Oh Ye Butches…

I know, I know. I am anything but consistent with this blog. Mostly because my other blog, which I created under my real name gets all the love and attention.

No, no, that’s bullshit. It doesn’t matter why I’ve been gone. What matters is I’m here now. (?)

Today I want to rant about butches.

Before I dive in, please know that I understand not all butches ar the same. There is no label that properly fits. This is not a one-size-fits-all thing. That’s the whole point I’m trying to make. Heck, by the end of this post, you might argue I am butch. Or a tomboy. I hate when I’m described that way, but that’s the label the world has decided to stick me with… As though I’d ever want to give up my boobs and vadge for a penis. Nope. No thanks. If you’re talking about getting rid of periods entirely, or at least working it out so even if I have to sit on a toilet bowl a whole day, it would be over, then yeah, let’s talk.

If you met me, you’d think it would be totally hypocritical of me to be ranting about butches. And I wouldn’t blame you. For one thing, no matter how much I try, my inner butch comes out. It’s funny I say inner butch, because I do not feel like a butch, even though I kinda look like one. Wide shoulders, uneven step, but that’s about it, I swear. I’m as girlie on the inside as Blossom of the Power Puff Girls. My inner pink game is strong. Okay… I just re-read that, and it sounds wrong on so many levels, that I have decided not to delete it. If you totally missed what just happened, here’s a clue: Kegels. Now re-read. You’re welcome.

Back to what I was ranting about. Butches, butches, butches. I am not a butch! I hate that there even has to be a label for anything to begin with. Can’t we all just gay-ly get along without the labels? So I favour male clothing, not because I want to look like a guy, but because it’s just comfortable as fuck. Have you tried on briefs? Boy shorts? Beyond comfortable. I have those. I also have thongs and sexy lingerie and all. Now, anyone who knows me would probably do a doubletake at that sentence. But that’s my whole point! The damn labels! I hate them! I don’t exactly fit.

I met a few butches not too long ago. It was cool. Because YAY LESBIANS! We’re family. We gatsta stick together, n’ahm sayin’?

Anyhoo, they were really cool. Except they kept calling me bro. Why? Why??? I died a little inside. I badly wanted to let them know I am not a bro. That in facct, my ultra-femme girlfriend wears the dildo more often than not. That I have as a matter of fact twerked for her. That Ipaint my nails when it suddenly hits me that I want to. That I have a slew of multicolored thongs. That damn it, there is an uber-femme inside of me!

But I couldn’t say all that. So they kept bro-ing me. And I was just like… “Smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave.”

Next thing to rant about – they all seemed to really hate men. I mean, really, REALLY despise them. Am I a lesbian? Yes. Gold star. But for the life of me, I do not recall reading in the lezzie code that I’m supposed to hate men. I get that I can’t possibly feel certain things for them, no mater how hard I tried (more on that later) but seriously, hating men? I wouldn’t be here, if my daddy hadn’t decided he liked my mother enough to stuff a weener in the middle of her doughnut. Oh, I’m sorry… Was I unnecessarily crass? Good. That’s what I was going for. I also have brothers, male friends, male cousins, awesome gay male friends, straight male friends… So, pardon me, “bros”, but I really don’t see why I should hate another human being simply because he has a penis in between his legs.

Another thing I have noticed – and this is weird as fuck – I could be at the mall, and I see two females together, one very butch and very handsy with the other. I get all happy and giddy inside. Why? I’m in Nigeria. Same love is not something condoned. It’s illegal, and frowned upon as immoral by the very hypocritical society we live in. So when I see an obvious lesbian couple, I do a little jig and give a fist bump on the inside. On the outside, I just glance briefly, and give a knowing, encouraging smile. But what do I usually get in return? That butch glare. The one that says “Yeah, I see you. Look sideways at my girl and I will Jackie Chan your ass from here to gay-kingdom come.”

Why? Butch please. I was not trying to snag your girl. I’m very happy with mines, thank-yuh-verrah-much. Can’t we just acknowledge each other and be like, oh, I see you, sistah, (or bro? ick) Keep doing your thing! Can’t we all just get along? No? Oh. My bad.

Next, I noticed them butches grabbing their crotches. Why? What’s in there? Whatchu packing? Just… WHY? Is it itchy? Is that a stylish way to scratch your hoohah? Your pants too big? What? What in the gay-jesus hell is going on in there? You know what, something tells me I really don’t want to know.

Then there’s the non-existent beard stroking. Daffuq?

I read somewhere that my type of “butch” is called a futch. I don’t wanna be that. Really. Can’t I just be a girl who likes comfy clothes and shoes and very uncomplicated hair-dos? No. Next thing I know, these butches were asking me why I wore my hair the way I did, and why I wore skinny jeans, and wtf, is that lipstick?

And then the final straw, was when they started talking abot ladies like they werre no more than objects. Referring to women they knew or had been with as bitches. Talking crassly about sexual encounters. i had to stop and ask myself if all of this was really okay, and I’m really the most prudish of prudes. I thought long and hard.

No. Not a prude. Just courteous. The way I see it, I’d hate it if some one talked about or to me like a whore or something, so why would I do that to anyone else?  Not me at all.

Unable to say much without coming off as a judgmental, condescing, prick of a virgo, I decided to do the more mature thing: to come here, and rant to total strangers about it all.

Again I say, I’m pretty sure not all butches (if youfit that label) are the same. I’m just saying… Well, I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying anymore.

Rant Over.

Next post, I will address femmes. Because, dammit, femmes! Ugh! :p


That’s It! I Quit! … Leaving the Wonderful World of Online Dating… Again.

Hey guys!

So I know it’s been a ridiculously long time since my last post. I should apologize. I’ve been busy living my other life; and my other other life. Juggling so many lives takes a lot of time and energy.

Okay that’s bullshit. While I do have a busy schedule, the truth is, I fell in love. Yep! Final. Lee!!! I’ve been with THE most amazing woman ever for four months now, and it has been absolutely fantastic. Is that what this post is about? Yes. That’s what this post is about. I am about to tell you all the juicy delicious details about all the positions we’ve tried, how many inches thick and long our dildos are, who’s the pillow queen (hint: it’s neither of us), and all the mierda muy sucio we say to each other. You sitting down? Comfy? Popcorn and soda ready?

Don’t be a pervert. Of course I will not kiss and tell. Did you hear me scoff through your screen just now?

Now, as you all know, my third post on this blog was all about me being done with online dating. However, I did go back to it, but this time around, something different happened. I didn’t just find someone. I found someone who’s a perfect match. Before you ask, this site (Badoo) isn’t like Match.com, where you get paired up with compatible people based on the way you answered those bajillion questions. I’m miffed at that; can you tell? Despite taking all that time to answer those questions as honestly as possible,  Match.com rejected me. Like, WTF? Anyway, on Badoo, you just create a profile, state which sex you’re interested in, and that’s the end of that.

So I signed up, and I still got a lot of idiots coming my way – including a certain young lady who told me she was using her dildo because she was bored at the moment, and another who was trying to explain to me why I should go to church – despite my constantly repeating I am not religious. My eyes. How they rolled.

I’ll never forget that Monday morning, when I was bemoaning my “single to stupor” state. Yes, I fortunately am in a line of work that allows me such luxuries as whining about still being single on a fucking Monday morning. As I asked the gods why they had forsaken me thus, I heard my phone beep with yet another notification from Badoo. I didn’t give enough of a fuck at that moment to stop bemoaning my utter confusion as to why I haven’t met someone as awesome as I yet. I was this close to coming to my original conclusion – that online dating sites are just… Belugh. Ugh. Mrrrph.

Finally though, I pulled my head out my ass and decided to distract myself. So I picked up my phone to see what it was bitching about. “XYZ on Badoo likes you!” The Phone screamed at my eyes. Which I rolled. Again. Because.

I opened the app, and the first thing that got me was her name. I remember thinking, “Wow… Nice…” and then scoffing because “Wait… That can’t be her actual name,” I thought. It’s a kickasstastic name, I’ll tell you that much. The kind I had always dreamed of whispering or screaming when I’ve got my legs behind my ears – or just up in the air, if I’m being honest. I’m working on my flexibility though. Whoops, TMI. :p So I checked out her profile, and I was mind-b-l-o-w-n. The first word that caught my eye was “Sapiosexual.” I felt my heart pick up its pace a bit, and then with a bit of effort, I had to steady myself, because there are a lot of people throwing that word around these days when they describe themselves. I was not about to get my hopes up unnecessarily. But then there was that other thing she had written in Spanish… And the other thing… And the other other thing… And her pictures… At that point I realized “Ah gatsta know!”

Now, I’ve heard a lot of people say “you shouldn’t be so picky,” or “there’s no such thing as the perfect partner, you’ve got to work to make it work.” But folks, I have to tell you, this is the exception in my case. For a long time, I’ve had a list of things I’d love about the woman I want to spend my life with. She checks off every damn thing, to a T! She’s my best friend, she’s not religious, she loves fitness and health, she’s a foodie, an awesome cook, awesome lover …She’s… Well… There’s stuff I cannot write here because it’s none of your damn business, dammit! Just know that she’s UBER-AWESOME. Like, she’s the bee’s knees. Nope… Like… If the bee’s knees had knees, and those knees had knees… She’d be… Okay I don’t know where this utterly horrible metaphor is going.

Bottom line is, we’re in love. It’s beautiful, and it grows more so day after day after day. Has this changed my opinion about online dating? Kinda, sorta. I think online dating – as with any other thing in life – really is neutral. It all depends on what you make of it; it depends also on what you decide you want to get out of it. I think what made the difference this time around was my getting really clear about what I want – by writing it down. Call me superstitious or whatever, but that shit works. I remember writing a list of things I wanted to have and do as a teenager. I didn’t think I could ever achieve them, so it was more a fantasy thing and I didn’t dwell. I let it go. Years later, I stumbled on that list and every damn thing on it, I have received.

So to recap:

  1. Sorry I haven’t been writing.
  2. I found the love of my life – online.
  3. I think there’s awesome “juju” in playfully writing down stuff you desire and then letting it go (by which I mean, truly being okay with it not happening.)
  4. My bae is the bee’s knees.
  5. Did I mention, I’m in love?
  6. Seriously, write down what you desire.
  7. I quit online dating again. But this time it’s because…
  8. I found the love of my life. Daffuq would I still have an online dating profile for?

It Rhymes With “Tush.”

I know what I want. What I want is a relationship. A real, proper relationship. One where it’s just me, and her. No boyfriend on the side. No girlfriend on the side. In fact, a relationship where there is absolutely NO side, because, dammit, I’m the appetizer, the main course, and the desert rolled into one! So why the hell should I share? After all this time, being single, taking the time to get to know myself better, and falling in love with the woman I’ve become – far from perfect, but far more accepting of myself, more beautiful, more passionate, more everything-awesome, why the hell would I then allow myself to be the side bitch chick?

Nope. Not for me.

But here I am, swamped with all these “unavailable” women. There’s something in me that calls out to them. Yes, I’m responsible for it. Like I’m responsible for everything else that happens in my life. I’m one of those “I create my own reality” people. Because that’s just the way life works – whether you believe it or not. But I digress.

For a while it had been night after night of meaningless sex. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t have a harem or anything. Actually, said meaningless sex only happened with two people – one a dear friend, and the other… Well, at best an acquaintance. But something snapped in me the last time and I decided I was done. I broke off the casual thing with them both. Casual isn’t really my scene anyway. I’m extreme. I’m all about “all or nothing.” I briefly forgot that’s who I really am. But I remember now. So, I have made a decision.

This vadge would remain chaste, until I meet the one.

Let me explain what I mean by the vadge remaining chaste. It’s not that I presume you’re too stupid to understand. It’s that “chaste” is relative. What I mean is, when I’m absolutely desperate for an orgasm, it will be handled by either or both hands, and/or my vibrator. And that will be all. Also, since I tend to get some women who want to “sleep over,” and I know there’s a huge chance something will happen when they do, I decided that I wasn’t going to shave anymore. Not till someone deserving came along. Not till I actually take the time to get to know whoever she is, this “Someone.” I know. It’s disgustingly brilliant. Or brilliantly disgusting. Especially when you consider that I let the pits grow out too. How long have I stuck with this? Well… Let’s say long enough. Pun oh-so-intended.

At first I was amused at myself. Then I grew slightly disgusted. Then, even more disgusted. Then came acceptance. Now, I dare say, I am quite proud of the thick, coarse, curly, thatch of black hair between my thighs. What? Why are you scrunching up your nose? Why be pretentious about it? Nothing wrong with hair down there. Ah keeps it nice ‘n’ clean, thank yuh verrah much. In fact, I’ve grown fond of it. A little too fond of it. Which might be a problem. Why? I’ll tell you.

I’ve got a list of qualities my next girlfriend will have. I thought I pretty much had it covered, but now I realized I had to add one more thing: “Likes bush.” Na, not George. Just, bush. Bush, bush, bush.

I always thought to myself I wouldn’t be able to go down on someone who’s got hair down there. But now, having grown mine out, I realize that really isn’t such a big deal. What’s the worst that could happen? Hair gets caught between my teeth? No problem! That’s the real reason dental floss was invented. Or, I choke on a particularly long strand of hair and I die? Well everyone dies anyway, sooner or later, and in my a-tad-too-honest opinion, dying in between a beautiful woman’s thighs isn’t a bad way to go. What… I’d be ashamed of what people will think? Nah. I’d be too busy being dead to give a shit. I’d probably be in the process of coming out from between another awesome pair of legs – as in the legs of my next mother in my next life. Yes, I said awesome. I meant that in a non-sexual way. That’s my future mom, you perv! Well… Maybe on that plane of existence sex with your mom is okay. Multiverse theory. Ever heard of it?

Back to the hairy situation. I love my bush. I’ve become attached to it – in more ways than one. I imagine, when I meet The One, it’ll be a very magical moment. She’ll look at me from across the room, she’ll confidently walk up to me and introduce herself, and then I’ll tell her my name (let’s pretend my name is Odessa). Then the next thing she does – and this is the super sexy part, folks – she gives a slow, lazy, half-smile, and then she says:

“So, Odessa… Got bush?”

And then she winks, a la Ruby Rose in OITNB.

And then we get together and live happily ever after.

And we have bush-braiding competitions.

And we see if we can make them into dildos or something. I’m thinking lots of gel.

And then we’ll see who has the biggest hair-dick.

And then maybe we wash it all off, and figure out how to make each other come just by chewing on the hair.

And then when it’s too long that we look like we have actual penises or something, we’ll help each other trim. Not shave! Trim! *Deep sigh* That would be so romantic.

Okay, I’m done sharing.

Anal-yst, I Am.

I met someone at work recently. Not work-work; more like a contract job that lasted a little over a week. I still remember the first time I saw her. She was so fucking cute. She is, so fucking cute. Yes, I know, I know, I be ashawo. (Non-Nigerian followers read: “I’m a whore”).

I acknowledged the fact that she was cute. But as usual, I killed whatever notions I had about her being the one I finally decide is worth giving my family a heart attack over. By the way, I eagerly look forward to the day I announce I’m a lesbian. From the safety of anywhere but here, of course. I’m thinking I’ll do it via Skype. Because I just have to see the look on their faces. Anyway, I’m not so sure where this is going. I’m also not certain why I’m writing this. I just know she’s so cute I have to rant about it.

The first few days, we said little more than a polite “hi.” That was it. At first, that was enough, because I’ve learned that just because some woman has the cutest nose, and the sweetest lilting voice, and the right shape and size of the you-know-wheres, doesn’t mean that’s my soul mate. I mean, I’ve always understood that, but certain body parts and non-rational areas of my mind are a little slow in getting that.

What changed then?

Well… I got back from work one day, and as I was going to bed I reviewed the day in my head and found she was my favorite part of it. So I made the mistake of fixating on thoughts of her. Was it a mistake, really? I don’t know. I don’t give a fuck.

I so do give a fuck. *sigh*

So the next day, I decided to be a little less my introverted self and strike up a conversation with her. She had her feet up on the only spare chair in the room. I playfully tried to bully her into letting me sit. She threw me a very, VERY witty comeback.

I sooooo began to give more than a fuck.

Good looks, yeah, sure, I see a lot of hotties every day, but this one was smart to boot. And feisty. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Superman, rescue me.

So I sat opposite her. We talked… About music and stuff. She joked about Ciara being her girlfriend. We went out to get something, and all through it was just rapid fire wit, and an avalanche of double entendres. I love that shit. Seriously. *insert teary-eyed smiling smiley here*

As we stood with a bunch of friends, waiting for our order, the others commented on us being silly with the way we were bantering. She was standing right next to me when she said, “I know right? And I actually like it.” That last bit – “I actually like it,” – I could swear she lowered her voice so I alone could hear that.

Maybe I’m just over-analyzing, as usual. Or perhaps, I’m spot on, but I’m doing that thing where I think something is too good to be true, so I begin to go over the whole thing over and over in my head to see if my memories aren’t in fact tainted.

See? That whole paragraph up there. Over-analyzing. *deep sigh*

She had a smile on her face after she said that. I smiled back. And said nothing. Then she had to go outside for a bit. When she came back in, there was a lot of room for her to move without touching me, but she did touch me as she moved. More like… Well… She… Uh… How do I put this…

She grazed her boob against my shoulder as she went around me to sit.

See, I wouldn’t have thought much of it, if she hadn’t done it again, to my other shoulder. With the other twin. This felt more deliberate. Also because I remember some other woman pressing her boobs up against me once as she went by, despite all the room she had to not do that. I said nothing. I just smiled in acknowledgement, while making a mental note to go back to working on my psychic abilities. You know, mind reading and remote viewing. Useful life skills. Seriously.

Anyway, we had a few more moments after that. I’m not going to share. Because I don’t wanna. Because I’ll just start over-analyzing. Again.

The job’s over now. I have her number, thank god. No, wait, I don’t anymore. I mean, I did, I still do, on my dialed list. I just had to delete it. Because I’ve already called once, and sent an IM. and those stupid rules say something about not overdoing it – and unfortunately, the stupid rules work. I know. I’ve read Robert Greene’s Art of Seduction. That motherfucker is spot on. It kind of ticks me off, playing the coquette or dealing with one. I’m more of a straight-shooter. Like, you like me, I like you, let’s not let our egos stop us from seeing where this goes. But judging from her reply and a few other things – methinks I’ve got a coquette here.

Or, methinks, maybe she was just having a bad day.

Or, methinks, I’m just over-analyzing.


On “Waist Trainers” And All That Other Fake Shit…

Hola amigos.

Before I really get off – heh heh – I just want to say that I am completely clueless regarding these matters. The only things I do know for sure: A. Stupid things are stupid (go figure), and B. Just because a million people agree with a stupid thing, doesn’t make it any less stupid. Finally sha, na my blog be dis. If you don’t like what you’re reading, or I hit a nerve or something, I want you to know – from the bottom of my heart – how not sorry I am.

I was sitting at my computer earlier today, minding my business, and occasionally checking in with my non-physical friends, when I got a message from an ex – with whom I am still friends(?) Well at least we’re still in touch, is my point. It’s a lesbian thing, they say.

I opened it, and hello! Two pictures of her in underwear. She had sent me something similar the week before. I was polite back then, as I sent this smiley ” :’) “.

This one.

Well today, I was not in the fucking mood. Because I was this close to figuring out how to use the human body to generate free, unlimited energy – enough to power the whole of Africa – and she had just broken my concentration. And my high. I was on some real primo mota, ya know?

But I digress. While I was facing this brand new problem – how to not send a reply that revealed my royal, inner, uber-douchey-ness, she followed that up with this:

“I need a waist trainer.”


Now, my first thought was, wtf does this have to do with me?. Then I thought about what a waist trainer was. And then, I thought about who was asking for it and wondered why in bloody hell she thought she’d need it.

Let me explain, my ex – this particular one we’ll call “Kefee” – is extremely bodacious. Her body is banging-utunu. Dear God, how many times have I wished I could just take it, and then if/when the woman who is my life’s opiate comes along, I could just do a mind transplant or something. I am kidding. I really am not that shallow. Or am I? Heh. Anyway, she has the most beautiful body ever. Think perfect proportions. Well, for me. Curves in all the right places, ass that would make the most staunch atheist think about the glory of God. Yep. She’s that hot.

But she wants a fucking waist-trainer.

Yes, I know, it’s her body, she can do what she wants with it and think what she will about it. But I wish upon all the THC in the world I could post her pic her, so you could all join me as we share a brief Daffuq moment in her honour. I will not post her pic though. Hey whaddaya know? I am not a douche! At least not totally.

Back to it.

So I settled for a “confused” smiley. Unfortunately, she really wanted my opinion. So I lied and said I didn’t know what a waist-trainer was, or why anyone would need that shit. She made some comment alluding to how ignorant I was. I asked her what she thought she needed it for. She typed, “perfect shape.” That wasn’t helping at all. I was desperately trying to not be a dick. But then my non-physical friends, Mota, and I all came to a consensus. One of us hit a big ol’ red button. Dick Mode Activated.

Except now I think about it, I suck hard at being a dick – puns oh-so-not-still-kinda-sorta intended. I wound up giving her a lecture about there being no such thing as “the perfect body,” about how exercise trumps all that, and the fact that she’s got a body that I will admit still pushes my “mumu button.” Yep. In other words, Operation Dick Mode was a total bust. Sigh.

I wound up telling her to buy the damn thing if it would make her happy – which, in retrospect, should have been my very first reply. But hey, if I’d just said that, you probably wouldn’t be reading this so I guess this sitch is a win-win…


It just got me thinking about all the other stuff some women feel they need to do to look good. Like wear fake butt pads and super padded push-up bras. See here’s the thing:

You’re going to meet someone. You’re going to have sex, at some point, unless you are pulling a Jane-The-Virgin or something. How awkward would it be, in the middle of ripping each other’s clothes off, when heyo! Your butt’s detachable! Or what? You take a break and go into the bathroom. He, or she, or… it, is lying there thinking you’re putting on some sexy lingerie, when actually, no, you’re taking off your fake butt.

Ladies, that just isn’t fair. I mean, come on, what if he/she/it only loved you for your fake butt? Imagine the heartbreak. The pain from all the deceit and lies about “forever and ever” that fake badunkadunk told as it rolled while you trolled the streets looking for some sad sap to trap beneath the sheets.

Yeah. Spoken word. That’s my thing too.

Anyway, like I said in the beginning, I am completely clueless. Whether it’s the fake butts and boobs, or “pancaking” and “contouring” your face into oblivion, I don’t get it. I mean, wouldn’t you rather be natural, or at least not go overboard, and take time out to learn to love yourself? Whoever’s going to fall for you will fall for you as you are. Do you really want to be with someone who’s only into you for your looks?

I’d rather not have to wake up before la boo because I want to reapply my makeup and look as I did the night before. I’d rather have her know honey, I’m squatting religiously, I promise, but right now, this is my ass in its entirety. Yes, I know honey, “entirety” isn’t a word I should use when talking about the area my ass should be at, butt this is me.:| I’d rather know that I can kiss her, whenever I want to, without worrying what toxins I am swallowing, or wondering if I should write a will because I’m sure I will die of cancer thanks to Mary and Kay and all their cousins.

But then again, that’s just me. I’m just saying. Everytime I see a woman rocking that natural look, I get all Captain Caveman in my head. And my loins.

Okay, I’m done. I’ll end with this gem I found though:

How to answer those age-old questions straight guy’s ask about why you are a lesbian.


Okay so every lesbian-correction- most lesbians have had a run in with a straight guy who can not grasp the fact that we do not want their penis in us. Yes we have a hole designed for something to go into but by no means does that mean we want YOUR penis to enter. So here I have complied some responses to said questions that I’ve found online or made up myself, some  are serious thought provoking answers, and some with a little more sarcasm. Hope you enjoy!

Guy: So why are you attracted to girls?

Me: The same reasons you are attracted to girls… seriously though if I have to explain what makes a woman attracted I’m honestly starting to question YOUR sexuality at this point.

you date girls

Guy: So which one of you is the guy?

Me: This is by far the dumbest question I’ve encountered. I like women, she…

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What Happened After Dinner

We sat at our table, having just finished a sumptuous dinner. Sitting across from me, the woman I’ve dreamed of for years – cliché, but you know what? Whatever.

I told her that there was a slight chance I might have checked out the waitress. She laughed and said there’s nothing wrong with an itty bitty case of wandering eyes. We laughed.

Her eyes, they twinkled. For the umpteenth time it occurred to me that I had to breathe. So I did, with some effort. A lot of effort, actually, because there I was, sitting in front of the most beautiful being I had ever met. I’m not at all talking about her looks – although in that department I’d give her an eight. Only because no one else can be a nine like me. Nine, because only the most arrogant prick would go so far as to call themselves a ten. I am neither arrogant, nor a prick.

I was seated across from the most beautiful being I have ever known.

You know the kind of beauty I’m talking about, right? You pick up on it when a person’s very soul is Beauty itself (indeed all souls are beautiful) and they dare to let it shine through. It’s the kind of beauty that tugs at you, in a place too deep to be merely be your “heart.” The kind you see that reminds you of a feeling you didn’t realize you knew or had forgotten, and when you did remember and “re-know,” it hit you even deeper than previous times how inexplicably, unbearably blissful it is.

You know it. You’ve felt it. When a baby smiles at you, then grips your pinky as though for dear life. When you watch the sunset at a beach. When you’re caught in the rain and relax to enjoy it. When the wind ruffles your hair, and the sun is just right, and you’re in the moment enough to notice the beauty of life. When you asked a question and the next song on the radio answered you with the first lines. It’s the full feeling inside when you do a kind deed, with no strings. The head-rush of a first kiss with someone you’re actually in love with. The feeling your chest may explode or implode with that intense, ooey-gooey warmth, as you watch her wake up, stretching out like a very elegant feline. Her curves underneath the sheets make you want to get down on your knees to worship her; to thank the forces that brought her your way for their benevolence. Maybe you never believed in gods and such, but she makes a believer of you. Just by being.

I looked at her, and felt like I was lying on the sea shore, the waves roaring and pounding against it; underneath a blanket of stars reminding anyone who cares to take a moment and look that there is more to you, to life, and whatever you deem important in your daily affairs pale in comparison to the splendor of that from which you have come and are made of. The stuff that makes up everything that is this wondrous world. The stuff you really are.

I looked at her. As I did, I felt all of this, and more than I could possibly describe. My silence and the intensity of my gaze must have alarmed her because her eyes grew narrow in loving concern.

“What’s wrong?”

I took her hands in mine.

“I was just thinking we should have a threesome. With the waitress.”

Let’s just say the sheets weren’t as out of place as they usually were, the next morning.

My First Time In A Strip Club

About a week ago, I went to the strip club. Nothing remarkable, right? I should add that it was my very first time in a strip club. I should also add that I’m 25 years old. Yeah.

It’s not that I’ve been a prude all my life or anything – although I did have that Super Christian phase when I was very certain I was going to be a pastor. Heheheh. Yup. Me. A shepherd of the flock. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a pastor. That was just a phase of my life where I was trying hard to suppress my real identity and had a bad case of self-loathing. Needless to say, my 18 year-old self would be very appalled at just how much of a “heathen” I have become. But I digress. I was talking about my strip club experience.

I honestly didn’t see it coming. I went out with a new friend – a dude, so no story there – to go see a movie. Then he suggested we go for drinks at a strip club and I thought, “Hell yeah!” Because I was in my say-yes-to-everything phase. I’m still there, so if you wanna borrow some money, or pay me some money to let me do things to you… You see where I’m going with this, right? Cuties only please. There I go, digressing again.

Anyway, I should also mention that might the last time I go to a strip club. Or at least the last time I get a lap dance. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it. I did – just not the way you’re supposed to, I think. I was more entertained by the fact that I was right there, watching these females do things I only ever saw on TV for just a few measly seconds before they cut to the actual dialogue. I don’t get that, by the way. I mean, why the hell do TV producers think I want to watch the actual show? Tits, please! More titties! Less talking!
Nah, I’m kidding. And digressing. Again.

I was enjoying the novelty of it all. But then I got kind of confused, because it suddenly seemed all the strippers wanted me. No, please believe I am not trying to gloat, not even remotely. I understand that it’s their job to get you revved up enough to want them to grind on you. But there was something different. I got the feeling it wasn’t just business.

My friend asked me if I’d like a lap dance. No, not from him, don’t be silly, I’m such a lesbian. 😐 Still saying yes to everything, guess what I said. (Feel free to roll your eyes here.)

The girl I chose seemed especially taken with me. She could only speak a little English, so when she asked me “parlez vous Francais?” and I replied “un peu,” I think I might have given her a brain orgasm. “Nigerian’s not speak French at all,” she said. She kept telling my friend, who was a little too lost in between his stripper’s boobies, just how much she liked me. We had an actual conversation about her piercings and where she got them. She told me she’d take me there. I smiled politely and sipped my Orijin.

She got on me and started doing her thing.

I just sat there, like a log of wood. She kept taking my hands and trying to make them grab her ass. I’m not so sure what strip club etiquette entails, but I’ve always thought you weren’t supposed to touch the strippers. I don’t know. Everything I know about that, Hollywood taught me.

There she was, grinding and doing stuff, and there I was, wondering what her story was. No, I wasn’t feeling sorry for her. I was just curious. Next thing I know, hey, there’s a boob! She starts grazing her nipple across my lips. My firmly shut lips. Because strip club etiquette. Also because this really wasn’t turning me on. I noticed that and then fixated on why. So my mind drifted… Perhaps if it were someone I had an actual attachment to, I’d feel different.

The poor girl stopped grinding to ask “Why are you not with me?” That, was the most correct English sentence she made that night. She was hurt. I felt bad. I wanted to explain to her that she was doing fine, and she shouldn’t take my seeming lack of interest personally, but all I could do was smile and make some half-assed attempt at grabbing her ass. Then she got very tender with me, not so aggressive like before. She tried to kiss me. But these lips stayed sealed. I don’t know about y’all, but kissing’s more sacred to me than sex. I’m not sure why, it just is. Also, I could smell her lipstick. If you’ve got makeup on, I will not kiss you. Ever. No matter how bad we both might want it.

Anyway, she was done dancing, and I tried to slip the money into her g-string, at the waist. She smiled and moved my hand closer down south. I smiled, and moved it up a bit. Because, Naira notes must have been in all kinds of places. She smiled wider, and moved my hand further down. At this point I just gave up and slipped it in there, saying a silent prayer for her coochie. She got up to go dance on the pole, with a stern warning not to let anyone else sit by me. That didn’t quite work out, because someone else was there, stroking my hand. My very unresponsive hand. By the time the new girl had left, “my” French-and-Broken-English stripper was back, beside me, arms possessively holding me, asking if I wanted another dance.

“Maybe later,” I replied, like my friend had taught me to. She sat there, I watched the other girls dancing. She turned to me and asked, “What you are looking at,” in a tone of voice that made me decide perhaps it would be safer for her ego for me to stare at the ceiling. So I did that. Until one of the strippers went so far up the pole that I was staring inadvertently at her.

“My” stripper then leaned toward my ear and said “I really love you.” My mind went to T-Pain’s “I’m in Luv With A Stripper,” and every other song like that. Ironic.

I smiled politely and sipped my Orijin some more.

She leaned in again. “You no like me?”

“You’re nice,” I replied lamely.

Then we just sat there. I could feel her staring at me intently. I looked back. We kept staring each other in the eyes. Deeply. A little too deeply. I could tell if we were alone, she’d jump me. I also realized I just might let her. Then it occurred to me these thoughts were Orijin-inspired.

Finally she had to go service someone else. Because this is her job. In a sad tone, she said, “I know you go when I come back.” At this point I had an overwhelming urge to hug her sadness away. Until I remembered her perfume was a tad too cloying for me and let’s not get personal here and I cannot be with a stripper because jealousy issues and my parents would disapprove and I haven’t even officially come out to family yet our kids would be bullied in school because one of their mommies is a stripper and woooooooah slow down girl!

“Or you still be here? I dance again for you?”

I smiled. “Maybe later.”

I could tell she knew what I really meant by that. So she leaned down and kissed my cheek, squeezed my hand and sauntered off to the next horny guy.

When I got home that night, it hit me that that was one of the wildest things I had ever done. Which led me to realize, yeah, I really need to up my game in that department.

Meh, who am I kidding? I thought. I’m as tame as they come.

Then I beamed. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I smell like fruity pussy. Yeah. Total fucking badass.

Nope. Not a badass. Not even remotely. I could not wait to hop in the shower.


As the flash went off in the pan – again – in the span of time it takes both lines of lashes to mate in the blink of an eye, I went back to find myself, to shield myself from what I (falsely) perceived as no more than another closing door, the sound of which used to be like the pounding of the last nail in the coffin where yet another part of my heart lay – or so I thought.

After enough times for the lesson to sink in, I made it my mission to preserve what was left of me. I refused to go to another funeral, to witness again the death of me. But then I realized death isn’t death as we think it, but a transition. I realized no, I never lost my heart. It never died, nor broke. The heart is a muscle, and when muscle is torn from the weight of unrealized dreams, expectations, and betrayal, it fixes itself and gets stronger and bigger.

Love is a roller-coaster that I pay to get on – despite the highs, lows, twists, and turns. Usually I start off with my eyes shut tight and my mouth wide open in a silent scream. Eventually I realize I’m missing all the fun, so I open my eyes. When I do, I’m scared shitless that this will be the end of me. Finally it ends, and I do my best not to pass what would have been feces out the opposite orifice. Then I catch my breath. Then in defiance of death, I pay for another ticket and I get on again, each time, my eyes stay shut for less time, and I’m able to actually scream – for the pure joy, the rush of all these feelings that show me what being alive really means. Because like all lovers of love, I’m an idiot.

I am saying I cannot not love love. Because love is all there is and love is all I am and I am unwilling to be a part of anything that feels even remotely less than loving.

I am unwilling to be a part of anything that feels even remotely less than living.

I found a jewel. No, it’s not my “better half.” I’m not looking to be completed. I’m not trying to sound conceited or anything. I’m just saying I am whole. I am whole. I AM, whole. I AM, Holy. Please pay attention to that which still pumps liquid love through my veins, not its ephemeral twin that knew only pain and now sleeps in wooden boxes decorating the sheets of lovers past.

I found a jewel. It’s not a person. It’s not a place. It’s not a condition. It’s a state of mind, and no, it’s not delusion. I know that because this isn’t Prozac-induced euphoria, thank you very much. I found the biggest,  blinding-est, beautiful-est, bootyliciousest, most badass precious jewel you could ever find. I found, no matter how it makes me laugh that my exes are fatter than I am now, once upon a time they turned my brains into delicious mush so I thought that the earth was quaking, but really it was my knees giving away beneath me. I found no matter how much hateful venom we spewed at one another, once upon a time, those same lips of ours would lock and melt in delicious witchcraft, become one as we created a powerful potion with our tongues, on which we would get drunk, listening to the same song, because some dumb-ass – yours truly – put it on repeat.

I found, a jewel. I found the utter ridiculousness of holding on to bitterness, just because what each of us want now, what each of us has become now, is different from what we wanted and what we were, then. Because the only time change isn’t constant is when you’re in a yellow bus on a Monday by 5 AM with a thousand naira note.

What is this jewel? It’s a simple truth. All I’ve ever wanted is to live, happily ever after. But what I’ve realized, is if you take out “ever-after”, then  you just live.