Look, this article won’t say good things about me. There shall be a lot of sex talk, mostly because I saw a joke on Twitter (my rigid immaturity refuses to call it X) about ladies shaving their Valentine’s gift.
I am a prude/naïve/ignoramus and it had to take someone’s daughter explaining to me what shaving your Valentine’s gift means. Does that also explain why she bought us pineapples? I thought it was for juice. Well, juice is involved alright, she said. I am impaled by my thoughts. Am I dealing with a sorcerer? Now I am suspicious of every fruit in this house. Why is this eggplant so big? And can I eat this courgette (in the kitchen) (not in bed)? Is this carrot even a carrot?
Admittedly, I have read the Kamasutra. Twice. I have also watched 50 Shades of Grey, but I don’t have the patience (or budget) for the things they did in there. I could be alone in the house but every time a kissing scene comes on TV, I inadvertently look away, feeling my mother’s eyes falling on me, heavy as an axe. Childhood trauma?
Anyway, this is a true story that happened to a friend of mine who is totally real and is not made up just for the purposes of this article. Wallahi. This girl tells me she wants to spice things up in the bedroom with her man. Naturally, I don’t like penetrating other people’s bedroom affairs so I ask her, what? She goes on and on about how she is in her prime and these are the best years of her life and so she is introducing toys. Like cars or dolls or something? No, she says. Vibrators and cuffs and a strap-on. A what? You know, BDSM. Google that.
She also shows me a whip that she got and my mind can’t help but go back 15 years to my primary school when we would be whipped by our teachers for speaking in mother tongue. Childhood trauma is a thing and I want to tell her this is what she is manifesting in her relationship but I am afraid I shall be talking out of school.
Who said whips are fun in bed? Can you picture a 40-something-year-old man handcuffed in a Downward-Facing Dog pose that would impress even a Master Yogi and his hairy legs in the air getting spanked? Nobody is whooping my ass because I am not in the business of being shackled, but this is not about me. 68 years of slavery under British rule has made sexual pain and pleasure (plein?) a national pastime.
I won’t get into the machinations of how she restrained her man, curtailing his freedom and giving judges a constitutional headache. Like the president, she seems to have a PhD in this. She was the dominatrix, taking power and wielding it.
This was Total Erotica, a masterpiece in minimalism without subtlety. Did Dedan Kimathi get shot in the ass for this? No, methinks. But kiliwaramba . What happened is that in a moment of extreme excitement (pleasure?) she went in too hard and might have broken a bone or two. Her man’s of course, not hers. She even showed me a picture of his fractured penile and I have not peed in a straight line since then.
Photo credit: Shutterstock
This too happened. A different friend of mine, let’s call him G— was engaging in the devil’s tango and the Missus perhaps after a lethal combination of Hollywood sentimentality, Victorian romanticism, and bridal magazine kitsch, decided to try something she had probably seen at midnight on TikTok. Doctors no longer do this but when used to go for prostrate exams, it involved the doctor pushing two fingers up the rectum. Now, G—’s girl is no doctor but did that stop her from doing doctor stuff? No. She chose her moment, when the ninja was in no man’s land, working hard to make her happy, and she, like a sniper with a gun, parted his cheeks and inserted her finger huko ndani, ndani, ndaniiii. Now, the problem wasn’t the finger being inserted—although now that I say that, I see how it could be a problem—but that her nail broke inside.
Acrylic nail! Ladies, how many times have we told you, men like short nails! Is there a positive side to this? Yes. She didn’t feel any enlargements or lumps so my friend G— doesn’t have prostate cancer. Continue looking on the brighter side: at least he got a free prostate exam. How many men can say that?
What I am trying to say is that with the advent of the sexual revolution, we have become disenchanted with regular sex. TV ads, sexual wellness podcasts, the internet, taxes, Dr Loves, and Auntie Wa Ndoas—it feels as if we need heavier drugs for our daily use. Our tolerance for sexual exploits has grown too high. Or perhaps, it has always been weaker than we believed.
Just like a heavily intoxicated person deliberately pursues a more serious addiction simply because their current addiction has become predictable. Would only a high person worry they are not high enough in the same way only a drunk believes they need more to drink?
I admit it. I am pretty vanilla. Ever since the missionaries came to Kenya back in the day, I remain their most fervent evangelist, continuing their missionary, if you catch my drift. But I have good reason. Hear me out. Do you know how octopuses mate? I read this somewhere, can’t remember where, but was either the Kamasutra or those 15 bob magazines in tao with screaming headlines: “15 Ways to PLEASE your woman—without your hands or WALLET!” They always get me at the wallet part. Cheapskate? No. Economist? Certainly.
Anyway, the male octopus attracts the female’s attention by waving his long, modified tentacle—a mating arm—then inserts it into a duct in her body that leads to the ovary. The more time the tip of his arm spends inside her body, the more sperm packets he could deliver to her eggs. And it’s during this intimate period that small males are most vulnerable to cannibalistic females.
After 15 minutes, as the mating ritual nears its end, the female sneaks closer to the male, rapidly extending her two front arms. The typically brown-coloured male quickly turns white, attempting to flee. She strangles him, then hauls his dead body to her den, where, she, urm, eats him.
Photo credit: Shutterstock
Wouldn’t you be scared too? You are having sex with someone and at the back of your mind you are wondering whether she will eat you after this. Sounds like the animal kingdom needs a #MeToo movement. I am convinced nobody can survive that.
Perhaps I may have been an octopus in my previous life which may help explain why I've avoided getting too close to women in this one. If you don’t see an article here, next week, you know what happened. Meanwhile, is it me, or have the prices of razors gone up this week? Students of history—who are not to be confused with marketers or salesmen, despite their similar job descriptions—will tell you that Valentine’s is a time for shaving. Men, me I recommend waxing.
Kwanza sugar wax. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know things. I know you are wondering too, do I have a sexual fantasy? Of course I do! My sexual fantasy, nay, let’s call it sexual odyssey, is to buy those tiger handcuffs and tie up a girl in bed, then gag her mouth with duct tape, then blindfold her, then rob her…
