incurable pessimist but I’m pretty sure that you can find many things in campus but love. Academic works coupled with the freedom takes away all the love from women. It is hard to come by a woman who can commit herself to one man.

Quite ironically, women don’t believe in monogamy. Monogamy is like a prison. Women can only love men in a revolving door way. Where she affords any man who comes her way a portion of her love at a time.

So don’t be mistaken that she is yours. Forget her sobs. Forget her feigned emotions. Relish the moments you have together.

This discussion will go on.

6. Shhh!!!! Shut up the neighbour is asleep

Is there a bigger turn off, sexual irritant that a chick who makes false moaning sounds? Pretentious moaning can be annoying. While it is an ego stroker, it is extraordinarily annoying. Especially when there is any labour needed. Bony calls it, swimming in an ocean is easier because the water is salty and that density nonsense.

Now there are women who make work so easier that you wonder what the noise is all about. It keeps the neighbour awake, not with an erection with annoyed look, because most of the time they have bad voices.

Moral of the short story: Avoid chicks with deep sultry voices. They make bad sleep mates.

This discussion will go on.

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The ones we love, but we never could have

The ones we love but we never could have
I have not dated many women. I don’t exactly fair well in this department. But I have had my fair share of the good, the bad and the ugly of relationships. I have had my worst crush stories. The impossible ones and the ones I could have scored if only I had balls.

Get your seatbelt, tie it up, we are off to the heartbreaking journey of my life and my women. It is going to be along story, hang in there until the end. It is a cautionary tale more so to women that they should never date writers, because, somehow-someway, it will find its way into their novels, poems, or at worst in the newspaper for all and sundry.

Writing is an expressive profession and we write best what we experience. As it happens to either sex, there those we would so much wished to date, make love with for as long as it will take…but through fate, reality and tricky circumstances, we watch them slip through our fingers. This gives the expression, so near, yet so far a whole new meaning.

So without much ado here we go.

Primary school

My first real crush was a chick called Lydia. She was the prettiest thing in my primary and gave many a boy a wet dream. She came from an average background and had partly grown in town. She spoke fluent Swahili and English like yours truly so naturally we were a cut above the rest. But it took me a whole year to talk to her. When she spoke to me first, I was so elated that it ranks as one of the biggest highlight of my life.

The whole school knew my deepest sexual admiration towards her. The pupils knew and the teachers knew. As a matter of fact, I was once caned for seducing her. We ultimately became friends. She knew that I could swim across the widest river to have her in my arms. Her smile could disarm any Onyancha amidst us, nay, it could melt iron. She had a figure that oozed raw sexual oomph that was a desire for many a boy in the primary school.

Unfortunately, I was inordinately and incurably shy and as it happens, they don’t wait for that long. She went on to one of the TTCs and trained as a teacher, got married to a high school teacher and has three kids to her name and her marriage is not at all stable. But Lydia, I will always cherish you.

Secondary School

My second crush was a tragic story that has quite affected me. The immediate Saturday after the Christmas of 2003, on a market day in my rural home, was a special day. I spotted a beauty that you rarely expect in any given village in Kisii. She had two striking things: beauty and grace. She was of good height, no more than 5’8, wore shiny, flowy, sky blue skirt and a white top and they all fit into her so well that the tailor must have been having her in mind when making them.

She looked lovely and possessed a cheerful smile that swept my feet away. I was thunderstruck.

Tragedy: we met at a junction and didn’t know the turn she was likely to take.

Catastrophe: She looked the type who was likely to shun me away, because everything about screamt urban.

Disaster: Immediate action was required yet there was little I could do. I was in high school and pathetically clueless and new to that place

Emergence: Something had to be done and I didn’t know what exactly.
In short, I was in shit.
I inquired from my friend and luckily enough, he knew her, or at least where she came from. Immediately a rendezvous was organized and two days later, I met her by a communal well. She was in her element. There is something incredibly sexual about a woman who is self-conscious of her beauty and does not disguise it nor flaunts it.

Her name was Mercy and she schooled somewhere in the Rift-Valley and came from an average family in their complex extended family. She gave me audience. My guide had insisted that she could only listen to me if I told her I’m an urbanite, for she was-as expected-dating the son of the richest bugger around. So my chances were limited and only my seductive skills could rescue me.

She turned out to be outrageously funny, thought provoking and I had to up my wanting seductive game. She listened to me. She laughed at my jokes. She teased me. She dismissed me. She accepted me. I loved her. She loved me. But we never rushed things. Schools opened and we all went back.

For a whole year, we never communicated. But I never lost touch. Her smile drove me. Her laughter lit my day and I counted her as my sweetheart. After high school, we met that December and she still looked just fine. We picked from where we left. We had a date. That day our love was supposed to consummate. My dutiful and loyal guide, apparently enjoying my good time vicariously, ensured that everything was ready. Everything=condoms and a well spread bed.

After taking the winding route through the coffee plantation to the saiga( which is where young men sleep in my community.), we arrived and sat in the sitting room. We had a long discussion about her aspirations, dreams, vision, and all that. I had made it to campus, and her, even though she had passed, she had not mustered the right grade to gain the JAB entrance into the University.

In her disposition, she exuded a feeling hitherto unfelt by me. She spoke in a low pensive tone. We spoke the future. We spoke the past. And we dwelt on the present. When I asked her a sexual favour to crown everything, she gave me that ‘NO’ look that revealed the fears and emotions in her eyes. Her eyes had questions that begged answers. Answers that only time could give.

The gentleman I am, I didn’t dangle that carrot any further because I wanted our love to blossom. My guide nearly killed me when he realised that I had done absolutely nothing. I had not even caressed her much less undressed her. We promised to love each other. I saw the power of God in her. She was the someone for me. I vowed to love her. She didn’t promise much but everything was pegged on my commitment.

No sooner I left the village than some sucker showed up in baggy jeans confused her and eloped with her to the city. I was genuinely discouraged and the circumstances I was in were legitimately tricky. I was far, broke like an ass and totally cut from her.

As the story goes, Mercy got pregnant, had a complication that cost her life. For all the time she was in hospital, yours truly never had the time to check on her.

Mercy died at a time I had just buried my grandmother prior to the 2007 elections. I didn’t get money to go back to the countryside and the post-election-violence looked me out. She left with a part of me. Forever, I will treasure her smile, her benign sense of humour and inculcating the spirit of courtship in me. I know she is in a better place and will certainly read this blog. Hopefully too, she has met a woman who would have made her perfect mother-in-law.

It is been quite some time, mum are you there? Hang in there.

University

My third rush that I wanted to write about happened in campus. When I joined first year, in my initial Political Science class, there was this chick seated behind me with a snobbish face. She took after my immediate ex, whom we had parted ways, because she was a staunch Jehovah Witness hell bent on converting me.

My observation would have been no more than that had she not risen to superb sartorial splendor. She wore a cement grey checked
Skirt, red top, nice black middle high-heels that gave her that suave, sexual swag. She looked aristocratic. The type that listens to soft rock and reads some eccentric novels. Instantly I admired her though deep within I knew she was beyond my reach. She had equally a good name to her pretty face and wore that ‘I-don’t-really-are -what -you -think -of -me.

I met soon afterwards, exchanged pleasantries. She spoke so well that the peasant got so excited to even sleep that night. I imagined seven hundred thousand, six hundred and seventy nine things with her body and some the cannibal in me was reawakened.

She was not exactly beautiful in the conventional sense. She was pretty, but most men did say that she was possibly the hottest in lass, that debate is still going on. I hated it when she was not even mentioned to be a contender and many boys told me to get over the rush that nearly bordered on the irrational. Easier said than done.

But when a vehicle nearly ran over me in that sunny, deserted afternoon along University Way chasing after her shadows, I had to rethink again. There was something ominous about this. Something premonitory. I chose to hang up on the chase but thing with the heart is that what the heart has chosen. The heart has chosen.

For the next two years, I tossed with the idea of going after her but something kept pulling me back. I decided to let her know what my true feelings were so that I could drop her and move on. She was proving to be bad for business.. So when I eventually mustered all the courage that balls could bring forth, I dialed her number requested to have a brief meeting with her. She granted me the meeting.

So when the day came for me to confess, I sat her down, smart as ever, both in looks, in dressing and brains and narrated my three year ordeal. God forbid, she was hardly moved, nor did she cry that I could have died chasing after her. I hated her assumptive guts. I loved her honesty.

It was very cathartic and learnt a couple of things
One, we should learn to let go some things. They are not worth. If they were not meant to be, they can’t be.

Two, one man trash is another man’s treasure and behind every beautiful woman is a tired man. I just hope my crashes don’t fall into these categories.

And finally; nothing lasts forever.

Types of sex requests made by men

How we ask for sex
It is normally rude, impolite, uncouth, stupid, silly and incorrigible to ask ‘it’ from a woman forthrightly. Even in today’s liberal world where women’s demand for sex surpasses that of men, women still expect a more modest and longer route to asking a sexual favour from her.
A favor? Yeah, that how some women think of sex to date. They believe that is the most precious thing that man was bequeathed. But I have news for them…It actually is. That is the reason that men can do anything in their power to lower the panties. Sex is a defining moment. Sex is wonderful. Sex is magnificent. Sex gets the best out of us-literally. Men worship sex. Men adore sex. Men love sex.
We love sex so much, that nothing can stop them. AIDS, STD(I)s and pregnancies have all tried but with limited success. We invented condoms to stem this. But still the limiting nature of condoms has many shun its usage, at their peril. The most interesting thing is how we normally go about the courtship business. Here are some of the ways:
1. No-nonsense approach
These men approach the courtship with the seriousness it deserves. When it all boils down to asking for sex, they will still be pulling that awful face. Actually, have you ever stopped to imagine, how those serious-faced guys go about it with their girlfriends or wives. They use compulsive language, unsmiling and unassuming.
I wonder expression on their face once the woman submits when they are reading (read having sex) to borrow from our lingua franca. Is it the sheepish standard grin that we all wear, when it is happening, expressing the inexplicable, ineffable joy that we wield within. And by the way why do women close their eyes, some chick should be bold enough and explain, I’m a little naïve.
These men must be having limited vocabulary and most likely use threats and blackmail, since they don’t know what courtship is. So all they can do is use their position and money. And more often than not, they go for the naïve, ‘loose’ girls who are easier to handle coz, ni mteremko.
2 .The joker-style approach
This is the safest, easiest approach. What makes it even more interesting is the fact that it has an exit strategy. Especially it is that cute girl you so much wish to bed but you don’t have an approach. This approach, you only convert everything you say to a joke no matter how serious. If she enjoys the jokes, you keep pushing some more. Thing with this approach, is that it contributes to 100% spontaneous sex tales outside rape. Every man with a functional joy stick and juice has a few such tales to his exaggerated tales.
What I like most about this approach, is that it is forgivable. Even when you meant everything, you can always claim you were kidding. I don’t know, but women can believe anything you tell them, granted you do it with a straight face.
That is how all men have gotten through that standard female question in campus dating:
“But how can I believe you, when that all every man says?” She asks.
Answer: “Buts sweets, I’m not every man.”(With a straight face.). Deal done.
2. Direct approach
Only a prostitute can accept this approach. It is demeaning, belittling and absolutely unacceptable. No woman can accept it. Even prostitutes sometimes demand some tact. If you doubt, try it and you will come to learn.
So when my friend, Kevin or Bony, or Andrew, sometimes ask for it and get that killer look, am left laughing inwardly. But curiously enough some women like this approach. Especially those who have passed a certain threshold where they can sleep with anyone, everyone, everywhere, anywhere, wherever, whenever. Anyone, as long he can put a condom on. And when she is drunk, anything goes.
Every society, university, towns, school college has its fare share. Women who have lost count of the joy sticks that they have accommodated. Try this approach and imagine they see nothing insulting.
And there two categories of women here: those who get laid to confirm that they can be loved, they are normally unattractive. And those who suffer nymphomania (check that one up). Dealing with them, you must be well hung down there and you have the power of a stallion.

This discussion will go on demand.

A weekend in Eldoret

A hell trip to Eldoret
“Haki woyee,naskia kususu.” There is something mildly annoying, if mischievous, when a 21-year old female student shouts over the din in a bus, three quarters full of men. Men contort their faces in discomfort. Luckily, she was the prettiest thing in the bus and she could be forgiven. She had the swag of a beautiful woman who knew she had it. Earlier on, two men nearly fought over. None between them dates her or has ever even tried.

And she was in a grey revealing biker fully of erotic promise.
As she sauntered out of the bus into the bush to relieve herself, all men gave her that lustful look and I’m sure many for a moment would have given their arms to see her relieve herself(OK, forgive the exaggeration.).
To me, this was like the highlight of the whole trip. The rest was something that I’m about to narrate here, but we need to get a few things straight, shall we?
I’m going to Eldoret as a student official being given a courtesy invite to another student organization. That is Nairobi University Students Arts Association (NUARSA) that I’m representing having been elected officially to be the chairman on Friday. I’m with the Economic Student Association (ECOSA) down to Eldie for friendly sports competition. More importantly, I’m supposed to cover this story for their publication (The Student Economist) that I’m editing for them and will be out in due course.
With the promise of the allowance in mind, a long boring weekend ahead of me and the excitement of making it for it to Eldie for the first time, I was doubly anxious for the trip that I had helped initiate a couple of days ago.
Everything was going down well to plan until my closest buddie Bony decided too that he must go as well. Bony is young energetic brain, brilliant, ambitious and stupid. If he decides to behave badly, boy nothing can stop him. On this trip, he had just decided that. And he ruined the whole trip that second year economics students have lost any credibility they might have entrusted him with. To this we shall return.
My weekend began on Friday, a few minutes before four. At that point, the votes were being tallied after our peaceful and orderly elections in ED I and my opponent was fairing on in a manner, I didn’t appreciate. Within an hour, I emerged the winner and I was in a celebratory mood.
After that, I had to get some operational cash for the trip to North Rift. At exactly 10.00 pm, I left the room of my heretic pal PO whom I had dropped to check on for a chat to kill time. Getting to the transport section, there were already a handful eager students impatiently waiting for the bus to take of.
As usual, the skirmishes that normally precede such trip were already unfolding among the usual suspects. For those who don’t know, clue: From people with names that mostly begin with O. Second years had tried to say something to the effects that third years were behaving badly and should not go on the trip and were whipped terribly to their utter disbelief. At least they knew they were dealing with a different set of people. We were only four third years and two were already running the show to the chagrin of the second years.
They cried. They wept. They cursed our origin, but apparently, no third year gave a damn. So we ended up killing their trip literary. On my part, I’m a bit reserved and a firm believer of self respect. It is earned and I couldn’t sell it any cheaper. Only fools do so. You can only afford such shenanigans among your peers.
Anyway, on getting to Eldoret we discovered that everything is named after Moi. Moi Preparatory School, Moi, University, Moi Computer Colleges, Moi Shoe Shiners, Moi MPESA, Moi County council toilets. Any business establishment or educational institutions was named after Moi. It is quite understandable.
Our breakfast was a one grisly affair. Surely, when will the Kalenjins learn how to cook properly? The last time I nearly died out of food poisoning was at Chepkunyuk, upon Koru Highlands. That is the place I ate the worst possible meal of half cooked native eggs, cooked with unripe tomatoes and not-so-ready-for-cooking onion stems. The Ugali was one nasty affair that it took the help of swallowing unripe maperas to wade of the vomiting feeling that was emerging.
This time around we were having some toast mayai and they delivered half cooked eggs(may be someone should consider training the Kalenjin on how to cook eggs.)
We proceeded to Moi University where I met my cool cousin, Duke whom I hang out with for sometime before going back to cheer my team. The mood was genial and the hospitality of Moi University student was beyond measure. Second to none. May be our confidence bordered on irritation but generally they were good friends. I hope when they will turn up, we shall return back the favour.
In the evening, being hungry like hell, we turned into some ramshackle where we ordered some beef and ugali to contain the hunger. The beef looked right but was prepared in a mundane way. Just too much cooking fat, haria( reads like hara), I could hardly believe that guys still use that substance. It evokes the worst memories in the 1990s when we were in a primary boarding school.
I was in no mood of alcohol, and tired like an overused sack, hence I had to get some lodging and claim some good sleep. Quite absurd that there were no lodgings nearby and we were directed to a place called Kesses to a place called Octopus; how apt a name for a lodge. I have much overplayed expectations but much to my chagrin when we get there, we meet a live band performing right next to the lodging, and our overzealous guide had presumed that we can make it with the din.
This cheap convenient venture, proved costly and we opted to go to town. After confirming with two or three lodging, we an affordable one where we lodge into a double with my colleague as a female friend gets into a single. One lengthy hot shower solves my myriad problems and I sleep like a baby, even though the spring bed was a bit 1977 July.
Our Journey back saw us search for petrol in virtually all gas stations and none seems to be stocking enough fuel for guzzlers like our bus.
The trip back belonged to Bony who can never really appreciate the power credibility and reputation. Reputation is like virginity. It is something you lose only but once. I’m sure second years will find it extremely hard to ever trust him. And to think he holds such esteemed positions in a number of distinguished ventures, tho tho tho tho tho