A man who has been denied sex when he was so sure that he was gonna get some for the night is murderous person. His mind riotous. His thoughts, suicidal. If his anger and hatred can be condensed, it will be more poisonous than the worst snake poison known. A woman will be more lucky to be shown where the toothpaste is in the morning as the man resorts to MANTRUMS. I recently experienced this and here is my conclusion.
We left the club at 3.37 am. I had socked up no less than 13 bottles of cold Tusker and I was walking as if my footstep would sink the whole earth into space. I could barely tell my second name, let alone my phone number off head. I am with Alfred, a great friend of mine whose generosity had been milked for all its worth that night. Alfred drives, which meant the Matatu hassle had been taken care of. Besides I was going to play host to Alfred’s clandestine activities for the night.
Alfred had managed to Chips Funga a girl with a very average face that you could well calculate the mean of anything on her face. But whatever she lacked in the face, she had a great body that had been the erotic food for the optical needs of the men for the night. She had wrung, swung, rubbed her bottom and hips enough to pain the groins of men watching. If she danced that way with a beginner, I won’t have been surprised if she sent a man down with one orgasmic epileptic feat. She had a fancy name, I think Laura.
Alfred is a randy married friend of mine whose wife has frozen the goods at home and I had accompanied him to the club to forage for something to calm his surging pelvic desires given he is past the age of Vaseline and wet dreams. . .As usual, at the club, I was more engaged with the bottle than with available beautiful women. So when he whispered to me that he had ran into a former colleague who used to have hots on him, it seemed that his troubles were coming to an end. But the lady had other ideas.
We got home at 4.03 am. Alfred couldn’t wait to get started. Boy, he must have been starving. As soon as we got into the house, he stumbled onto a room he is very familiar with, his catch alongside him and it seemed to me that they both needed each other rather badly. I was wrong.
I checked into my room so wasted I had forgotten all my troubles. I was in one of those states that you get to bed with one shoe on, the belt half untied and of course with everything else on. Under such times you just slump onto the bed and can sleep on your hand for 10 hours. I performed a small ritual that I normally do once I get home after a long drunken night. I check on the time and I calculate how long I would wish to sleep before throwing my phone anywhere I can’t hear it ring. I don’t really care if the head of state will try to reach out for me.
Barely 27 minutes later, Alfred rudely shook me up and sighed so hard that someone in Mountain View might have heard from my dusty Eastlands apartments. He let out an exasperated sigh that nearly sounded like whirlwind rudely pulling of my duvet.
“Maze huyu manzi hanigei,” he said sounding so frustrated and tired. The desperation in his voice was a sure giveaway. The gods of a rigorous hangover were beginning to drum up in my head. The North East part of my head had begun that small drubbing that ends up keeping in bed a whole Sunday. I looked into his eyes, and all the drunkenness in me was reduced by 80% in a flash.
“Nataka tumdrop kwake, wallahi, namwacha roundabout ya Dohn?” I was instantly alarmed. Alfred is a man of his word. He once slapped a certain woman who had gotten into his nerves so hard that she was admitted for a whole month in a coma. He is a Luhyia for the record and his hand is the size of a spade. He speaks in a menacingly low voice that threatens even me. I could see the headlines on Monday. The fate of Laura was at stake. I had to comfort Alfred to take it easy for more than an hour, as he broke stuff in the house and even tore the carpet mercilessly to assuage his anger.
He cried about his time. He cried about his three or four Black Ices that had done the reverse. He got carried away by his quarreling and slept on the floor. You should have seen Alfred.
R & B diva, Monica is one of my favourite singers to have ever graced the rhythm and blues scene. She is far from being the prettiest, though my handful cousin Patrick will beg to differ. But I like her voice and her music. There is certain femininity and vulnerability as she goes about her thing that is coolly admirable.
Her 1997 song For you I will is the third best in my best ever collection. Another song that I like is the one she did with the super cheeky producer Jermaine Dupri or JD if you like the names fancy; First Night. Google the lyrics if you can, the first part where Monica sings and the chorus. That is all about this piece.
There are two things I have observed about women on their first night date; they are unusually quiet and scarcely can eat anything. Especially if the man is gambling and everything has not been settled beforehand. Unless a prostitute or a chips funga, most ladies are invariably hesitant on their first night.
The first night is always a nervy thing. I know countless men who have bought the best dinners, served with wine and all other prerequisites only to be frozen at their time of need. These are the men who thrive in the assumption that if a woman has drunk the coffee, ate the dinner and gulped the wine, he is good to go. In the past bedding a drunk woman was easier and many older men got off well with sufficient bottles of black ice or hard liquor for the lady to lose all her bodily senses but for sexual urges. Not anymore.
Lately buying a woman too much liquor in the anticipation that she will give in is foolhardy. While we live in a fairly liberal world and many women have no qualms sleeping with strangers at the first encounter, there are some who still play difficult at the man’s hour of need, especially if it is the first night.
So much sex happens between strangers lately, I never knew why tinted cars have become so popular with non-politicians until I stood outside Club Psys in Lang’ata at the car park smoking when I witnessed the rottenness in this city.I have seen strangers make out and proceed to get it on in their cars and get back to the club as if they had gone out to pick cash from the vehicle for more drinks.
But the first night is still a puzzling thing. Every man who beds regularly has encountered such a shocker. It bores stiff. It is not about lack of expertise in handling women. It is a fact that there are women who believe that getting laid on the first day indicates that they are loose, which is incidentally the reality.
That is why they guard their first encounter, especially if they are reading some potential future in the man. They will rather act like they don’t sleep around as often. But men always have bent opinions about these things. You can tell a lady who sleeps around by initial interactions without investing too much intellectual input.
Ladies, here is the thing: Denying a man on the first night after he has spent on you is down-rightly unfair. While it is foolish of the man to presume that his efforts must be rewarded by a woman sleeping on her back, a woman will do good and help the man in making things clear early enough.
Any reasonably old women have encountered men who can’t hear anything when they are randy. Not even the periods can stop them. Since women have been known to stick tampons falsely to keep off men they don’t want but can’t tell off for the sake of gaining financially, some have been known to go to the lengths of touching blood. In deed seeing is believing. That is how men value sex when they are up to it.
Anyway to make matters easy for fellow men, here are signs that you are not getting any that night.
• If you arrive home and she asks you the sleeping arrangements, know mentally sex is out of question.
• If she offers to sleep with you in the same bed and gets to bed with her jeans on, start adjusting to the reality.
• If she asks for an extra blanket, your goose has been fried.
• If she starts talking like she can be comfortable on the carpet or the sofa, you will require the persuasive skills of the most qualified PR person in the world to convince her otherwise.
• If she starts hinting on the ride home that she would wish to go to her place.
• If she starts claiming that tomorrow she has a busy day.