All Sorts Of F*ck 

Sex intrigues me. It does. Wait, let me rephrase that – the kind of sex that specially comes with emotional tags, intrigues me. To no end. 

Most people these days come with some sort of iRobot button that automatically switches off their emotional side when in the urgent need to screw. Also, whoa, can we talk about how much sex has evolved? Bad, bad, naughty 2017. This magic button I’m talking about is called alcohol/drugs. You take sufficient amount of it and you are a human robot. Just like that, all emotions shut down. It used to be amazing, from what my cool elderly neighbor tells me. Sex used to be called making love. 

Some of y’all will tell me that it’s still called that, but how many kids today talk about it like it means something? Go on, I’ll wait while you go find out. Even when you’re in bed with someone after having tested the potency of several Margaritas on an empty freaking stomach, all he will tell you is, “Baby, I want to fuck.” Not one time will you hear him say, “Let’s make sweet love.” Cheesy as that sounds, I’d be real happy if someone came up with that instead of just mindlessly doing it. I think the sweet love trend died with that You Make me Wanna song by Blue way back in 2013, when I was barely pubescent. Wow. My whole generation and the next and the next are all screwed up. 

Holy mother.

Speaking of which, did you know that young girls barely in their teens are already doing it? Innocence doesn’t exist anymore, at least that’s what I feel like. The other day some girl posted a video of herself stripping butt naked and caressing herself – she couldn’t have been more than thirteen – on social media! And it showed up on my explore page. Like, what the actual fuck. Somebody step up and stop this madness, for Lord’s sake: it’s driving me nuts!! 

I think this is also the reason why men assume away to glory about what women want. Not cool, people, not cool. 
Rant over. 

Rain, Tax, It’s Inevitable

I hate the rain, and I’ve mentioned this before – I hate the rain with a passion. The same kind of passion you would reserve for slimy bugs crawling up your favourite pair of shoes. I hate the rain because it brings back memories. 

I used to love snogging in the rain. Pretty much like they do in the movies. Pretty much they did in The Notebook. Like I have said all my life, I’m the queen of exaggerations. OTT comes naturally to me. And I’m a typical Cancerian woman who doesn’t like to be told what to do, let alone stand being criticised. 

Rain brings back so many memories, all of them way too intense to be kept to myself. So here’s one memory. 

I’ve just mentioned I don’t like being told what to do. I was seeing this guy who was perfect 👌🏼 in every which way except for one thing: I had to ask permission for everything. If I needed to call I had to ask via text if he could take my calls at that precise moment. If I had to text I had to send a ? to which he would reply accordingly. Meaning, he would send a what’s up if on his own and ignore completely/ send a don’t text now if with friends. He was an active gamer and fiercely independent and didn’t like to be held down, he said. Three months into the relationship I figured it wasn’t going anywhere. 

We kissed one last time in the rain and it was an amazing kiss and that was it. Like Celine Dion said, inevitable. Does anyone else hate the rain? 

Plaster Casts

You put in efforts and you give your all

Lose your self-respect yet stand tall 

All for love and all for him 

You bear with his every last whim 

Those long bouts of silence, every angry outburst 

Every cold wave of wild hungry lust 

The way he withdraws after each time you make love

Staring with vacant eyes at the ceiling above 

While you lay next to him just waiting for him to say something 

Anything at all, even one word would do, but he gives you nothing 

And when he leaves, he breaks off a little piece of your heart 

With each day it leaves you torn apart

But you carry on anyway, you put on a new emotional plaster cast 

Trying to mend the fractures in your heart

La Petite Mort

I don’t want this. But I like it. Such a conflict of emotions. It’s crazy, because as much as I don’t want it and don’t want to want it, it’s right there in my head. In my heart. In the pit of my guts. I can’t seem to have enough. I know it’s killing me, slowly. But I like this. 

The sneaking. The secrecy. What’s that word? Stealth. It appeals to me. It’s insane that a girl who likes to call herself a typically good “good” girl that never does anything wrong, would actually do something like this and actually like it way too much. What am I talking about? I know I’m just basically talking in circles and not getting to the point and would I freaking get to the point already now that it’s been three years since I’ve been going around it…? 

Okay, deep breath: 

I’ve been in love with my best friend for years now. The way he smiles. Those white, even teeth that happen to be so reassuring to my OCD. His arms that envelop me in a warm, fuzzy blanket of security. His stubbly chin that rests perfectly on the top of my head. The way he just melts away all my conflicts with just one wave. How I love him to death! 

He seems to want me as much as I want him, on the weekends. After he’s smoked enough pot to knock him out for the day; he thinks of me. He creeps into my apartment and gets into my bed. I’ve started leaving the key under the doormat everyday now just in case. We never do it but his giant hands creep under my tee when we are spooning. It feels great. Sometimes he talks in his sleep. Things like how he would have married me if he had the choice, right that minute. Sometimes pot takes over his logical, rational thinking and he asks how many kids do we make. And how he’d love them so much it would hurt. I’m pretty sure he said he loves me the other weekend. Or maybe not. Because he pulled me in and fell asleep with me wondering away all night. 

When he leaves in the morning, still high maybe, after he’s kissed me on the lips, it feels like he’s taking away a part of me. Leaving me to die a little death is each time he leaves. I’ve never felt a connection stronger than this. He brings me to several orgasms, not of the body but of the brain. It’s tangible. I know it’s not possible but it is. He withdraws from me for the rest of the day, cold shoulders me when with friends, disappears for hours on end: when I complain he says that’s not just him, it’s all men. And funnily enough, I’m okay with that. Okay with everything he says and does.

He’s killing me slowly and it’s making me live. I guess that’s love if you think about it. 


Easy 

Love is one screwed up emotion, I tell you. If there’s anything that’s real, it’s only apathy. I can watch someone for hours and feel nothing well up inside me – it’s crazy. People ask me why I’m so obsessed with cheating and why I end up writing about it so much but I don’t have enough explanation, not really. 

I’ve been told I’m easy

Now what does easy mean? 

I’ll explain. Our society coins a new term for everything. They try to put you in a box and label you – it’s just a thing and you shouldn’t be worrying too much about it. Why do people do that? After quite a bit of deliberation, I’ve concluded that people only attach tags to your personality and to you as a whole when they can’t really understand you. Specially if you happen to be a woman who thinks it’s okay to make mistakes before getting there. By there I mean wherever you’re going. I don’t understand why I’ve to explain myself to everyone and even after I do, they still have  only hate to offer. 

Coming back to the easy bit, it’s no secret that I’ve dated quite a few men. All of whom have got away. If you’re struggling with your life life like I was once, here’s something to hold on to – people are intimidated by confident people. It’s psychology. And there’s more. In 2017 when everything has reached the point of being far too plastic for even the Kardashians to deal with, just know that there are male versions of gold diggers too. If you happen to be with a gold digging male and you chance upon his secret and stop funding him, he loses his ish. And that’s when the name calling begins. You think guys don’t talk about you behind your back? You are so wrong. I know for a fact that they do; in fact I know guys that actually get together to get high and then basically bash their ex girlfriends.

Including calling them names.

Offensive ones. Made more so when spoken in vernacular language. 

I don’t get that. How do you go from calling someone pretty to pretty vulgar within months? After you’ve claimed to have loved them and wanted them forever? Also how do you justify acting like the victim of the situation when you’re the one that’s victimsing some poor girl? Calling her easy and a slut? Before you insult someone and character profile them to shit take a long hard look at yourself. The fault, dear losers, lies in the likes of you. You can’t hold your drink and you can’t hold your woman and you are the one to blame.

You’re easy. Easy to dispose of and it is so easy to get over you. Not her. 

Sidechicks

Sam was hot. There was no other explanation. At least none that Simone could think of. She just knew that she had to have him. 

Simone was always this good girl. Goody-two-shoes, funny as fuck, nice tits. Maybe that was one of the reasons her boyfriend Pete asked her out in the first place. They met at an Ed Sheeran concert- Pete and her – and that’s how it started. 

Simone hated busy spots. She hated hanging out with more than three people at once and she definitely did not want to go to the concert that night. But then, you know, Ed Sheeran. She pulled on a blue halterneck romper and her trusty white Nike sneakers, ignoring the eye-roll from her roommate. 

“You do know that your attachment towards your stupid sneakers is kind of sad, don’t you, Simone?”

“I know, Dre. Look, can we hurry now, please?”

The concert was crazy. Thousands of people. Somewhere she got separated from Dre and Kevyn, and as she desperately looked around for any signs of Dre’s flaming red hair, Simone thought she felt a panic attack coming on. That’s when she felt an arm on her shoulder. It wasn’t Dre. It was an awkwardly tall, bumbling dude with the weirdest hair ever. He was saying something but Simone had this weird buzzing in her ears and she thought she’d die. Then everything went black. 

When she came to she was in someone’s room, on someone’s couch, a fuzzy blanket thrown over her. Welp, she thought, where am I? As if answering her question, someone said, “Please don’t panic, you’re safe. Your roommate called. She’ll come get you, I gave her perfect instructions.” Simone looked around and it was the tall bumbling dude. He said his name was Pete and they sat there awkwardly for a bit before Dre came to get her and the two girls left. 

It transpired that Pete actually lived round the corner (with an elusive roommate of his own, elusive because nobody had seen the dude much) so Simone started hanging out with him. One thing led to another, lots of steamy kisses and before long, they were ‘going steady’. Or so she thought. 

One day she happened to be lounging around Pete’s apartment alone when he showed up with Sam. When Pete kissed her hey all she could see was Sam. The elusive roommate. Where Pete was skinny and basically looked like a bag of bones, Sam had these broad shoulders, and his smile was so radiant it hit Simone like a physical force across the room. 

“Baby, meet Sam. He’s been my roommate for a while now. Did you know he plays the guitar?”

Simone wanted to say a bazillion things, including a lot ofkiss me Sam”s but settled for a meek Hello instead. The guys ended up playing COD while Simone sat frozen trying to quell the sudden lust threatening to burst out of her, while occasionally flicking glances at Sam and his amazing lips and what she wanted to do to them. Little did she know how suddenly that moment would come…

Two days later, Pete had to rush home for a couple of weeks because his single Mum needed surgery. Dre was away with Kevyn on vacation; and Simone, bored out of her skull, decided to take a walk round the block. And ran into Sam. Who looked as pleased to see her as she did him. And this hanging out thing became a routine. Between work and gym and no Pete and Dre around, Sam and Simone bonded over the weekend, watching pathetic box office bombs which they laughed themselves silly at. The occasional arm brushing turned into full tilt hand holding during accidentally watching The Exorcism of Emily Rose, and things progressed faster than a speeding train. 

Neither of them had any idea how they ended up in Sam’s bed, his hands on her waist, kissing like depraved jaguars. Between kisses, Sam came clean about having a girlfriend back home. At this point, neither of them cared, not really. Nearly blind with lust, Sam kissed Simone’s perfect lips till she couldn’t taste them anymore. Shirts came off, and then Sam expertly undid the clasp on Simone’s bra in under three seconds. Pete had made love to her before and Simone remembered how much she had to fake it but Sam was knocking it out of the ball park, his wet lips leaving behind trails of fire on Simone’s flat stomach, and further down till she couldn’t feel her legs anymore. Afterwards, sitting in bed with Sam holding her while he played Ed Sheeran’s Shape of You, Simone thought that making love to Sam was like embracing art. 

So this became a routine for the both of them: Work, gym, fuck, repeat. Funnily enough, none of their partners called much. Which was a big relief for the both of them. 

On a lunch date with Simone one day before Pete was due to arrive home, Sam noticed Pete walk into a Starbucks nearby. 

“Simone, don’t look now, but I think Pete’s back.”

“Holy. We’ve gotta hide!” 

So they snuck out, and sure enough there was Pete, walking hand in hand with someone who suspiciously looked like… 

“Sam, isn’t that your girlfriend Mia?! Who’s supposed to be back home?”

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. It was her. 




Wound Tight 

I turn ‘older’ in a few days. Yes, this is the point where I start hiding my age. Yikes. Also, whoa, is it almost July already? NO. It can’t be, can it?

I’m on leave at the moment and as usual, I’m clueless as to what to do. To be honest, I don’t really know how to take a break. Or chillax. I’m the sort of person that doesn’t know what to do on days off. I have a two-week break from work, and hating every minute of it. And it’s only been three days. 

I feel like when you’re the kind of person that most people would call an “enigma”, all you are really projecting is unfriendliness. That’s wrong. Just because I’m the kind of person that likes being on my own does not mean that I have no friends. Or that I have only online friends. Even if I did, how is that wrong is any way? Why do people have to be so judgemental? 

Just two days in, I realised that the break I’d taken from work was turning out way more stressful than my actual work schedule. And it hit me: I was a raging workaholic. The very act of having to put sutures, or having to put on a fresh dressing on a diabetic foot was so much more appealing than say, sauteing apples for breakfast. Was I crazy? Most of you would say yes. 

I know this for a fact. 

At this point I realized, I had to DO something. I’ve been so tightly wound these past year, I’d forgotten what it felt like to let go. Wait, I’d never really known what it felt like to let go. 

So, we decided to just drive off. Somewhere. A bunch of people from work and I. I brought along some cake and candy and all the junk food in the world and we went “rock climbing” of sorts. Like, we just walked all the way up the hill. Only there were enormous rocks and not much path to cut across so we basically just latched ourselves on to some rocks and climbed up. Tee hee. Fun. I’ve never done this in regular shoes. So it was amazing, to say the least. 

I’ve never celebrated my birthday ten days ahead. Also, did you know that cutting cake on the top of a hill is the nicest thing ever??! Not to mention having your face painted with leftover cake. And people taking embarrassing selfies. So, yes. A very happy Birthday to me. La di da. 

Now that I’ve mastered the art of letting go, here’s something I realization hit me with the force of a strong espresso – or maybe a couple million espressos – you don’t NEED blood to be a family and that when you bond, you just bond. My colleagues have been amazing and I can’t thank them enough for loving me the way they do. 

It feels pretty darn good. Just to let go.