Happy Birthday To Me!

I’m being bullied by a blank page into stringing sensible sentiments together, purely on account of having had a birthday.  What bollocks truly, that  like clockwork every year comes an unspoken compulsion to get introspective and such.  I’m all thunk out . . .  though my birthday memory crate may just be worth digging through.

Once upon the earliest  memory of my worst birthday, I was turning  10 … I think. As misfortune would have it, my textbook Wicked (i.e. Evil. NOT slang for cool) step mother ,decided that throwing a party would be a delightful idea. It would have been a down right stellar occasion, had she not been quite so dreadful.  Bare in mind that although she disapproved; she knew all too well that  I was textbook Tomboy, yet insisted on my wearing  an itchy white meringue of a poofy dress, that I was prohibited from getting out of. This meant that I floated dismally on land, while watching all the other children  splash about gleefully in the pool.  So much for happy on that birthday.

Fast forward to what I suspect may have been  my 19^th birthday. What a surprise of a day.  Assuming that I have the correct year in question; I would’ve been a 2^nd time first year at WITS; and had by this point accumulated a vast array of friends , who for the most part knew very little of each other.  One can imagine the happy lump in my throat when  2 friends from res, collaborated with my “Masters” (a trio of boys I spent countless occasions drinking with, at on off campus dodge spot called Veers); who in turn touched Base with the likes of  Gareth (a notorious master mind).  I was positively flabbergasted to find them all gathered at someone’s spot , in the name of surprising me with a celebration of ME! We all got our guzzle on; I cursed my way through a verbal altercation,  & at some point I was suitably caught doing a smudge more than just making out in the bathroom with whomever’s spot we were at.  That was a swell time.

As have been the past three years.

25 was a blast out at the park with  unforgiving punch ; interruptive rain  & an affair that was brewing right underneath my plastered nose.

26 entailed a road trip to Polokwane. A couple’s retreat of sorts.  A scrumptious braai on the Saturday; where my sweet corn stuffed gem squash was quite the hit among all 3 couples (including the one I was one half of).  Sunday began with champagne; then followed a late breakfast out somewhere with horses, & a squabble filled drive back to GP; with me as the boozy birthday girl of a passenger.

27 was a whimsical  affair with masks & all & all. The Olive garden with it’s fitting fairy lights & palette pleasing Mediterranean menu, could not have been a better venue. It would just so happen that on that day I had to compete with a Chiefs vs Pirates match, so by default the celebrations in question verged on being  a ladies luncheon.  Gifts galore I tell you. I was blessed to the power of infinity on that day & everyday thereafter to be honest.

Along came 28 . LOVE! LOVE! LOVE!  Apparently I’m bordering on depressed, so when this year came around, I wasn’t moved to be festive. Thank goodness that Lindy wouldn’t have it any other way & proceeded to invite someone’s to have birthday drinks with us at the pub across the road. The turn out touched me; the blunt fucked me & the shots kicked us ALL in the ass.

That being said. . . .Thank You!  To anyone and everyone whose mind I ever crossed on any of my hatch days. Those who love me enough to stand me & especially those  who made it a point to be part of my Tuesday: Lindy ; Taz; Nelis; Anele; Mimi; Tshego; Miss Mokoena;  Foreman a.k.a Swiss Beats;  Du Preez; Ntshepi ; Teddy; Spanky & brother; Lyric & George (in order of arrival. . . I think)

Thank You!

The night before The Morning After

"Hi! Forgive my father's efforts" , was the beginning of a text I received once upon a morning after the night before.

It began with a much dreaded photo shoot. The facing of the fellow DJ who had the honour of a steamy swimming pool make out session, on the eve of our year end function. The eve I lost my BlackBerry. A very VERY drunken eve. . . Hence my not appreciating that he went ahead and sat bang smack across the table from me; during the whose who in the Trans Africa Zoo meeting. Meeting ajourned. Now onto striking poses!


Snap! Flash! Snap!
The madness of people gathering
Clique-ing
Slam. . .
Right into the man.

A boy man at that. All of 25 years old.
#DeathByMe
Courteous Hug. Unexpected kiss on the cheek. Sweet and short.
It's over!
Now to get the fuck out of there.

Whew!

We that is the Stereo Dtox crew, moseyed on to greener pastures. Puff, puff pass pastures. Black Label all around as we settled ourselves at the Lamunu Hotel; nestled amidst the backdrop of a bustling Braamfontein. Never in the history of my Braamfontein escapades have I seen that many white folk fluttering in and out of the cafe's and alleys of good old Braam. Suddenly all the friggin Cafe's begin to make sense. This is who they were developed for in the first place. Light Bulb Moment!

That aside, we mingled. . .with white folk nogal. Canadian Patricia and Texas born Susan; whom Ade kept well entertained with talk of Africa and introducing them to The Fridge!! Then along came Samthing Soweto. It was all too YAY for words, till Sam called me a bad fan. Pity Thusi didn't surface before Gideon ushered them away. The Fridge posy cruised off to prepare for their performance at Dub Saved my life; while Mr Jones and I hopped on over to greener-er pastures.

Colonial Kitcheners!

The dark grungy textures of Kitcheners fed our photographic thirst. We would've soaked up every crevice if we could have, however my one armed companion failed as dismally as jittery me to take a successful pic of the fantastic shot opportunities with which our setting blessed us. Naturally, he casually asked equally casual surfer boy to shoot at whatever we wished him to aim.
Aim. Shoot. Aim. Shoot.

Surfer boy's equally pretty accomplice joined in on our newly formed collaborative acquaintanceship. Twas a serene dilly dallying of minds. Banter in abundance. . .Blunt too mind you.

Puff, Puff, Pass.

Like a well rolled joint, I passed myself on from the "aim shoot" escapade, over to the passionate debate in the colourful characters corner.
"Hi. Sorry to intrude, I couldn't help but overhear. Mind if I sit and listen silently?"
Talk about an enthusiastic reception. Before I knew it, I was the topic at hand. That's not what I signed up for though? Turns out that the Father to my right had an agenda of his own, and wasted no time asking "So where's your boyfriend?". I made the mistake of assuming what this mans intentions were, when meanwhile; Daddy Dearest was simply having a go at playing cupid. A look to my left and there was the suitor in question. I size him up favourably. Me likes what I see!

"You two should really get together again soon. You have lots to offer each other." Two guesses who had that to say? Daddy dearest of course. Cupid was all out in full force. "Obvious" is an understatement; and "Awkward" is oddly enough everything that that moment in time, wasn't. Son and I flirted subtly; while Father and I chatted fluidly.
"Thank you", I say softly expressing my appreciation for Black Label number who knows what. Suitor mentions knowing a shop where I can get my hands on some exciting African fabrics. Hmm, he heard my comment drinks ago about getting a dress made. Brownie points for this well versed man. His opinions excite me. Did I mention his being handsome in a non-offensive way?

"Take her number", insists Father.
"What's your number?" asks Son.

As they say, "Ask and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find".

Goodbye's are said somewhere at this point. "You really made an impression on me", says cupid. I can't offer him anymore than a humble smile. I'm moved mind you. Even merely at the memory of his sentiments; I'm moved.
I'd saved Cupid's suitor son for last. Planted my arms gracefully around his torso and wished him well.
A comfortable parting. Gentle... Perhaps even too short?

The solemn moment was aptly shattered by shutter-bug Solomon and my main man Medicine. Merriment all around! A tequilla or 2; a drink or more. . .who knows. The buzz of evening was in full swing, and my tipsy was on the verge of drunk. A good time for home time; after a day which was indisputably a GRAND time!

"Hope the rest of your weekend was as delightful for you, as meeting the lot of you; was for me" , ended my reply to a text I received, Once Upon the morning after.

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!