First thing you need to know about son of man here, I don’t do relationships. Been single for the past three years straight, and still going strong. You know why? Because; a.) Women are a nuisance; nothing but headaches. And no matter how hard you try, they will always find some stupid reasons why you don’t love them enough (even when you do). Maybe you’re smashing Diane from work, maybe her boobs are smaller now, maybe the marks above her ass all of a sudden disgust you, maybe she curses in her sleep, or maybe her breath stinks of Jägermeister. b.) Current generation Kenyan women won’t waste a second of their time with you if you ain’t splashing money in their faces.
Now, personally, I’m at a stage in my life where every bloody coin counts, and the coins are less than my needs anyway. I pay my own rent, and I handle my own business. When I’m broke, I call people like my big bro or Irvin Jalang’o here and they throw a couple thousands my way. But, whatever happens, I don’t call my old folks for jack (that’s a story for another day.) So you would understand why I don’t have the tolerance for girls with no dreams; girls who just want to Instagram pictures of themselves holding on to bottles of Jameson at Koroga Festival and drink and twerk every passing day, and sing along to songs like “club going up, on a Tuesday.”
I don’t talk much about it, and a lot of you ladies who read this blog are probably going to criticize me for this but, for the past three years straight, my relationship with most women – with the exception of those I consider friends – has been what I like to call smash and dash. I hit it, then I fade away into oblivion. You don’t see me, you don’t hear from me, you don’t as much as catch a whiff of my cologne within a 30-mile radius. Most times I don’t even take mamis to my place; I don’t want to come home one evening from school to find some mami I hooked up with in 2014 rolling a joint at my doorstep, asking me things like “Why didn’t you call me back?”. Also, I have a rule against Virgins. I have heard they are too much work, so I avoid them at all costs. That’s how it has always been. Until a few weeks ago.
I’m at some joint in town after a long ass evening meeting at Highlands Restaurant – Moi Avenue – with some fresh out of college self-employed I.T chaps who want to hire me to create content for their website. I’m alone at the bar, holding onto a cold Tusker by the belly, dressed in dark blue Khaki trousers, a checked shirt, and a warm grey trench coat. There are about three or four mamis at a nearby table, sharing a bottle of Four Cousins white wine. I don’t pay much attention to the others, but the one my eye meets is in a dashing white trouser, a black top, and heels about the height of the Eiffel Tower. She looks like one of those ‘lady-in-the-streets-but-a-freak-in-the-bed’ type mamis. When you’ve been in the game as long as I have, trust me, you can tell anything about a woman just by how she adjusts her bra when she gets back to her seat from the loo.
So the DJ plays some Patoranking song and up the whole crew rises; screaming in terrible voices, twerking and swatting each other’s behind; something I find particularly intriguing, so I stare at them. Long. And hard. Till the Patoranking song ends and they go back to their seats. Then Miss Lady-In-The-Streets-But-A-Freak-In-The-Bed here comes up to me and says, “What’s your deal?” I say, “Excuse me?” and she goes, “Well, you’ve been staring at me and my friends for a while now. You got something you want to say?”
“How do you know I wasn’t looking past you?”
“Right; Because those small boys dancing behind us were quite the sight, Yes?”
“Hehe. Okay, Guilty. But, if it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t staring at you and your friends. I was just staring at you.”
When I walked out of that club at 2 a.m. that morning, ladies and gentlemen, I wasn’t alone. What happens in situations like these is you call a cab – or, in my case, an Uber – and you sprint your prey home before she gets back to her ‘right senses’. About 45 minutes later we’re at the pad, hands moving all over the place, tongues being shoved down throats, Ed Sheeran’s ‘X’ album blaring on the system by the table, the air reeking of sin . Kidogo kidogo clothes are off and son of man is on top. [I’m going to try to keep this as PG-rated as possible]
She – I should probably add I still don’t know her name by now – grabs good old john down there, softly fondles him for a bit, wraps him up in a contraceptive and begins pushing him inside her. Now here’s where – and how – I know she’s a virgin; She puts in john so slowly you would think she was waiting for the second coming. And every time I try to push in, her face cringes in pain and she screams and yanks good old john out of her like some knife out of a bloody stab wound. And I normally don’t like talking during migwatos but I sigh and say, “Maybe you should hop on top,” and she replies, “Good idea.”
So we switch positions and I lazily lie on my back, with my hands folded behind my head, and I wait. But No! It’s still the same old script; just more screaming this time. Someone passing by at that time of the night would have thought someone’s skin was being peeled out of their body slowly, with a broken piece of bottle. At that rate, we were going to wake up the neighbors or, God forbid, the entire building. Plus, my Caretaker is some mean old hag who has no love for me because of those two occasions when I delayed with rent so I’m pretty sure she would have called the cops on my ass. So I finally give up and drift off to sleep; living to fight another day.
The next morning the mami wakes up and the first thing she says to me is, “Aki wewe jana uliniumiza” and I’m like, “What? Are you kidding me right now? Woman, nothing happened.”
Damn Virgins. Never Again.
Meanwhile, guys, do you remember the other day when we asked you to nominate us for the 2016 OLX Social Media Awards (SoMA)? Well, guess what…we made the shortlist. And we couldn’t have done it without you guys, and we’re duly grateful. Now that the first step is complete, here’s the thing, we need to bring that award back home, sindio? So what we’re going to request you guys to do is simple; Go to www.soma.or.ke/vote/ and, under the ‘New Blogger Personality Award’, check on www.mister-left.com . Then log on to your email address, validate your vote, and then you can go on about your business. If the site doesn’t load on your phone – maybe you own a Kaduda and just ran into this in the cyber – you can vote via Text too. Simply Text ‘ 4B to 21195 .’