Saturday, February 28, 2015

Tea Break

She said:
Sometimes I give myself orgasms as presents. And afterwards, I give myself another present for having such excellent gift giving skills. Then, while my legs are shaking as I pull down my skirt in the stall of the bathroom at work, I say a little prayer of gratitude to my absolutely wonderful clitoris and the god who gave her to me. He has excellent gift giving skills too.

Skirts are best. For me, anyway. Skirts with no panties. Skirts with no panties and stockings that rub slowly against me as my boss is telling me something infinitely more boring than what I'm thinking about.

The great thing about orgasms, though, is their minimum fuss for maximum gain. You don't need a man. You don't need money. You don't need small talk, or instructions, sloppy drunk kisses or motivational just need persistence. If you do have a man then even better (but don't they always get it just a little wrong?). He can contribute. Or he can watch. But a woman...a woman is best. For me, anyway.

I am walking out of the stall and another lady comes in. She is not in a skirt. She looks flushed. In a hurry, almost. Her hands are hovering around suggestive regions and she stops short when she sees me. Her mouth, previously slightly open in an urgent pant, snaps shut. Her eyes widen. What does she think I've caught her in? I smile a lazy smile, not particularly caring, because after, I don't particularly care about anything until the world butts in again. I close the door behind me, but not before I hear a zip being tugged down. And nothing after that.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Here's what I don't like about porn.

I got my first porno DVD way after high school. Which isn't completely surprising, because I am female. I think (ok I know there are a few girls who start earlier. In a random jav that decided it was after hours enough to give the customers a little more than what they paid for. In the shady pubs in town or little makeshift illicit kibandas, perhaps, if they slipped in without notice. Though I doubt it. Cameo Cinema. Late night Bold and the Beautiful which whetted their appetite for more nakedness and more action. My story isn't like that. The Bold's soundtrack is still one of my favourite of all time though).

The cover art of the DVD had Britney Spears on it, when she was still in her heyday. I remember thinking that it was a bit archaic - I mean, who even remembers when Britney was still in her heyday? But I am sure porno cover artisans don't really care who is on the cover, do they? In any case, it is a stroke of genius - no mother will pick up a Britney DVD belonging to her child (not knowing that yes, it is unusual, because...who even remembers when Britney was still in her heyday?). Fathers, obviously not - but more often than not they know the game, if it is their son. If it is a girl, no one thinks she is watching porn, and there is a female with pigtails on the cover, so it must be one of those new artist she likes, right?

The DVD had 6 movies in it. I never watched them all the way in. There was the sadomasochist one (as there always is) with nuns whipping their nuns/ladies-in-waiting and/or making them give them head, and then out of nowhere men would appear, to stand guard, I suppose - like I said, never watched the whole thing, but that one in particular, because I find church porn disturbing. I barely got through that episode of Californication that starts in the church, and the nun...(what happened to that show? I actually quite liked it).

There was a Thai one - 2 maybe, even - where the people on the screen were clearly getting it on, but the background sounded like a movie about a couple of teenagers having fun at the beach. Very clever. Then there was my favourite one, about girls. I don't know what was going on there, but they got straight to it - started out on the lawn, busted by another girl, taken to another house with a married woman and her two sex slaves - it all got a bit convoluted. It was called something corny, as they always are, like Girls Night In or something.

I still have that DVD. Once in a while, I pop it out for old times sake. Recently I discovered PornHub (I only just watched Kim K's sex tape. I know. I know.) which is a veritable plethora of all things (kuku) porno. I many categories! So many choices! It can get a bit overwhelming, like when you go to Cold Stone Creamery for the first time and your senses are basically assaulted, then they start singing, which doesn't help to focus your thoughts.

A couple of years ago, I was introduced to Lingerie - the soft core porn series, which I prefer to PornHub. (funny story - my ex and his present were at the DVD store and the guy looks at them, decide they need a little spice in their lives and hands them Season 1, saying, hii, hii mtapenda. After the 4th sex scene in 10 minutes, they were LOL.) But it is still super cheesy.

And that's my problem with porn.
I mean, other than the fact that it goes on for waaaaay too long - if you think about it, it's not going to take you the entire duration of a 26 minute porno to come. Is it? Or are you watching it for its sterling production value and excellent directing? - why oh why are the scripts so cheesy? Many say this is an invalid complaint, because porn doesn't exist for the script. But then why are the talking parts/introductions/back story so long? Si you just get to it already? And if you're not going to get to it, then why not make the part we have to listen to good? Look, I like a little context. But not shitty context. Which is why soft porn exists. But even soft core (a la Lingerie) scripting suuuuuucks baaaaaaaalls. It's like...guys. No. Stop. Stop talking. Please.

And the moans are really fake.
I'm sorry! Is it because I am a scriptwriter that I expect effort and better directing? But surely even you if you are with a person and they are moaning from when you hold hands. Ai.

I don't mind porn. I just like a specific type. Like in Blue is the warmest colour. Where the moaning and speech is natural. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it isn't a porno, but there was a lot of sex. But it was nice sex. Like a Sidney Sheldon. Or an Amanda Quick. Classy, y'know? (ha!) Or Sliver. Or that old Mel Gibson movie. Or...or maybe I just natural looking sex that isn't a sex tape and isn't trying to hide all the good bits. At this rate I may have to move to France.

There's the argument again that I am not the target audience for porn. I laugh in the face of such accusations. As if women don't consume sexual content. As if we don't have needs. Come on, Porn Producing People. Do better.


Monday, February 23, 2015

Series: Empire (Season 1 Episode 6)

I was feeling a little hot after this episode aired! What! I need chips (as a cure for everything in life, of course. Fuck a diet, a dollar and a dream - Derek Luke is on Empire! *squeals*)

So I know I'm late (HA!) but g2g was having issues and I only just saw the episode literally 10 minutes ago. I think this is my favourite episode, after the first one, for so. Many. Reasons.

1. The music is improving! Yaaaaas, Timbaland! The music in the last 4 episodes hasn't been anything to write home about. I mean, What is Love, that heartwrenching piece from the bald girl in Ep 1 just topped everything; Jamal and Hakeem make an absolutely killer team, and it was beginning to look like they couldn't do anything good without each other, and Tiana is basically eye candy. Drip Drop was ok, you know? Body like a weapon bang bang bang etc was catchy. It definitely was NOT What is Love. Jamal...nothing he has done has moved me to look past his whining. BUT! Hakeem, snivelly spoilt brat that he is, has produced a gem in this episode (his diss track to Tiana), Jamal's love song I wanna love you was just inspired - by maybe a little Neyo when Neyo was really good? A little John Legend? MM. SO TASTY. And I like the rock thing with Elle Dallas (Courtney Love). I'm waiting to see where this is going. It's a yes from me.

2. I have understood that I need to stop judging Empire. Yes, it is an over the top series. But it is MEANT to be over the top. That's how they've played it, and unlike Power, they are doing it well. The casting, guys - everyone really fits their roles (except the extras - that football player was some bullshit) and Taraji shines in a sea of diamonds. Like a diamond. Napenda Taraji. (see what I did there?) Napenda Taraji especially akivaa hizo maNINI. (I gotta say, I don't know why Miss T keeps Portia around. That obvious plothole is going over my head)

3. New faces. I AM HERE FOR IT. I am here for Miss Colourless Raven Symone (my comp doesn't have the apostrophe. Or rather, I don't care enough to look for it) playing desperate baby mama. I am HERE for DEREK LUKE who can SECURE ME ANYTIME HE WANTS. LAWDY. Someone was made in THE PERFECT image of the Lord. Last time I saw that tasty man was in The Americans and I was just as distracted as I am now. I. AM. HERE. FOR. HIM.

Excuse me while I go wipe - uh, download another episode.


Monday, February 16, 2015

Film: The Rewrite

Hugh Grant is in a movie and I watched it and I liked it.


That is basically the summary of this review but just in case you are not grasping the true significance of the statement - Hugh Grant is in a movie. :)

I think I have watched pretty much everything Mr Grant has ever done (I'm lying - just the huge commercial successes, drolling as I did so). I have tracked his illustrious career from the age of five, when I watched The Lady and the Highwayman - also the name of one of my favourite poems ever - and apparently in no way related - right down to this movie, and my conclusion is that he is getting old, but beautifully. (Hugh Grant is in a movie!) I feel like it has been a while since I've seen him on the silver screen.

This movie is about a scriptwriter who wrote a fantastic movie that won lots of awards and then his creative well ran dry. He s almost washed up, pitching really stupid ideas to studio heads who worshiped him before but won't touch him with a ten foot pole now. And so he is getting broker and broker. So his loud agent finds him a job at a university as a visiting lecturer. He has absilutely no intention to actually teach, but finds himself pulled into discovering what he started writing for, mending his relationship, his writing and himself.


It's a slightly cliche story but he executes the whole Brit professor thing beautifully. His script is snappy and amusing, and quirky, and (Hugh Grant is in a movie!) Marisa Tomei adds a mature performance to the movie that is unlike what I have seen of her as well lately (what HAS she done lately?) I like it. Go watch it for feel good funny things. I give it a 6 and a half.


Monday, February 9, 2015

The thing about love is

The truth is, I'm scared to be someone else's nightmare.

I've featured in that dream before. The one where I walk into your sleep like The Sandman and crush, slowly, reassuringly, everything you ever knew to be true about how strong your heart is - it's not. It's fragile, and fickle, and illogical.

Someone thinks I'm a reckless perpetrator of soul abuse; that I play them like violins, symphony, make all the fortified armour around it paper thin.

I've been that before, in another's subconsciousness, wielding powers I knew I had but never wanted to use - riding a black horse of certain death. Always a black horse.

I'm scared that you are my spectre, and me giving you me will result in a dead zone where normal things happen very often - normal being white lies and black lies on black horses and no sweet serenity. No happy ending. Just my heart. Throbbing the way it is now, raw, the last of its veins spurting out the last of my blood on the very last frontier of what I know to be real.

And yet I give you me. I know no other way to prove myself. The fear of you chokes me but the fear of myself finishes the job. They link hands and walk into the sunset, smiling, my demons serenading their romance. I don't know why you want this. I don't know what this is and if Dreamland is my future. But I'm going to trust you and go to sleep anyway.


Sunday, February 8, 2015

Film: The Best Man Holiday

If you haven't already watched it.

The Best Man Holiday is a sequel (surprise!) to the movie The Best Man, which came out in 1999. Still featuring the same old (gorgeous) cast, this movie takes us forward 15 years (literally) to when Harper's next book needs to come out, pasts of stripper wives are revealed and even deeper secrets are yet to be unveiled.

The movie was shiny. When I say shiny I mean they did a good job of pulling off the desired affluence of typical middle-aged Black Americans. It took some time to get going. I suppose putting in the context for everyone who was a baby when the movie was being made was essential for the first hour, but it did finally get going...and when it did, it was the usual black movie brouhaha. Not in a bad way, but black movies do have a tendency to read from the same script.

So, first things first (I'm the realest) – again, people need to just let old movies lie. Like, come on. The Jurassic World trailer looks good, but...come ON, Hollywood. Is this it? Are we in the era of no new stories?

Second, some essential character flaws shouldn't have been so glaring. One wonders how the second movie happened considering what happened in the first one. I can't say much more here without spoiling the movie for you, so on to point number 3...

The black movie brouhaha. At least they didn't go the typical Tyler Perry route (HOW is he making SO MUCH MONEY?) but they didn't stray too far from his script. And has anyone noticed how untruthful these movies are? Can we have at least one unattractive person in the cast, for Pete's sake? They even got Cody from Sunset Beach (who is CLEARLY a vampire who never ages, and must be rolling with Pharrell if not for whatever youth elixir they are obviously imbibing copiously. With Nia Long.) to get in on the mouthwatering men madness. I suppose one could argue that Harold Perrineau isn't Taye Diggs, but he isn't Flavour Flav either. You know?

I give this movie a 3/5. It's a sequel, which chacks points especially when it isn't better than the original (otherwise why make it? Actually, don't answer that), it was a little too shiny and perfectly packaged *coughcommercialcough* , a little too repetitive, but at least the eye candy kind of (and by kind of I mean not really) distracts you from the standard plot line of love and togetherness at Christmas. *rolls eyes* Just call me the Grinch.


Thursday, February 5, 2015

Left Behind

She said:
I was standing outside the door, hoping whoever was taking so long in the bathroom wasn't busily leaving skid marks for my viewing pleasure on the sides of the pristine toilet bowl. She came in, all lipstick and leg, French braid done up tight enough to make you think about what you could loosen. She looked at me, then the mirror. Then me again.

She was chewing her gum, slowly.

'Is he your boyfriend?'

Her and her date were sitting two tables away, across from me and Jack. She had a clear view of his shoulders and face, and me texting all through dinner.

I looked down, uncomfortable. Intrigued. Torn by childhood upbringing that said that if an adult asks you a question you should always answer it. But why did she want to know?

I shrugged.

'I could tell.'
Could she?
'You are fighting?'
She could.

Her words had the lilt of a distracted yet prolific storyteller. She didn't really care to ask because she knew she was right; the conversation had a point clear to her. She had the audience and the tale. This was about the affirmation.

So I gave it to her. She nodded.
'Maybe if you stop facebooking, you won't fight.'
I shook my head. 'Why do you care?'
Her turn to shrug. 'I don't. But he does. And facebooking your friends won't save you and him.'

She leaned in. It would have been perfect if she had a cigarette dangling lazily from her ruby red lips, but my imagination was going to have to do the trick.

'Men aren't as stupid as they look. I know it's  hard to believe' - the toilet flushed - 'but it's true.'

She straightened her skirt and herself as the door opened into the loo - lobby? 'If you're going to go to dinner, go to dinner. Commit. Or don't bother.' Commitment has always been a problem for me. This woman was psychic. She started to fix her hair as the other one left the building. I was already forgotten. I went into the bathroom.

Skid marks.


Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Message Truncated

She said:

When he said this weekend after church, my heart sunk.

I'm not the type of girl who will wear a thong to please anyone else looking at my butt other than me. I though Peter was that type of guy too - only brushes teeth when absolutely necessary (meeting in the boardroom level type, as opposed to staying in the house all day and not coming across human contact), down for random adventures, a great believer in avoidance of pain at most costs. Intelligent. Free radical. Untamed, with no desire to be so.

I should have noticed when he started going to the church on the corner. It was a quiet little church. Nondescript. Out of the way. Harmless, even. Deceptively so.

I didn't mind the tracts he'd carry home. Hey, everyone needs a little spirituality in their lives, right? I mean, apparently, our brains are wired in that direction. We have to worship something - if not God, or ourselves, or money - it has to be something. Sometimes, I thought that for me, it was Peter.

Because to me, Peter was perfect. He was smart, and funny, and OCD about things in the cutest ways, like his sock drawer and closing all the doors at night before we went to sleep because he couldn't sleep otherwise. It was cute. And because he was so smart, I didn't think anything like this could actually happen to a thinking, logical human being. And because he was my perfection, I let it happen.

At some point he started asking me to go to church with him. I took a deep breath. He saw the look on my face. He explained it to me - why it was a good idea. I shook my head.

'Maybe for you, babe. You know I'm not the church type.'
But he wore me down. I don't know if they teach you that at church - how to flood the people in your life with so much evangelism that eventually they come to hear The Message - that's what they called it - just to shut them up.

The final push - shove, really - was when he said that it was important to him. It is quite possible that nothing could have swayed me at the point of exhaustion I was. But he reminded me. He said he sat through all my phases of painting, then sculpting, then mosaics and collages - and a little tai bo training and origami too - all the classes I made him take me to, all the lectures, all the fees he paid, because it was important to me. He knew it was unfair of him to bring it up. He knew I would come anyway because of the fact that he did.

It became a cycle. We would go to church every week, sit at the very front like a perfect couple. Before we left the house, I'd have a shot of espresso to keep me awake through the sermon. I'd have to hide it so he didn't know how much I wanted to shoot myself - or everyone else - every time the sermon started just so it would stop. I'd smile. Play nice every time someone said for the umpteenth time, 'Oh, you're Peter's wife? Peter's so nice,'...then look at me, puzzled, like, why wasn't I as nice? Where was my fervour, my divine enthusiasm? I'd lost it somewhere between the scripture reading and trying to count the tassels on the curtains to the side of the pulpit.

I knew I was reaching breaking point, though. We talked about nothing else. Not news. Not my art. Not his job (which he had taken an indefinite sabbatical from, without telling me, until I called him at work to pick up grapes for salad on the way home and his ex-secretary informed me, embarrassed, that he wasn't in and hadn't been in for a while, and apologized, like she was the liar and sudden spectator in my marriage). Not his parents. Nothing else, but the church. I was, again, exhausted. It seemed to be a cycle, from when it began - him begging me to come. Him begging me to stay. Him begging me to join the prayer cells. Me being exhausted at every turn.

The stick was lit when he had a cold from hell. He was coughing every day and all through the night - deep, racking coughs that made neighbours think someone was dying slowly, and scared the dog. The wheezing gasps of cracked, blackened lungs, like a chain smoker's. The type of cough that makes people hold their shawls and jackets tighter as you walk by in case whatever you have is airborne and their layers are superhero disease-averse immediate-vaccination capes.
He didn't want to take any medicine. He said The Message would heal him. That the prayer cell were praying hard for him, on their top priority prayer lists. That nothing physical could overwhelm the supernatural.
He refused to listen to me. He ignored my tears, my rages, my blackmail. He shut his ear to my logic about how inconsiderate he was being - what if I caught his suspicious TB-like disease? What if my Perfect Peter left me alone in the world? Just because death was supposed to be the only thing doing us part, didn't mean he had to invite it to dinner.
He said that The Evil One would not get him, and there were other apostles who would rise in his place if it was his time to go. And he invited those apostles to our house, that weekend, after church.

My birthday.

I thought he would remember.

He didn't.

And I, as usual, was too tired to fight it. They trooped in, eyes glazed, hands raised. Their fat, tithe-filled bellies hovered over the dining room table - both almost equally laden - to pick, with their pudgy hands, what I - and the Creator - had made. I loathed them, but I knew it wasn't their fault.
'You look lovely today.'
I smiled weakly.
'Tell me...have you ever thought of leading the session we have for young girls? I'm sure you know about it, Peter must have mentioned we wanted to put your name forward. Such a fine young man...'
I walked away. And was cornered again, this time by the Leader of The Message.
'Where to in such a hurry?'
I had no energy to smile.
'You should smile a little bit more. It is a special day today, that we are visiting your house.'
'Yes. On my birthday.'
'Oh!'Surprise, but not real concern. As long as he had his spring roll in hand. 'Peter, why didn't you tell us?'
'Tell you what?'
'It's your wife's birthday today.'
'Oh!' Surprise. Not real concern. Or guilt. Or anyone I used to know. He coughed and a little bit of spittle landed on the Leader's spring roll. The Leader didn't notice. He just smiled, a little too intently at me, and in what seemed like slow motion, opened his gaping mouth to pop the rest of the roll in. A wave of nausea and realization hit me like a slap from Andre the Giant at the smell of his beady-eyed opportunism and cheap aftershave.
'Happy birthday.'

I threw up on his glossy shoes.
'Your sermon was shit,' I said, wiping my mouth. So that's why I'd been so tired all the time.
'Please excuse my wife-'
'No. Please don't.'

And so I was done. All I needed was a little reason, I guess. Another slice of perfection to move on to.


Monday, February 2, 2015

Book: Brainstorm

A blog called Brainstorm was nominated for, and won, Best Political Blog at BAKE last year (or was it the year before? They should win every year). With good reason. In addition to their prolific commentary on Kenya's consistently charged sociopolitical scene, they publish and distribute - for FREE! - every quarter (that's three months, to you guys who don't do lessons).

This year's is called Thoughts on Home. It's about...well, thoughts on home. What we think Home is. What the word means to us. What it means to others. Michael Onsando, one of the editors, introduces it thus:

Home is complicated.
It is one of those things that runs deep with everyone - and it shows. The
work in this book moves and breathes in different ways. In ways that can
only be reached looking inward. In ways that ask to be listened to - and to
be heard.
Home - where the heart is.
Listen, it beats.

This edition is shorter than the other editions have been, spanning only 36 pages, 5 stories. But these 5 stories are compelling enough in themselves. It's intelligence in a bite-sized (FREE!) piece. My favourites are the one by Cornell Ngare, called Mom's New Place, which begins:

I am an IDP. If you've lived in Kenya for any reasonable length of time, you don't need me to define that acronym.

It is the longest in the collection - maybe not the best written - but it certainly captures and holds your attention to the end. Because who doesn't want to know what happens after that sentence?

My other favourite is Michael Onsando's Going Home. He writes solemnly, reflectively, interspersed with bits of poetry that are enthralling as they are succinct - two qualities I love in poetry.

You have been told to become smaller.
That the things you expect,
no one can give.
That happiness is
two steps
a broken tricycle
6 missed birthdays
4 unwritten poems
and a lonely tear.
That desire is a cat
tame on the outside
but ferocious on the inside.
You must keep your pussy
in check.
Smaller still,
they insist.
You have folded yourself
to conceal,
(not your fault,
this is not your fault
they are not your fault)
You have followed the
rules, and now,
you sit;
steadily racking days into
the past
to die.

Go get it on the site. It's free and it is much more value than that. Then again, the best things in life are free, right?


On weird come ons

I had just delivered a book to a pretty lady and I was driving out of the parking lot. The guard came to swipe his card to let me out and decided to make conversation.

'So you are leaving now...thank you for visiting us.'
'Will you come back?'
'Uh...if you give a reason, I guess.' (in bad swa)

Now, maybe the whole give me a reason thing sounded seductive? Or insinuatory? Because he said
'If you give me your number will it be bad?'

I was like awwwww but But will it be bad? Like an evil to end all evils?

I nodded.
He said, 'Ok,' and let me through as I tried to temper my rejection with a 'Have a nice day!'