“What are you doing?” she asks in that lazy drawl of hers I like so much. It feels like – her voice feels like she’s softly drawing nails across my naked chest.
I like it.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I retort, injecting some impatience in my voice.
“I know,” she answers. “That’s not what I wanted to ask. I mean, what are you writing?”
My head dances from left to write as I shake it. “Nothing serious. I’m just fucking around.”
Even though I’m not looking at her – my focus is on the words unraveling on the page in front of me – I feel it the moment she goes still. She’s about to ask one of those annoying and absolutely irrelevant questions women ask in times like this.
I continue punching the keyboard and wait.
“Is that…is that what we’re doing – fucking around?”
I laugh; a short and harsh sound. “Not really. I haven’t fucked you – yet.”
The confusion she’s struggling with is a presence – a palpable enough presence even from across the room. I wait patiently till she opens her mouth – and then I say, “You’re trying to decide which to go with – offense or intrigue. Fair enough – but don’t deny yourself the pleasure of knowing just because you’re conscious of political correctness. It’s a waste of time.”
Now I lift my eyes to her face.
She sighs, swings her legs off the table and straightens her dress. “I’m curious as to why you haven’t…you know…” her voice trails off.
“Fucked you?” I ask, hoping the mischievousness I feel is reflected in my grin.
“Must you say it that way? Aren’t there other words for it?”
“It is what it is.” I rise slightly – and allow a mask of indifference settle on my face. “As to why I haven’t – “ she tenses and I smile. “…why I haven’t touched you, there’s a reason.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course. There always is with you.”
“Well,” I continue like I didn’t hear her, “the thing is, I don’t like you enough to want to wake up beside you yet, and I like you too much to want to let you go so quickly. I’m getting to know you; taking the time to find if there’s more to you than those boobs that always look like they’re talking to me. If there is, well…” I lift my shoulders and drop them. “If there isn’t, well…” I repeat the action.
She walks up to me and leans a round hip against the table. “They did tell me you think too much. They told me you make mountains out of molehills and see signs where there’s nothing to see. What does all that thinking and analysis do for you?”
I drag my eyes off a thigh that is getting lighter the higher I go and frown at my screen. “Hmm. Remember Joseph? I’m sure Potiphar’s wife said the same thing to him – ‘What’s the big deal? My husband will never know!’ “
“We all know how that worked out for him, don’t we? Took his childish ass to jail!”
“What would have happened if he had slept with his boss’ wife?”
She rolls her eyes. “Nothing na! What would have happened?”
“Exactly. Nothing. He would never have gone to jail. He probably would have never had the dream interpretation skill, would have never become Prime Minister. And the famine would have come – and Egypt would have been just as devastated as the rest of the world.”
“You’re so full of yourself, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “I can make space for you if you like,” I say.
She looks like she wants to run and stay and slap me – all at the same time. Finally, she settles for hugging herself. “I really hate you,” she says.
“Isn’t that why you like me?” I retort with a smile.
“What makes you think I like you?”
I nod. “Well then, maybe ‘like’ is too strong a word. Whatever it is sha, it’s why you’re here – even though you know I’m an arrogant prick. That’s why you cannot leave even though you really don’t like the way I talk to you. See, in spite of your experience concerning men you haven’t met one quite like me – “
“Who says?” she interrupts.
“Hush,” I say gently. “As I was saying – I’m something new. Something you’re not used to. And that is the attraction I have for you. At the moment, I’m simply something you can’t figure out. I intrigue and confuse you. So you hang around, hoping to see something that will explain me, or you’ll become bored or I’ll revert to type and behave in a more familiar way – whichever comes first. But you’re starting to be unsettled because it’s not quite working out the way you expected. The deeper you go the more you like what you see – and the more you like, the more confused you get. You cannot help yourself – you’re bothered to find you’re a kiss-and-a-half away from falling for me completely.”
She doesn’t answer, engrossed in staring at the Kilowog action figure standing on my desk.
“You women are confused sha o,” I start. “You complain that men think with their dicks, and when you meet one who actually thinks with his brain you don’t know what to do with him.” I spread my arms. “How’s that for confusion?”
“It’s not that – it’s not confusion.” She sighs and purses beautiful lips. “See, we’re – women are used to men with agendas. We’re used to men offering us sex, and the ones that may be the exception to the rule don’t talk so it’s easier to assume they also want the same thing, they’re just too shy to admit it. Because of that, we know how to deal with men. We decide if we want it to or how it fits into our agenda. So imagine having to fight men off all your life – and then meeting one that just wants to keep his distance.” She inhales, and then looks at me with soft eyes. “How’s that for confusing?”
Leaning back in my chair, I frown. I cannot think of a response to that. “That’s – that’s a good point,” I admit grudgingly.
She smiles as she pushes the beads around her left wrist distractedly, and then the beaded wrist gets lost in her unruly mass of hair; hair I just want my fingers to get lost in. And she’s smiling – at me. It’s a smile I like better the more I see it. I want to touch her mouth so bad – it’s an urge that startles me – and I put my hands under my armpit.
It shames me that, for all my philosophizing I actually want her.
“Have you finished the story?” she asks softly.
“No,” I answer irritably. “Well yes, it’s done.”
She turns the laptop her way and starts to read, her lips moving gently – almost imperceptibly. My glance happens to shift downwards and I find myself looking down her blouse.
Quickly, I find some new holes to examine in my ceiling.
“That’s it? What am I supposed to make of this?” She pushes the laptop back to me and places hands on her hips, mouth in a pout.
“Well, I did tell you I was just – “
“Fucking around,” she says along with me. Her hair bounces as she shakes her head, but I’m pleased to see she’s still smiling.
“Exactly,” I finish.
If I said;
“On my way to work this morning, I got behind a dirty green Toyota Celica with paint peeling. This was around Stadium, Surulere. I could clearly see the occupants of the vehicle – a man and woman. The woman was driving but she kept turning to look at the man beside her. They looked like they were having a serious argument. That was why I noticed them in the first place – the woman was driving like she was drunk.
“Suddenly, the woman’s right hand shot out and flashed across the man’s face. I caught a glint before her hand made impact – I guess she was wearing some bling. Before I could say ‘she slapped him’, her hand whipped across again on its return journey – like Serena Williams delivering a backhand stroke – across the man’s face. He bowed over; I guess he was holding his face in his hands. Of course, I couldn’t see that much. I was behind them after all.”
If I said all that, most responses would be ‘nice writing!’ ‘great work!’ ‘Seun you’re good’ and so on. Maybe a couple of truly discerning ones would say; “Are you serious?’ ‘This is sad’ ‘Unfortunate truth’ and so so.
But if I took away the fact that it was a woman driving – and say it was a man; and it was HIS hand that flashed across, slapping the woman back and forth like they slap butt-cheeks in porn movies, the entire conversation will change. Things like ‘monster!’ ‘animal!’ ‘bastard!’ and so on will be hurled across the internet.
Remember the guy who was stabbed to death by his wife? Remember what YOU said when that happened? Remember how YOU suddenly became rational and objective; saying he must have done something to deserve that?
Don’t confuse yourself. This not an ‘anti-black lives matter’ campaign. My point is – abuse is abuse – stop downplaying it JUST BECAUSE it happened to a man. I read a girl comment that ‘after all, only 0.001% of men go through domestic violence’.
I’m sure Uncle Dino Melaye helped her with those findings.
As I keep saying to all these/those man-haters disguising as feminists; ‘man is not the enemy’. Domestic violence/abuse; whether physical or otherwise is wrong.
End of story. I had no idea it was a competition.
As to the story above – yes. It happened this morning. And I was saddened because –
Who slapped who?
If you can be bothered, do take the time to figure it out for yourself. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
images courtesy whisper.sh
I thought the days of proving your manhood by how many women you’ve been with were done with and over.
Apparently, I languish in ignorance.
Therefore, to whom it may concern, find the extended version of my apology – or lack of one – below.
I had no idea my decision to be celibate would make you; my ‘friend’, ‘padi’ and/or ‘confidante’ uncomfortable. You see, I didn’t choose to tell you because I somehow understood – even long before we got to this point – that it is important not to cast my pearls before swine.
Butter no be monkey food, after all.
But your concern after your numerous attempts to hook me up with several pliant and willing women kept coming to naught helped loosen my tongue; albeit unwisely, as I have come to realize.
Still, I am grateful for your perception of the fact that I am not missing any bit of game. In fact, if anything can be said – my game is more on point than ever; now I no longer have petty distractions to deal with.
I just have decided to stay off sex for the moment.
Anyways, I have come to accept your offense concerning my stance – accept; but not understand. If I am not bothered by your huge appetite for copious amounts of sex, why does my lack of an appetite bother you?
“What is he trying to prove?” I hear you ask. Well, I turn that question back to you.
What are YOU trying to prove?
You think the fact that you cannot resist a gigantic behind or massive ‘fronts’ makes you better than me? Hey – I gladly concede. You ARE the better man of us two – even the society we live in agrees with you; so why do you still think we are competing?
You are not my competition; the man hasn’t been born that I can compete with – simply because the terms and conditions of life do not make for that – competition.
Actually I lied. There’s one man I am very much in a position to compete with – the one man I can compete with and beat.
The man who looks back at me every time I look in the mirror.
That’s the only man I am interested in being better than; that is the only standard (other than Jesus) I look to. Therefore, I do not, cannot and will not judge you – I expect it’s only fair to ask that you do not judge me either; and that you respect my decision.
No. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my balls.
You know better than that – or at least I expect you to – because you; better than most know full well where I am coming from. You know what I used to be like; what my relating with women bordered on. You know when and how my relationship with my mother improved; and how that improved my relationship with women generally.
You know where I have been.
Therefore, I am sorry if I do not have new colorful stories to contribute to the conversation when you and your pals are talking about your conquests – in fact; I am sorry I do not have any stories at all. I am sorry I do not have any raw or ribald jokes to share; I am sorry I do not have nude pictures of my ‘impressive’ number of girlfriends; past or present to display before your hungry eyes.
For the sake of clarity; I do not think for one second that makes me better than anyone other than myself. I just – I just do not roll that way.
I know who I am. And that; is not it.
Is it too much to ask that you leave me alone in my ‘inability to talk to women’, ‘my gayness’ – or whatever reason you came up with yesterday to explain my ‘unexplainable’ behavior?
I didn’t think so.
And to the other ‘you’, the ‘you’ who thinks every man is the same because every guy you’ve ever shown your boobs starts making promises concerning a certain airport or a certain stadium; welcome to the real world.
Not all of us are suckers for boobs. Some of us men are just boring like that.
Understand; that ‘boring’ bit is sarcasm – because I know a lot of ‘you’ find guys without vices unrealistic, non-existent or plain boring. I mean, isn’t it amusing how you sing your little choruses of ‘all men are the same’ and then you meet one that’s ‘different’ – and have absolutely no idea what to do with him?
But I digress.
Point is; I’m not into the business of setting ‘P’, ‘X’, ‘Y’ or any other alphabet on or off social media. Don’t misunderstand; I like the attention as much as anyone else – but I do not thrive on it. It does not define me. I’m just online; usually; to share my thoughts/opinions; ignorant and uneducated as they are – and learn a thing or two from other people who share my interests – or not.
And more importantly – to connect; see if people like me can find each other. But if there’s one thing I am not online for; it’s booty call. You dig?
Therefore; forgive me when you get a brusque reply to your request that we ‘hook up’ or the nude pictures you send to my email. I like breasts and butts as much as the next guy – but not to the point I forget why I’m here.
Or maybe I’m gay. After all, I am catching feelings for someone named Scott.
Don’t get it twisted; I love sex. I find the biology and chemistry of it quite fascinating. I like waist beads and chains, I’m attracted to some strategically-positioned tattoo, I like dressing up, role playing – in fact; my favorite position is –
None of your business; actually.
I just need you to understand; the same way you have the right to throw it in the way of whoever you decide to; I have the same right to turn it down. The fact that you wouldn’t eat Mr. Biggs meat pie does not make Mr. Biggs meat pie bad; it just means you don’t like it.
Is that so difficult to understand?
No; I do not want to sleep with you; knock boots with you, bump pelvises with you, fuck you – or whatever new name sex is called. There’s nothing wrong with you physically or otherwise far as I can see – and even if there was; I wouldn’t know. I’m not a doctor.
I’m not better – or ‘holier’ than you for that matter. I just don’t want to have sex with you.
Point blank period.
Let me see if I can say it French – maybe that would help:
Je ne veux pa sexe avec toi.
Forgive the errors – if there are any. I didn’t want to use Google translator and my French is nowhere near perfect yet.
You sha get the point.
More importantly; I think – no; I definitely reserve the right to rescind my celibacy decision the moment this post goes up – or not to. My life. My choices. My decisions.
Respect that. Or not.
Your fine-ass cup of boiling Nescafe – or herbal tea – or Milo.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH US?
Battle Of The Sexes – Round One
What happened to us?
There was a time when men worshiped the ground women walked on. I mean, everybody had a dream girl. Everyone had a crush that gave them a rush. And stuff like that.
Everyone had their ‘go-to’ member of the opposite sex – someone who just had to listen for a few minutes and everything – EVERYTHING would be fine.
What happened to us?
The men think the women are sluts. The women think the men are dogs.
Of course; not everyone thinks that – but you do know what I mean.
Very few people invest energy in romantic relationships these days. We’d rather spend time complaining about how the opposite sex has done us wrong – and therefore we’re dedicating the rest of our lives to making them miserable.
Which would mean; or rather, which I understand to mean that we’d rather carry around bitterness for the rest of our rather short lives than take another chance at happiness.
We’d rather let some ignorant person/mistake dictate the course of our lives than actively make our own decisions and choices.
We’d rather react than act.
I know. We’ve all been there.
Someone; a friend of mine once said to me that the hatred between man and woman is far more than anything she’s seen in existence – far more than Hitler had for Jews and Negroes and everybody else; far more than some races and practices have for others.
Now that’s a scary thought.
Of course; some guy would say ‘I don’t hate women. I love women. I want to be with a woman most of the time. I want to spend my money on women’, right?
And really, there’s nothing wrong with all of that.
The only issue is – when it comes down to it, that particular guy probably regards women the same way he regards a slab of meat; something to be used when convenient, and then quickly forgotten about until the next time.
I remember when I was in secondary school. Back then it was as though the women were super-hyper intelligent (no offense to women now). I mean, at least if you were my age then and you wanted to ask a woman out, you needed all the help you could get.
You would scheme and plot and deliberate and form several committees – all because you were trying to get with one girl. You’d probably be confabbing with like six of your friends who also brought their older brothers’ experiences to bear on the situation.
All of which made for a fun experience.
What did we even do with girls back then?
I remember the first time I heard about sex – but that’s a discussion for another day; another post.
Of course, it would seem as though the girls then were taught to play hard to get. That was the way things were done then – and now; it’s not so wise.
I mean, what other reason could a girl have for making a guy wait – and not only that; bringing up all sorts of insurmountable odds in his way?
And if we agree that the girls back then were just playing hard to get, what are today’s girls doing?
A set of women are of the opinion that telling a guy/letting a guy know how they feel about him is setting themselves up for failure.
The guy will never appreciate something he did not work for; something he did not spend money, time and brain power to get.
So they dribble. Make excuses. Lie. Don’t pick his calls. Never call back.
These women probably watched Two Can Play That Game and made that like their relationship guide book.
Another set feel that guys are pigs anyway; and therefore give in to them – but make sure you’re getting value for money. Or better still; money for value.
Get whatever they can while they are in it, and move on to the next one when they are out.
There’s yet another set who believe men are good and kind and – all those other things. These ones believe that there’s someone out there for them, and the reason they’ve been treated wrong at the hands of some men is just that some men are first class a-holes.
Some men. Most men.
Not all men.
Some men think women are things to be used; so they do not understand it when a woman says ‘no’. It sounds like a bad record to them. I mean, these men believe women are not supposed to have choices or opinions or a voice – even when it comes to their bodies.
Some men believe spending money on a woman gives them the right to do whatever. Stories of ‘men’ forcing a girl out of their car on the Third Mainland Bridge (longest bridge in Lagos) in the middle of a night abound. Scary, spine-tingling stories of the insensitivity of some men.
Does the phrase ‘vex money’ sound familiar?
Everybody has the right to believe what they believe – first thing however; don’t complain when your beliefs play out the exact way you expect them to. And the second thing is – you have no right to force your beliefs on another person.
Imagine a world in which a guy told a girl “Listen, I am taking you out to Silverbird to see Amazing Spiderman Two, and then treating you to a well-cooked dinner of your choice, at any restaurant of your choice – and then I am taking you home to knock you into my bedroom wall. Interested?”
I mean, wouldn’t both parties be happy and comfortable with whatever comes next?
Why do we hate each other so much?
Why do we treat each other so badly?
Does it make guys happy to see a girl cringe in fear when they approach? Do you feel more ‘manly’ when you act like they do in home videos, throw the girl her tattered clothes and say ‘put them on and get out!” in a chilly, Clint Eastwood-esque growl? And does it make you; lady, feel like you’ve won one for the female specie when you eat what you can of a guy’s finances? Since when did you start to feel the only reason to be with a man is so he can feed you – because you can’t do squat for yourself?
The musical video for When A Woman’s Fed Up by R. Kelly had a montage at the end – ‘There’s No Such Thing As A No-good Woman. Every No-good Woman Was Made So By A No-Good Man”.
For a while, I agreed with it. I mean, to a kid who had notions of saving the world, that sounded like a mission statement. But as I learnt more about myself and choices I realized it was nothing but some fancy-sounding bullshit. No disrespect to Kells.
I mean, that statement paints every ‘no-good’ woman as a victim. It simply takes control out of every heartbroken woman’s hands and places it the hands of every no-good man.
Pardon my French – but that’s bullshit. Some stinking-to-Mars-type level A type bullshit.
People will always be themselves. There are a-holes in every sex, race and religion. EVERY ONE.
Know too; that they are also people who have excuses to be mean and bitter. I mean, imagine the security guard at your office snapping at you because a colleague of yours snapped at him.
Would you make excuses for him – or would you give him what for?
What if you did make excuses for him the first time? And the second. And third. Till it becomes clear to you that this is just another of the a-holes we’ve been talking about all day.
What would you do? Snap at your boss because…?
We call customer care centers and expect those people to be nice to us – regardless whether they have been yelled at and insulted in every language since the beginning of the day (I particularly empathize with MTN and Etisalat care guys); and we cannot extend the same courtesy to people around us. People we’re supposed to be intimate with. People we share some personal parts of our lives with.
I don’t know. I just think there’s something awfully wrong with that picture.
I ask again.
What happened to us?