Q & A

Once Upon a new year, I’m haunted by a memory bank of some retarded questions I’ve either asked or answered… or more truthfully; harmless questions that I was retarded enough to either ask or answer.

Q) How many people have I slept with in 2011?

A) ***CLASSIFIED INFORMATION***

But like really? Why was I asking myself such? My reaction would have still been the same irrespective of the answer.  Let’s say I’d slept with all of 2 people in 2011, I would’ve perched on some moral high horse & patted myself on the back. Had the answer been “too many to count”; I still would have been gloating about how much game I have. Not to say it’s not important in this day and age to keep tabs of who you’re sleeping with, just that I was asking for all the wrong reasons.  Much like the time I once asked;

Q) And me?

To which he answered

A) She’s better than you.

In my defence, he asked the question 1^st. I’m just the sorry sucker who decided to play the comparison game; hoping that the praises I had just sung, would’ve been reciprocated.  

Questions that can be thrown back at you, should never be asked if your own answer to the same question, is not the kind of thing you want to be disclosing.  I learnt this the sticky way when my curiosity propelled me to ask :

Q) So when was the last time you got any?

An acceptable enough question; so long as you aren’t getting your flirt on with a Hottie who might be put off by the fact that your answer to the question is

A) This morning.

Why is it though (she makes the mistake of asking herself) that men are repelled by honest answers such as the one above; yet I’m indifferent to the answer:

A) Yeah, 14 years now

When the question I asked was:

Q) Are you in a relationship?

For what it’s worth, I’m all flirt and very little action & have no intention of physically disrespecting that High school sweetheart romance. . . Can’t say the same for him though; but that’s her baggage.

Truth be told; we all have some kind of baggage, so perhaps questions can be a great deal more remedial and a whole lot less catastrophic, if utilised correctly?

Granted I won’t vow to ask less, because then I’ll tragically learn less. Instead I’ll make a major effort to live this year in such a fashion whereby, irrespective of what the question might be when I have my next reflective episode in 2013, the answers won’t spazz me out.

Cheers to the friggin New Year! I’ll drink to that.

ENTER!

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?

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.

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

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!

"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.

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 1^st 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 3^rd 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!