My lips don't lie.
My lips don't lie, but my parts pretend.
What flavour am I?
Taste Me
Touch Me if you will.
Stroke away
Supple Huh?
I don't bite,
May I nibble at your you,
While you flip through the pages of my me?
Limb by Limb
What flavour am I?
A snack perhaps?
Sink in
Indulge
Crunch
Cherish
You're liking this aren't you?
Is it me?
Or is it the moment?
The mood
The melody that is us.
Ambience
Atmosphere
I'm right here.
Sentence by sentence
You seep into my skin.
Settled in.
What do you find?
Toffee flavoured me. . .
Nah!
Not toffee.
I could be your favourite song.
Fancy Me!
I'll be her
Still be me.
Your Fantasy
Hopefully
I aim to please.
Sex personified
Puns aside
I aim to please.
What flavour am I?
Is that a satisfied smile on your face?
The pleasure was ALL mine.
Help yourself to me anytime.
Quarter past just now
Tomorrow
Forever.
Whenever
I'm here
Tangible
Buzzing on the intimacy of sharing me with you.
Here's a piece of me
For you
Can I treat myself to some of you?
A secret slice
A secret.
Slice through me
Beneath
Within
Beside
On Top.
I'm allowing you in.
ENTER!
Hi!
My name is Christine.
Feel free to know me.
Inhale
Savour
Live
Smell
Listen
Taste!
Nestled on the tip of your tongue
Swallow!
Take another bite.
Am I your flavour?
What flavour am I?
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I like what I like
I LURVE Pizza!
Love it! Love it! Love it!
I hate certain toppings though. Chicken pizza's; barbeque sauce. . .EEW!
The same with men, I LURVE Men! Love them from their "hair follicles, all the way down to their toe nails", as Miss Scott would say.
Once upon the full stop at the end of a piece I won't publish, I caught myself feeling defensive about peoples judgement of my preferences.
Why is it that there is little to be said about the fact that I loathe pineapple on pizza; yet it's obscene that I discard a man the moment he opens his mouth & can't speak proper English? Beyond how you speak your English, if you don't speak to ME in English, well then. . .loose my number. It's not discrimination, it's MY preference.
On top of the politics of English being my 1st language, I have to duck for cover because light skinned brothers are my cup of tea. These penchants of mine tend to aggravate those bopping along to the surging trend of Africanism & what have you.
If Steve Biko could write what he likes; can I not like what I like?
A big bulk of both my female & gay friends, like very manly men; I personally don't , but you don't hear me accusing them of discriminating against skinny pretty boys?
What few stop to recognise, is that when I've been the prey in the game of conquests; I've been quite a good sport about trying out toppings outside of my natural palette. I've tried girls; guys with gold teeth & many other sorts that I'd rather not re-live. When I'm the hunter on the other hand; light skinny pretty boys with nappy hair & a firm grasp of the English language; are what it takes me to get into hunt mode.
The bitch is that I actually hunt very little. Of the handful of times that I could concretely (without confusion) call someone "My Man"; only 20% was head hunted by yours truly. Best I embrace the Lioness in me & get my hunt on, because that's a dismal statistic.
So like really now, I'm done!
Done with Cringing. Done with tasting. Done being hunted.
As for being done with Pizza. . .
Come now! A girls gotta eat.
Love it! Love it! Love it!
I hate certain toppings though. Chicken pizza's; barbeque sauce. . .EEW!
The same with men, I LURVE Men! Love them from their "hair follicles, all the way down to their toe nails", as Miss Scott would say.
Once upon the full stop at the end of a piece I won't publish, I caught myself feeling defensive about peoples judgement of my preferences.
Why is it that there is little to be said about the fact that I loathe pineapple on pizza; yet it's obscene that I discard a man the moment he opens his mouth & can't speak proper English? Beyond how you speak your English, if you don't speak to ME in English, well then. . .loose my number. It's not discrimination, it's MY preference.
On top of the politics of English being my 1st language, I have to duck for cover because light skinned brothers are my cup of tea. These penchants of mine tend to aggravate those bopping along to the surging trend of Africanism & what have you.
If Steve Biko could write what he likes; can I not like what I like?
A big bulk of both my female & gay friends, like very manly men; I personally don't , but you don't hear me accusing them of discriminating against skinny pretty boys?
What few stop to recognise, is that when I've been the prey in the game of conquests; I've been quite a good sport about trying out toppings outside of my natural palette. I've tried girls; guys with gold teeth & many other sorts that I'd rather not re-live. When I'm the hunter on the other hand; light skinny pretty boys with nappy hair & a firm grasp of the English language; are what it takes me to get into hunt mode.
The bitch is that I actually hunt very little. Of the handful of times that I could concretely (without confusion) call someone "My Man"; only 20% was head hunted by yours truly. Best I embrace the Lioness in me & get my hunt on, because that's a dismal statistic.
So like really now, I'm done!
Done with Cringing. Done with tasting. Done being hunted.
As for being done with Pizza. . .
Come now! A girls gotta eat.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Makwapheni etiquette 101
It just so happens that I have makwapheni experience; and circumstances rendered it fitting for me to share the tips that make being a side dish somewhat bearable.
First and foremost; you are not entitled! Not entitled to their time; to their company; to their phonecalls; to anything in fact. So once upon that itch you have to call them after working hours. . .Don't!
Secondly comes accepting that you are second best. Even in the unlikely event that they leave whomever for you; you are still second best. An after thought. An indulgence. In fact you are merely a hobby. An activity that he or she has a fond interest in. You are that with which they busy themselves. You are by NO means a lifestyle.
Please do not invest your anything in this person. Granted it's the third point, but it's no less important than the first. You cannot afford to put yourself in a situation where you stand to loose; when you've already let your dignity fall by the way side.
Point three leads to point four; that being that you should never let this person mean more than madness to you. Not to say that you can't have feelings for this person; because that's probably the reason you are in this mess to begin with; just that he or she shouldn't mean more to you than that particular moment. Kind of like work. You should never take your work home with you; so you should never feel for an unavailable person, outside of your time with them.
Last; but the complete opposite of least. . . DON'T! Just DON'T do that to yourself. Even if you don't mean anything to you, don't let yourself mean half something to someone else. Granted the salaciousness of it all might be a thrill, but the consequences promise to be heartache.
NOTE TO SELF: Take my own advice
First and foremost; you are not entitled! Not entitled to their time; to their company; to their phonecalls; to anything in fact. So once upon that itch you have to call them after working hours. . .Don't!
Secondly comes accepting that you are second best. Even in the unlikely event that they leave whomever for you; you are still second best. An after thought. An indulgence. In fact you are merely a hobby. An activity that he or she has a fond interest in. You are that with which they busy themselves. You are by NO means a lifestyle.
Please do not invest your anything in this person. Granted it's the third point, but it's no less important than the first. You cannot afford to put yourself in a situation where you stand to loose; when you've already let your dignity fall by the way side.
Point three leads to point four; that being that you should never let this person mean more than madness to you. Not to say that you can't have feelings for this person; because that's probably the reason you are in this mess to begin with; just that he or she shouldn't mean more to you than that particular moment. Kind of like work. You should never take your work home with you; so you should never feel for an unavailable person, outside of your time with them.
Last; but the complete opposite of least. . . DON'T! Just DON'T do that to yourself. Even if you don't mean anything to you, don't let yourself mean half something to someone else. Granted the salaciousness of it all might be a thrill, but the consequences promise to be heartache.
NOTE TO SELF: Take my own advice
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Jael versus Nameless
I guess I'm open minded about the whole thing; I just haven't jumped on board the naming my genitals train. I did buy a ticket once, but that backfired big time!
Once Upon what seems like so long ago, the then "Love of my life" was given the honour of naming my "down there". He named her Jael. Beautiful name if you ask me. A name of Hebrew origin, meaning Prominent. It has that exotic alluring appeal about it.
Jael & what's his name (sOo not about to name & shame) had it going on quite satisfactorily for some time, till yours truly inquisitively decided to enquire about the name her privates had been Christened with. In the then and there of that crazy in love moment, I wound up regretting the findings of my inquest. In hindsight however; I'm most relieved that my curiosity got the better of me.
It turns out that Mr Man named MY vagina after a girl he once had a crush on. A girl he'd have liked to more than just crush on. A girl who was in his line of vision, before he & I passionlessly decided to try "Us" out. My erratic self & I had a very fiery reaction to the truth, he on the other hand was quite composed. As any reasonable person can imagine, his "what's the big deal" attitude towards the issue, rendered me livid! My rage mind you, is not the loud flamboyant type; it's the kind that pierces with every militantly arranged sentence of flames I fire. Being at the receiving end of my fury can be likened to a parent saying "I'm disappointed in you"; versus just being yelled at.
To this day I stand behind my protesting his inviting another woman into our bed, because that is ultimately what he'd done. I promptly jumped off the train of named privates, and have never boarded it since.
I'd clean forgotten the whole ordeal till the other day when I was mindlessly watching season something of Weeds. What's his face was getting it on with a very fiesty Jewish siren named Jael; and the memory of project "name my privates", came soaring back.
Now it has me thinking...
What's the big deal with naming ones privates; let alone renaming the terms with which they go by? Vagina's are called all sorts of things these days. Va-jay-jay; Vulva; Flower etc. Then on top of that, the vagina gets a name. "Hi, my punani's name is Primrose".
Am I missing something?
Is this generation Candy Coat?
Granted neither "vagina" nor "penis" are particularly pleasant sounding words, but they are what they are. We've been conditioned to dislike them. I'm beginning to think that the culture of naming and then sub-naming, is much like relaxing your hair & then putting a weave in. It's disguising the truth in an ocean of excuses that all stem from some element of powerful dislike. I suspect that someone out there might argue that the whole naming stunt is in fact a token of self-love, but I'm not buying their skelm.
I agreed to having my "down there" named; simply because his penis entered the relationship already named. It seemed somewhat odd getting texts from him telling me that Zeus (not actual name) was missing my nameless.
If I had to play the name game again, one things for sure; I'd name my own Vagina my damn self! For now though, my nameless vagina is doing just fine being exactly that. . .Nameless!
Once Upon what seems like so long ago, the then "Love of my life" was given the honour of naming my "down there". He named her Jael. Beautiful name if you ask me. A name of Hebrew origin, meaning Prominent. It has that exotic alluring appeal about it.
Jael & what's his name (sOo not about to name & shame) had it going on quite satisfactorily for some time, till yours truly inquisitively decided to enquire about the name her privates had been Christened with. In the then and there of that crazy in love moment, I wound up regretting the findings of my inquest. In hindsight however; I'm most relieved that my curiosity got the better of me.
It turns out that Mr Man named MY vagina after a girl he once had a crush on. A girl he'd have liked to more than just crush on. A girl who was in his line of vision, before he & I passionlessly decided to try "Us" out. My erratic self & I had a very fiery reaction to the truth, he on the other hand was quite composed. As any reasonable person can imagine, his "what's the big deal" attitude towards the issue, rendered me livid! My rage mind you, is not the loud flamboyant type; it's the kind that pierces with every militantly arranged sentence of flames I fire. Being at the receiving end of my fury can be likened to a parent saying "I'm disappointed in you"; versus just being yelled at.
To this day I stand behind my protesting his inviting another woman into our bed, because that is ultimately what he'd done. I promptly jumped off the train of named privates, and have never boarded it since.
I'd clean forgotten the whole ordeal till the other day when I was mindlessly watching season something of Weeds. What's his face was getting it on with a very fiesty Jewish siren named Jael; and the memory of project "name my privates", came soaring back.
Now it has me thinking...
What's the big deal with naming ones privates; let alone renaming the terms with which they go by? Vagina's are called all sorts of things these days. Va-jay-jay; Vulva; Flower etc. Then on top of that, the vagina gets a name. "Hi, my punani's name is Primrose".
Am I missing something?
Is this generation Candy Coat?
Granted neither "vagina" nor "penis" are particularly pleasant sounding words, but they are what they are. We've been conditioned to dislike them. I'm beginning to think that the culture of naming and then sub-naming, is much like relaxing your hair & then putting a weave in. It's disguising the truth in an ocean of excuses that all stem from some element of powerful dislike. I suspect that someone out there might argue that the whole naming stunt is in fact a token of self-love, but I'm not buying their skelm.
I agreed to having my "down there" named; simply because his penis entered the relationship already named. It seemed somewhat odd getting texts from him telling me that Zeus (not actual name) was missing my nameless.
If I had to play the name game again, one things for sure; I'd name my own Vagina my damn self! For now though, my nameless vagina is doing just fine being exactly that. . .Nameless!
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
"NO!"
Give up flirting or take up saying "No"? What an eminent clash, brought about courtesy of my being me.
Once Upon being dumped by sleep a little after 4am, on what promises to be a mouth watering 1st day of Spring; I find myself in a pickle. Not the edible kind of pickle, but rather a sour situation (which is where the term "in a pickle originated... & yes I googled it out of boredom). Today is the day I'm meant to be having a dinner date with a man who wants to take me away for a weekend of wine tasting in the picturesque Magaliesburg. At first glance it's hard to see what the problem is. A free tasty meal one evening, followed by a weekend away; all at someone else's expense. The problem is the fact that I absolutely don't want to; I however suck at saying "No".
The irony of this predicament is that I wasn't even flirting with the prick in question. The son of a bitch watched me all evening, as I flirtatiously mingled my Saturday night away at a farewell party; then politely preyed on me as I was about to leave. His approach was something along the reasonable lines of telling me that he hadn't gotten the chance to chat to me, but from what he saw; he'd like to take me out for dinner and get to know me better. Truth be told, no man (family & friends excluded), has ever wined & dined me; so when I heard "dinner", it translated as "score!" I rationalised with myself that I didn't know him enough to dislike him, so dinner couldn't hurt; then we proceeded to exchange numbers. The 1st sign that he would be a bad idea, registered when he put his name into my phone, then typed "my new man" as his surname. I rolled my eyes at him & told him not to get ahead of himself; which lead to the 2nd warning that he'd be a down right kak idea. The jack ass fucken pulled into me, & it took way too much force than it should've, for me to shove his face out my mouth.
In light of all of the above, I have subsequently struggled to speak the word "no" to this man & many men before him. In the past my "No" has always been communicated by means of insinuation; & men always got the point. This time however, my avoidance of calls & constant inability to get back to him about dinner, doesn't seem to be getting the point across. I'm faced with having to speak the word I'm most allergic to. A word that paralyses me with guilt each time I so much as think it. "No" is rejection. Rejection happens to be my biggest fear; followed by cars; then by large numbers of black people in one space (true story).
If it hadn't been for my track record as a seasoned flirt; perhaps I'd be less anxiety prone whenever it came to not saying "yes"? This has me thinking that something's got to give. Do I give up my 2nd favourite past time; flirting (kissing being the 1st), so as to avoid my personal struggle with both the receiving & giving of rejection? Or do I alternately... I can't even think the thought, that's how implausible it seems.
These thoughts are far too higher grade for this time of day.
I'm zoning out & watching Mother Nature light up the sky with brush strokes of sunrise instead.
One thing is certain though; I'm by no means letting Mr Mouth Rapist dine me; let alone take me away. How I get the point across is now officially his own problem. It's SPRING DAY for crying out loud; not take out the trash day.
Once Upon being dumped by sleep a little after 4am, on what promises to be a mouth watering 1st day of Spring; I find myself in a pickle. Not the edible kind of pickle, but rather a sour situation (which is where the term "in a pickle originated... & yes I googled it out of boredom). Today is the day I'm meant to be having a dinner date with a man who wants to take me away for a weekend of wine tasting in the picturesque Magaliesburg. At first glance it's hard to see what the problem is. A free tasty meal one evening, followed by a weekend away; all at someone else's expense. The problem is the fact that I absolutely don't want to; I however suck at saying "No".
The irony of this predicament is that I wasn't even flirting with the prick in question. The son of a bitch watched me all evening, as I flirtatiously mingled my Saturday night away at a farewell party; then politely preyed on me as I was about to leave. His approach was something along the reasonable lines of telling me that he hadn't gotten the chance to chat to me, but from what he saw; he'd like to take me out for dinner and get to know me better. Truth be told, no man (family & friends excluded), has ever wined & dined me; so when I heard "dinner", it translated as "score!" I rationalised with myself that I didn't know him enough to dislike him, so dinner couldn't hurt; then we proceeded to exchange numbers. The 1st sign that he would be a bad idea, registered when he put his name into my phone, then typed "my new man" as his surname. I rolled my eyes at him & told him not to get ahead of himself; which lead to the 2nd warning that he'd be a down right kak idea. The jack ass fucken pulled into me, & it took way too much force than it should've, for me to shove his face out my mouth.
In light of all of the above, I have subsequently struggled to speak the word "no" to this man & many men before him. In the past my "No" has always been communicated by means of insinuation; & men always got the point. This time however, my avoidance of calls & constant inability to get back to him about dinner, doesn't seem to be getting the point across. I'm faced with having to speak the word I'm most allergic to. A word that paralyses me with guilt each time I so much as think it. "No" is rejection. Rejection happens to be my biggest fear; followed by cars; then by large numbers of black people in one space (true story).
If it hadn't been for my track record as a seasoned flirt; perhaps I'd be less anxiety prone whenever it came to not saying "yes"? This has me thinking that something's got to give. Do I give up my 2nd favourite past time; flirting (kissing being the 1st), so as to avoid my personal struggle with both the receiving & giving of rejection? Or do I alternately... I can't even think the thought, that's how implausible it seems.
These thoughts are far too higher grade for this time of day.
I'm zoning out & watching Mother Nature light up the sky with brush strokes of sunrise instead.
One thing is certain though; I'm by no means letting Mr Mouth Rapist dine me; let alone take me away. How I get the point across is now officially his own problem. It's SPRING DAY for crying out loud; not take out the trash day.
Monday, August 15, 2011
SCREWED
It happened without my consent: but once I’d realised what was going down, I chose to empower myself by owning it. Now that I own it, I’m far from certain what the perks of this are. I know that there’s a lesson to be learnt, but what exactly is it?
What exactly is it that I’m rambling on about to begin with?
Once upon 20 odd days ago, it occurred to me that it had been all of a month since I’d last gotten any. Had sex. Done the deed or whatever you want to call it. So do the maths. If it was 30 days of “sexlessness” 20 odd days ago, it’s been 50 odd days in total. When it occurred to me that it had been a month, I promptly dashed back to joburg with 1 agenda, and wound up fucking it up! I fucked up getting fucked! How appropriately Christine of me to manage standing up the same guy twice over 1 weekend. Just bloody priceless! It was after that epic failure of a weekend that I decided to re-think this whole thing.
As I write this, in fact; I’m astonished at the words I closed my opening sentence with. “I chose to empower myself by owning it”. Like really? Who on earth owned my sex life before me, if not me? I’ve previously pretty much boasted about how I have 99 problems, but a dick ain’t one; yet today that sentiment has me looking at myself and unsure if I’m seeing a hypocrite in my reflection.
Let’s stand back shall we, and try make sense of these under processed; over thunk thoughts I’m thinking:
Is it really that controversial of me to separate my active sex life from my dormant sex life?
Duh! It’s down right dodge of me to pride myself on getting it when & from whom I want it; then turning around and saying it’s not my fault I didn’t get any for 30days.
Why must blame be placed?
Is it truly all that horrible of me to have been too busy getting on with living life, to even notice that I didn’t have my head in the gutters for a change? Would I have even noticed, had it not been for this cruel; bitchy winter?
Was my subsequent unspecific vow to celibacy, taken for the right reasons?
I suspect not. I wouldn’t know the right reasons even if they were handed to me on an answer sheet, I do know myself somewhat though. I think this celibacy stunt of mine is/was a sham. A brilliantly petrified reaction, in the name of protecting myself.
Darn it! I think I figured it out. The blimmin problem now is the fact that I’m compelled to share, or else Shezi will say I cheated her as a reader. . . Fuck! Fuck! Shit!
In as painlessly as I can tell this truth, I think this stunt was born from rejection. The 1st 30 odd days of sexlessness were totally just nje. What I neglected to mention earlier was that after that epic failure of a weekend, I DESPERATELY (not a flattering moment) tried a 3rd time to link up with the same chap I’d stood up twice; and I wound up having a taste of my own medicine. Funny to think that 1 tiny dose of much deserved rejection, sent me running into a nunnery (the thought sincerely crossed my mind).
This is where the truth gets hard to swallow. . .Why did I only have 1 person in mind of the x many readily available to me? Any sensible hot blooded person in my shoes, would have seen my agenda through, with someone else. No one else was an option for me. To date, I literally have no desire to be satisfied by anyone else; not even the sex-on-legs new dude on my radar.
So I’m officially no longer hiding behind celibacy! I’m also officially going to have to move right along, because that which was just unofficially made clear to me; is completely against my religion. I guess that makes me officially SCREWED!
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Losing It
"So this is a story all about how my life got twisted upside down. . ."
...And I'd like to take a minute and just put in context, how it came to pass that I lost my virginity.
Yes world, once upon a time I was a virgin. . .Gasp!
Once upon several of the most awkward minutes of my life, that all changed... For the better. For a boy actually.
I broke my virginity "for" a boy, and only shared that truth with him (no longer a boy), a little earlier
In this week. So now I figure I may as well share that story with you.
THE STORY!
Girl meets boy either at a party or at a netball game, and boy leaves a lasting impression. High school ends and girl goes to KZN for matric vac. Lots of alcohol consumed; some shady substances sampled; and somewhere in the midst of all that, girl calls boy. This phone call establishes 2 very fundamental pieces of information
1) Both Boy and Girl will be attending varsity in the same city
2) Girl would like to take a flight, and wants boy to be her pilot
Say what?
That was the code back then in high school days. Some top secret stuff I tell you.
Flight/Fly = Have Sex
Pilot. = The guy with whom you have sex
After establishing point 2), Boy and Girl decide to stay in touch. . . No Duh!
Girl then takes it a step further when the time comes to enrol. Seeing as Girl has been accepted at all the tertiary institutions to which she has applied, she decides to enrol at the same varsity as Boy; just so she can have the pleasure of seeing his pretty face on a daily. And Yes! Boy is painfully pretty. Girl likes pretty boys.
Months pass with Boy and Girl co-existing on the same campus, and Girl being unable to say a sober word to boy. She crushed him SO hard that words escaped her when she saw him. So the 2 hardly speak, and if ever they did...well then Girl was too drunk for me to remember. They must have spoken I guess, because Girl one day starts panicking about not ever having flown before, and how she doesn't want to be a horrible passenger on boys flight, as he pilots her. Boy mind you, is a major playboy on campus, this only turning up the volume on Girls' anxieties.
Poor Girl is in such a pickle. What to do? What to do?
"Eureka!" The answer reveals itself to her.
Do Dude!
Dude is literally some dude whose daily quest it is to annoy girl with his advances. Girl knows Dude because he lives in the apartment directly beneath hers. So off to his apartment she goes; sober as a judge, and not in the mood to candy coat anything.
"So like listen, I was wondering if you could please have sex with me?" Says girl. Dude responds by widening his eyes open in disbelief.
"There's a guy on campus that I've agreed to have sex with", girl continues. "But I've never had sex before, so I'd like to practice. That's if you don't mind?" Dude fails dismally at a verbal response. His Enthusiastic body language communicated his consent in behalf of his words.
"Cool. I don't want anyone to know, so you can come up to my place when everyone is asleep" orders Girl, halfway out the door already.
Dude does just that. Dude still shows up and knocks on Girls bedroom window, even after being told that Girl was just using him; and that she'd die of embarrassment if anyone knew that she so much as looked at him. Girl opens window, and Dude climbs in. Once their both settled on her single bed, Dude subjects himself to receive another low blow, by trying to. kiss Girl. Girl grimaces at this advance, as the expression on her face screans "GROSS!"
***talk about being a disrespectful brat***
Considering the lack of humanity with which Girl masterminded her first flight, she pretty much got what she deserved. A failure of a firework; clumsy; turbulent first time. A flight too horrible to want to remember. Poor Dude even apologised, and begged for a second time to redeem himself. He wasn't granted a second time... At least not on that day he wasn't.
Not long after Girl had taken her first flight, the time came for Boy to be her pilot. Girl was of course not completely sover when this much anticipated day came, so how on earth can you expect me to remember how that went down? I'm just narrating.
Girl and Boy went on to have a successful and colourful sexual relationship. Sex aside they never talked, let alone acknowledged each other. This worked out swimmingly for "commitmentphobe" Girl, and playboy Boy. Their unspoken arrangement ended when it ended, and now 9 years after their 1st flight; Girl knows how to say "Hi" to Boy without wishing that the earth would open up and swallow her whole.
As for Girl and Dude...Shame poor Dude. He was a sincerely nice guy, and Girl owes him an apology as far as I'm concerned.
I would never have wanted to anyone to do unto me, as was being done unto Dude. All of that abuse, in the name of another Boy.
Sorry Dude! Wishing you a lifetime of fireworks :)
...And I'd like to take a minute and just put in context, how it came to pass that I lost my virginity.
Yes world, once upon a time I was a virgin. . .Gasp!
Once upon several of the most awkward minutes of my life, that all changed... For the better. For a boy actually.
I broke my virginity "for" a boy, and only shared that truth with him (no longer a boy), a little earlier
In this week. So now I figure I may as well share that story with you.
THE STORY!
Girl meets boy either at a party or at a netball game, and boy leaves a lasting impression. High school ends and girl goes to KZN for matric vac. Lots of alcohol consumed; some shady substances sampled; and somewhere in the midst of all that, girl calls boy. This phone call establishes 2 very fundamental pieces of information
1) Both Boy and Girl will be attending varsity in the same city
2) Girl would like to take a flight, and wants boy to be her pilot
Say what?
That was the code back then in high school days. Some top secret stuff I tell you.
Flight/Fly = Have Sex
Pilot. = The guy with whom you have sex
After establishing point 2), Boy and Girl decide to stay in touch. . . No Duh!
Girl then takes it a step further when the time comes to enrol. Seeing as Girl has been accepted at all the tertiary institutions to which she has applied, she decides to enrol at the same varsity as Boy; just so she can have the pleasure of seeing his pretty face on a daily. And Yes! Boy is painfully pretty. Girl likes pretty boys.
Months pass with Boy and Girl co-existing on the same campus, and Girl being unable to say a sober word to boy. She crushed him SO hard that words escaped her when she saw him. So the 2 hardly speak, and if ever they did...well then Girl was too drunk for me to remember. They must have spoken I guess, because Girl one day starts panicking about not ever having flown before, and how she doesn't want to be a horrible passenger on boys flight, as he pilots her. Boy mind you, is a major playboy on campus, this only turning up the volume on Girls' anxieties.
Poor Girl is in such a pickle. What to do? What to do?
"Eureka!" The answer reveals itself to her.
Do Dude!
Dude is literally some dude whose daily quest it is to annoy girl with his advances. Girl knows Dude because he lives in the apartment directly beneath hers. So off to his apartment she goes; sober as a judge, and not in the mood to candy coat anything.
"So like listen, I was wondering if you could please have sex with me?" Says girl. Dude responds by widening his eyes open in disbelief.
"There's a guy on campus that I've agreed to have sex with", girl continues. "But I've never had sex before, so I'd like to practice. That's if you don't mind?" Dude fails dismally at a verbal response. His Enthusiastic body language communicated his consent in behalf of his words.
"Cool. I don't want anyone to know, so you can come up to my place when everyone is asleep" orders Girl, halfway out the door already.
Dude does just that. Dude still shows up and knocks on Girls bedroom window, even after being told that Girl was just using him; and that she'd die of embarrassment if anyone knew that she so much as looked at him. Girl opens window, and Dude climbs in. Once their both settled on her single bed, Dude subjects himself to receive another low blow, by trying to. kiss Girl. Girl grimaces at this advance, as the expression on her face screans "GROSS!"
***talk about being a disrespectful brat***
Considering the lack of humanity with which Girl masterminded her first flight, she pretty much got what she deserved. A failure of a firework; clumsy; turbulent first time. A flight too horrible to want to remember. Poor Dude even apologised, and begged for a second time to redeem himself. He wasn't granted a second time... At least not on that day he wasn't.
Not long after Girl had taken her first flight, the time came for Boy to be her pilot. Girl was of course not completely sover when this much anticipated day came, so how on earth can you expect me to remember how that went down? I'm just narrating.
Girl and Boy went on to have a successful and colourful sexual relationship. Sex aside they never talked, let alone acknowledged each other. This worked out swimmingly for "commitmentphobe" Girl, and playboy Boy. Their unspoken arrangement ended when it ended, and now 9 years after their 1st flight; Girl knows how to say "Hi" to Boy without wishing that the earth would open up and swallow her whole.
As for Girl and Dude...Shame poor Dude. He was a sincerely nice guy, and Girl owes him an apology as far as I'm concerned.
I would never have wanted to anyone to do unto me, as was being done unto Dude. All of that abuse, in the name of another Boy.
Sorry Dude! Wishing you a lifetime of fireworks :)
Monday, July 4, 2011
"...let me do me to myself." (plus the poem which was born from this blog)
For someone who is allegedly deemed “smart”, I sure as hell only ever do disgustingly stupid things. The list is endless : -Leaving Wallets in peoples cars
-Forgetting my bank pin
-Realising I have no clue where my I.D is, after needing to go to the bank
-Forgetting cell phones in peoples cars
That’s a shocking degree of stupidity, for someone who simply has NO excuse for that kind of behaviour!
I shocked myself today at how dismally I failed such a simple task. I wrote myself a list of things I have to do (Yes friend, I’m only attempting it 3 months later). It’s a list of 14 relatively mundane tasks, such as:
- Be on Facebook less
- Get dressed
- Work on wedding spreadsheet
Et Cetera. The 3 that I have managed to get done thus far; what with their having been my 1st three; are: - Write a list (done )
- Brush Teeth (done )
- Make Tea (done )
It was when I got to point 3 that I figured that some herb would be the ideal accompaniment to a wholesome cup of morning Green tea. And well ever since then, the rest is suddenly history.
Like really now CHRISTINE!
Your crap is no longer acceptable! Just get with living a life worth living already. I refuse to let me do me to myself! I guess that somewhat makes me my own headmistress. I would ask you all to prefect me along the way, but I don’t have the balls to hear the truth from anybody else but me!
Coward?
I know. I am however only human, and that shit hurts.
The truth hurts.
My eyes hurt.
(***sniffles***)
My eyes hurt
Hurt with a pain
That, “remember your alive” pain
They hurt with a sting
An everyday norm
They hurt when their not crying
They blaze with pain, in the absence of a tear storm
My eyes hurt needingly
Constantly
Breathlessly
My Hazel Glories hurt
They hurt
Blush
And diminish in spleandour
Amidst a red, that was once white.
My eyes hurt
Bleeding waves of fears
Waves of a numbness
Too silent to feel.
My eyes hurt.
To help me feel!
C.Msibi
03 July 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
To Blog or not to Blog
Once upon a blog ago, a stunning friend critiqued me, and begged that I blog about the ACTUAL “New adventures of old Christine”. Silly me took heed of what my friend had to say, and now I find myself here; at a cross roads of sorts.
To blog or not to blog . . . about my personal adventures that is.
If I were a mother, I could guiltlessly blog about my mini me’s and all their heart warming antics that bring joy into my life. If I were a pet owner I could do the same. I am very happily neither mother nor pet owner, however sadly not in the position to freely blog about the actual people in my life; what with their happily having the right to privacy. So what’s a girl to do when she has this epic story to tell of her 3 minute weekend, and the man she agreed to keep a secret? Plus an unrelated dodgy story about my alias antics on Facebook.
She blogs away anyway right?
Right?
Wrong!
It has to be wrong of me to tell the tale of this anonymous He and I? The cyber stealing; the Wednesday chatting; nostalgic Thursday; Friday evening; the 3 minutes and the finding myself back in my world on a Monday morning with a grin too big for my face to wear. Who wants to read about dramatic phone calls to friends about whether or not to tell on myself, while brother man was being told about me and his friend, whom I didn’t know whether to mention or not? Who would even believe that I didn’t sleep with him on that lie laced Friday evening; let alone that I had 3 meals cooked for me in all of what was “3 minutes”.
It has to be even more senseless for me to tell on myself about the alternate FB account I opened, and how I found myself overwhelmingly being hit on by my most recent ex; who also happens to be the only man I had ever not cheated on? Why would I divulge in details of how he happened to fall for my alias ;who was in fact simply me by another name, allegedly located elsewhere in beautiful S.A? Would that not just be my putting the puzzle pieces together for him, and indirectly hollering at the tip of my fingers, that his latest crush was in fact his ex whose heart he wrenched? Why give my identity away after being soberly advised to close the account in question, without ever having disclosed to him, whom he had truly fallen for?
This smells like a catch-22 if you ask me.
What to do when faced with a catch-22?
Learn the damn lesson!! The lesson obviously being that I must make more bad decisions
So as to have priceless stories to tell…or not to tell.
Then for kicks and giggles, proceed to blog about it all; without saying anything at all.
;)
To blog or not to blog . . . about my personal adventures that is.
If I were a mother, I could guiltlessly blog about my mini me’s and all their heart warming antics that bring joy into my life. If I were a pet owner I could do the same. I am very happily neither mother nor pet owner, however sadly not in the position to freely blog about the actual people in my life; what with their happily having the right to privacy. So what’s a girl to do when she has this epic story to tell of her 3 minute weekend, and the man she agreed to keep a secret? Plus an unrelated dodgy story about my alias antics on Facebook.
She blogs away anyway right?
Right?
Wrong!
It has to be wrong of me to tell the tale of this anonymous He and I? The cyber stealing; the Wednesday chatting; nostalgic Thursday; Friday evening; the 3 minutes and the finding myself back in my world on a Monday morning with a grin too big for my face to wear. Who wants to read about dramatic phone calls to friends about whether or not to tell on myself, while brother man was being told about me and his friend, whom I didn’t know whether to mention or not? Who would even believe that I didn’t sleep with him on that lie laced Friday evening; let alone that I had 3 meals cooked for me in all of what was “3 minutes”.
It has to be even more senseless for me to tell on myself about the alternate FB account I opened, and how I found myself overwhelmingly being hit on by my most recent ex; who also happens to be the only man I had ever not cheated on? Why would I divulge in details of how he happened to fall for my alias ;who was in fact simply me by another name, allegedly located elsewhere in beautiful S.A? Would that not just be my putting the puzzle pieces together for him, and indirectly hollering at the tip of my fingers, that his latest crush was in fact his ex whose heart he wrenched? Why give my identity away after being soberly advised to close the account in question, without ever having disclosed to him, whom he had truly fallen for?
This smells like a catch-22 if you ask me.
What to do when faced with a catch-22?
Learn the damn lesson!! The lesson obviously being that I must make more bad decisions
So as to have priceless stories to tell…or not to tell.
Then for kicks and giggles, proceed to blog about it all; without saying anything at all.
;)
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
“I’ve got 99 problems . . .”
What does a serial dater know about matters of the heart, and getting love right? Absolutely nothing if you ask me. And you should ask me, because I would know. I am that serial dater.
In truth it’s been 6 months since my last relationship, although there might be a soul or 2 who may have chosen not to hear me when I stressed that they and I were “just kicking it”. It’s been a kick ass 6 months mind you. No obligations to phone people; no obligations to make time for people you aren’t in the mood to see; and oddly enough no obligation to sleep alone when you don’t feel like it. It’s been the perfect balance of companionship; convenience; choice & cock (in the completely opposite order of course). In the midst of all those “C’s” there may be room for loneliness, but lucky for me; I’m actually sensationally fond of my own company so I wouldn’t know loneliness if it were staring me in the eye. How radical is that!
This must be love right? What’s there not to love?
I’m loving not stressing over someone and their whereabouts. I’m loving not having anyone to answer to. I’m loving not feeling ignored because whomever hasn’t called me. I’m loving not giving a shit when people walk outside to take mysterious phone calls. I’m loving the right to close my legs for as long as I want and knowing it’s not jeopardising anything; but make no mistake, I am loving the variety too. I’m loving La vida single and the “lie-lessness” with which I conduct it.
Telling it like it is, is as fundamental as knowing your H.I.V status. It’s a must! It’s my number 1 rule, promptly followed by rule number 2 which would be to stay the fuck out of love. I anticipated the latter of the 2 rules to be harder to comply to, what with my being a bona fide lover of falling in love; this has fortunately not been the case. The success of rule number 2 could be attributed to any number of reasons like not having found “The One”, mind over matter or a constipated heart; but all that matters is that it works for me.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hating on loves parade; I’m probably it’s number one fan… if not an addict. Love is as trippy as any (if not more so) than most drugs, and I’m the poster child for addictive personalities.
So do the maths.
If there were any such bogus profession as that of a “Love Guru”, they would be compelled by the rules that govern their profession, to order me to quit loving; and so I have.
6 Loveless months of heart rehab, with a happier head space to show for it. So now I’m in love with being outside of love, and I kid you not it ROCKS. . . For now! And it should rock dammit, because I’ve got 99 problems, and a dick ain’t one.
C. Msibi
7 June 2011
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