Men, I have good news and bad news. The good news is, there is no bad news. The bad news is, there is no good news.
I am writing part of this from a bar in Mirema Drive partly because when people ask why I am always in a club, I can say, “Nas’kiza ground”, you know, being in touch with the common man, and partly because this government and its tax policies are killing my libido.
The bar is the only other place men my age can goad me and “positively reinforce” that “these things happen”, “Any woman who wants you to go for three rounds in one night is an exorcist” and “Hii serikali itatumaliza.”
I give my best, genuine work because even some bamboozled minister recently said that substandard is not fake.
At the bar, men get to talk—or lie—about their performances in bed, depending on your recent conquest/s. I have yet to hear any downplay of his bedminton tactics, even the polite guy suddenly turning into a bedroom bully and bringing the streets into the sheets.
I wouldn’t call them duckboys—we are a family paper—but if someone else did, I wouldn’t argue. I am sure they feel the same way about me. And men lie.
Not just with you, but to each other. When it comes to the bedroom, this is where our ego stands erect, and the slightest provocation is taken as a slight to one.
But the data says that approximately 8 percent of men between 20 to 29 (and 11 percent of 30-39-year-old men) may tell you they are Tiger Power but forensic evidence suggests their tigers need more power.
If you listen to what men tell each other in the bars, it would sound like Season I, Episode 7 of Suits but the reality is that we are far closer to Vioja Mahakamani .
The naked truth is that men are struggling in the bedroom. At the risk of exposing myself, I have noticed a sharp increase in the libido of women in their late 20s through their 30s.
It is also that time the man’s libido is decreasing, pressures of starting a family, financial security, career, sedentary lifestyle et al taking a toll and showing up when the two of you are about to go down — you know what I mean — and what was once an intimate act between two lovers, becomes a ménage à trois, with shame as the silent partner.
This is how it feels to be up against the wall. In our society, there seems to be a general rule that the more we don’t talk about something, the less likely it will go away. We battle daily for and against the labels that aim to either protect or condemn us.
But what should we do to make sure everyone is getting the optimum sexual experience, that nobody is missing out? Because reality is quick to replace fantasy.
This is true in every area except for sex, where pornography has more or less ruined sex for all men under 30.
From my experiences, women of our era are clear in what they want, from the bedroom to the boardroom. For anything they have lacked in men, women have had to find a substitute be it their children, careers, lifestyle, etc.
This adjustment to fill “the void” is what characterises the woman of this age. Enter sex toys. From ménage à trois to ménage à quatre, no wonder most relationships feel crowded.
None of the men I sat with at that table, drinking and ogling with would easily confess that they too have had issues in the bedroom. That conversation would be like chewing on razor blades, like eating ground glass. That would be signing your own execution.
Men’s relationships are all about power. And what is sex but the ultimate form of power, the conquest of the other?
Back in my mid-20s, when all the responsibility I had was to make sure I ate enough liver to increase the blood production in my body, I would get panic attacks when I had a chance to play bedminton.
I would focus so much on impressing the other partner, forgetting I too was a player in this game. Sometimes when I see them in the ghost town that is WhatsApp statuses, I am tempted to text them and apologise.
“That wasn’t me, babe. Ni shetani. Nipee ka-friendly. Nimechange.” I have a stronger back now from carrying all these taxes, and I would donate my actual liver to prove it. But lo and behold!
That will never happen—right, Mitchelle? Ama?—and I have had to admit that that was my only chance, and they will only ever know that boy who couldn’t finish (which, in retrospect, wasn’t that a good thing?!) It’s a shame I carried, which I no longer do. Besides, substandard is not fake. So what do I want?
I want cheap over-thecounter erectile cream, I want more men to have less shame about their lives, and I want 24 hours uninterrupted with Mitchelle hence the erectile cream.
Men rarely talk about erectile dysfunction because it is rooted in shame. Shame is the disease; ED is but a symptom. Men and shame are contranyms — like the word left, which means how many stayed — but also means to leave — which is the spine of all male relationships. Escapism.
The opiate of the people, whether as accessible as alcohol and promiscuity and other madnesses or as hard to come by as faith in God or the cosmos. Those who came before us counselled us: “A naked man has nothing to hide.”
The bad news is shame is an abyss, a gaping yawn in the soul, running from — or being chased by — your own shadow. The void is vast, like drinking salty water on a hot day in a cold desert.
The good news is to claw back at the void, we must talk about it, must address it, our words a lamp unto the path of darkness, every statement not just an act of defiance, but of blood pumping and rushing and flowing from one head, to another.
