Was it Sex or Love Making?

There is nothing more amusing than bumping into an angry but lovely reader. A reader who is very livid with you yet she thinks you are so marvelous. It is a writer’s moment. On Monday, I met with Alice (Not real Name), she is from Langata and runs a beauty shop in Westlands. Alice is angry because I say dick instead of manhood. She thinks that in writing, we should call orgasm the night cream and sex must be love making. Alice is one of those girls who can’t have sex with the lights on. That is how she is. And I told her every bit of truth and she allowed me to tell this story for the sake of my saved readers.

Let’s back down a little. On this auspicious Monday, when I met Alice, I was patiently waiting at Kaldis Kimathi Street. I was waiting for Wellington, the CEO of MobiMech and Mose Dan the guy who does everything with nothing. I call Wellington Welli because he is too short and keeps a big Afro, making him look just like himself- the guy who look like no one else. It is just his style and if you try to pirate his naturally patented style, you look like a scarecrow. I think that Afro protects his insights from bitchy attitude and phone radiations. Underneath that Afro he conceives many revolutionary ideas including his latest Mobile Mechanic Company.

I call Mose just Mose because there is no name that can define that guy. He will always have his hands on everything. He will run NGO’s, have a daytime job, he will write, Mose will own an accounting firm, and he will still keep up with his reading culture. Truly, I don’t get where these small-small people get all that energy. And Mose is the Master in interpersonal communication, he can turn any conversation around.

The nature of the minds I expected to interact with dictated that I was intellectually aroused even before Alice joined my table. She walked in as I was ordering a Lemonade, I always order that Mint lemonade because it is the only thing I know in most menus. Truth be told, I was brought up in Muranga and I never stepped into a Java or a fancy coffee shop until I was old enough. The whole of last year I did well but after I broke up with my girlfriend who used to show me these things, and Mose got married, I am in serious trouble telling the difference between a signature and a dessert. And the last thing I want is to order something I really don’t know how to eat. Again, I believe men were not made to taste foods; that is a woman’s job. If you have what it takes to screw one woman for almost a century, then you should be able to survive on one diet for a month and like it. Jehova.

Now my lemonade is coming and here comes Alice. She passes my table by a few feet before turning and approaching with this big grin like we have actually kissed. She holds her bigots and sways her bag and points at me with a finger that says ‘I am a beautician’. I am a little amused but I like the view, so I don’t interrupt until she speaks.

“You are Ambrose, Ambrose Mwangi- I love your stories so Much,” She said- Talking quickly and a little over excited.

I looked around to see if Biko was around – he wasn’t and I couldn’t see Magunga Williams either so I assumed I was the Amazing writer of the moment.

“Thanks alooooo…”

“But honestly, sometimes you make it hard to share your stories” She sat next to me. The way people just pull a chair and put their arms on their chin like they are about to give you a lecture. I knew we had a big problem.

“I am sorry, I am excited to see you and I want to give you my honest opinion”

“Maybe we should go slow on this one, what about you order a drink first and tell me about the sharing things?”

“Right”

She ruthlessly lunged into her bag and came out with a thousand bob between the beautician’s nails. Neatly places it on the table and for the first time I thought Khaldis was self-service. But I could tell. She meant she had her own money and she got her drinks covered. Girls will always play that card if they suspect you follow the Fisiology philosophies.

“Okey, I think you are referring to my Twitter, I have someone working on it”

“Pardon”

“You said I make it hard to share my stories”

“No, not the Twitter, Excuse me” She lifts the fingers again, signals a waiter and makes her order; I have never heard of the monstrous drink she ordered so I just waited to see what it was- I still didn’t get it. The waiter was gone and I was all left with the angry reader who defined beauty a mile away.

“I am having trouble sharing your blogs because of your content, sometimes. Not like the whole articles, but just a few words that make me uncomfortable”

“Uh, you mean a word like a penis or an ass”

“Exactly the A* word- that is the problem”

“What should I rather do?”

“Tell a good story and avoid the nasty words, I have friends who would really read you but I can’t share you”

“I will see to that” I sipped on my lemonade the way my Ex taught me.

Unfortunately, Alice’s boy friend showed up before I could tell her how good her waist was. And that would have been true. The two lovebirds gave pecs as I moved tables to give them time to catch up. From a distance, I watched them their next sex. I could tell Alice screamed God’s name everytime the Nigga got all up and down her thighs. The guy was obviously not a good guy. He is the type that would rough up a girl and forget where they kept her knickers. He would do it on the balcony and repeat it on a beach walk. He was not the type that prayed before a meal, not food and obviously not a girl. I call such guys Jake, because they end up changing girls like Alice and later marrying them, or maybe not. As jake and Alice left, probably to his house, she dropped a card.

Jake firmly held her behind as they exited the restaurant. And as I patiently waited and continued reading my book, I knew he had no idea that Alice hated that hand on that meat. It is a sacrifice she made to please him. She would never mind is she spanked the behind right before eating up all that cream. I shook my head and wondered what she meant that I should not say ass when hers was actually not hers. Later that day, Alice and I exchanged mails and we made a bet- I would tell this encounter and see how many saved people we harbor here. But I got her point- and I will expound on it now.

You see I have been told that my language is a little profane for medium readership. Even my auntie, who I still wish was like bill complained about it. She referred to ‘A Night out with a Lesbian’, story I told here. Just like Jane, she felt that my writing was Okey, quite entertaining, but a little too open. She said it might ruin my name in future endeavors.  Worried about her health knowing his favorite nephew is ruining his life, I had promised to change. But after my meeting with Alice, now I know I will never call a dick a penis, I will never say they slept together when what they actually did was just screw on the balcony. My reasons are very straight. Art is abstract and we all get it differently, but somethings we try to avoid are just too obvious.

Like who has ever had sex in a car trunk? No one can do that because in car trunks you can only fk, screw or sleep around. The concept of sex itself means a bed and lovemaking symbolizes a relationship. That is why it is technically impossible to have sex on the balcony, you can only make love, screw or just fK. I would also find it too disrespectful if in one of my posts I said that the old man was holding his penis. No, that old man there had his hands on his manhood- That can work. My niece doesn’t have a manhood, he has a penis, but this dude next to my house, this one now got a dick.

Art is redemption. It is the only thing that gives infinite possibilities and if you gonna last for long here, you better keep your art in order. I promise you sexy Alice, no story will be like the other one, and no Jake will hold your womanhood like the last. We all have our style, and when my mind runs, and I am struggling to replace the word boobs with breasts, I often lose it. If Jake hasn’t screwed the last sense from your mind, I beg you let me be.

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