‘Safaricum’ spurts out the good stuff

Thank you Michael Joseph and staff -MJ, how about a moonwalk at the next AGM? - for guiding Safaricom to spectacular profits and an improved divi yield in a challenging environment. I’ve been waiting for the results ever since that evening when I realised just how expensive your network is for browsing gay porn on my netbook as I waited for George sitting in the carpark at Fogo Gaucho. I try not to be too antisocial so I didn’t jump on the restaurant’s wifi and gobble up their bandwith. A couple of times you’ve even left me hanging just when I was starting to enjoy taking matters into my own hands. So I hope you’ll appreciate this picture - your modem which beams to me those delightful filims, and a representation of the proverbial cash cow (here modeled by George’s piggy bank).

My patience has paid off - as they say it’s been good business doing pleasure with you. Which reminds me, I heard an analyst on the telly the other night speaking with a corrupted American twang advising that Safaricum is an accumulate and hold for generous medium term gains.

That’s music to some ears.

Even Charles Darwin can’t explain Quincy Timberlake

People, I really feel your confusion having to watch this trio once again hogging our airwaves. Many men have written, words inked in email-tears of anguish, to tell me they are in Esther-shock but I pleaded with them please don’t chop off your dicks because this is not a new phenomenon. The pain of disappointment does subside once you start dating other men as it happened to me years ago when I heard the news that Whitney was marrying Bobby.

I’ve also been really struggling to understand this Quincy Timberlake. Presidential aspirant Hellon seems harmless enough, in fact I think he’s been over metrosexualised. Just check out those long manicured surgeon’s fingers and the delicate baby curls, aaww, how sweet. Just what we want in a president because that’s how you can tell the country will be in good hands. As for Esther, well you can’t say she doesn’t look like she’s getting it good and regular from hubby Quincy also known as Zuma Wambita. I mean just because his brain isn’t working properly doesn’t mean his slim shady won’t stand up and do a real job. You can bet there’s a lot of nightly babbling wooowiii, wooowiii out of Mrs Timberlake, it’s written on her face the way her fringe is flourishing, and everyone knows it in their heart of hearts that she must be on to some seriously good zuma wam-beating it. So let’s just put jealousy to one side.

But Quincy as a person? He’s such a closed book perhaps because he‘s never opened one. And it’s painfully frustrating when he uses that language that only he speaks so fluently. I’ve tried my best to find a human who’ll teach me but to no avail. George is urging patience, he says come 2012 when the trio are in Statehouse, by a landslide, we’ll all get lessons because they’ll ask us over for sleepovers. We await in a state of anticipitalitis.

Mwangi delivers the goods (at least 250 gms) - final part

Continued from here:

Mwangi went up the ladders which I held up against the wall for him so that I could get a glimpse of his undercarriage, only out of curiosity as any good homosexual can attest. I did this innocently the way women steal glances at other hotter women at the beach even when they aren’t lesbian. But if you get caught loitering at the bottom of staircases acting suspiciously don’t quote me. From my furtive, drooling inspection I could tell he was packing at least a quarter kilo of raw sausage and a pair of nuts encased in a loose scrotal dolly bag. I then pretended to go back to my book but the jumbled words did not make sense although I trusted myself enough to know I would never succumb to a temptation which might jeopardise what I have with George. Mwangi was up and down a few times during which he was getting more sweaty and appetising like a mutura on a hot charcoal grill.

He then mixed some concrete and disappeared up on the roof for close to two hours during which time my ardour dampened, George came back from his shopping trip and Imelda started the dinner. When Mwangi started descending to announce he had the leak finally fixed, George was waiting expectantly because I’d told him there was an angel above. His eyes popped as I started to introduce them and George exclaimed to Mwangi imagine meeting you in our house and how have you been!! Yes, I stood in shock as they greeted each other like old friends. Apparently George knew Mwangi from when he used to go on Nairobi’s disjointed and unrewarding gay scene before he met me. What a small world it really is and phew thank heavens I didn’t try anything. I said thanks for fixing the leak and I’m confident it’s been a good repair. Mwangi said don’t worry if anything should go wrong he would be back at no extra cost. Then George came up with the idea that Mwangi should get showered and changed and join us for drinks and dinner, they needed to catch up. Mwangi didn’t need much convincing, so he went to the bathroom as we waited for a certain dinner guest.

You remember when I told you about my friend who was looking for a lover, specifically one with a bbc? Well, Ken was coming to dinner that night, he still hadn’t had much success with bagging himself a boyfriend but I tell you when he clapped his eyes on Mwangi who was all scrubbed up looking like a torero ready to slay a bull and seated to my left at the table, sparks flew like an exhaust pipe scrapping on tarmac. They were all over each other like a rash on a baby’s bottom from cot crap. That night, much later, Ken and Mwangi left together and I felt that they had both found what it is many people are searching for. Since then Mwangi has also been on the phone to George thrice just to say how happy they both are. We wish them well for the future.

My fellow Kenyans, why do you love to hurt with your words?

Recently the LGBIT community held a soiree at the National Museum to commemorate International Day Against Homophobia(IDAHO). The irony of this is that our local media is now frothing even more vile homophobia.

The Bible-thumping brigade, that had slept through a man slaughtering his five year old son, suddenly woke up claiming to be the Anointed Ones whose names are even written in the tablets of Moses. They thundered: ‘Homos, we-who-sin-not, have been sent from the Temple of Righteousness to supervise what you do in your bedrooms.’

Their faces were twisted in hatred and burning with a lust for violence. They all cried ah-men, ah-men when I shut the door and refused to let them in because I am an adult and it‘s no one‘s business whom I choose to love. They left a message to say they would be back later to inspect the sheets.

Many of these Kenyans were writing from Western capitals, where they are sojourned, over a delicious vente Mocha with one shot, iced, caramel sauce on the top and bottom, no whip, light on the ice, and 7 pumps of peppermint syrup about how more African they are and how they would fight tooth and nail until there were no more gay people left in Kenya.

I smiled when I heard this and just went back to my game of scrabble with Imelda because I remembered we had all been down this road before. Much ado about nothing.

Mwangi delivers the goods (at least 250 gms)

Let me tell you how we got sprinkled with magic last week. As I said earlier we had a leak up in the roof which was pouring a small but steady stream of water into all the buckets we could find. First guy up there was a bogus builder sent by a best friend (MICHAEL!!) who took two days and a fistful of shillings later announced he had the leak plugged. There had only been a pause in the torrential rains pounding these parts so of course that fix unraveled after he’d left. I got on the phone and spoke to Rasta, who is mummy’s trusted fixer and he said he’d send a very good fundi called Mwangi or Mwange, I didn’t catch the name initially, the next day. I said please send him without fail before upstairs turns into an indoor pond. As he hang up he added oddly in Kiswahili, utampenda sana (loosely translates to mean you’ll like him but I suspect he also wanted it to mean you’ll love him). Mmmm. Game on.

The next day when George was away in the afternoon picking up a leg of pork from the butchers, the guard from KK guards brought dairy milk chocolate- brown complexioned Mwangi to the veranda where I was re-reading again that book about great courage and heroism called Barefoot Soldier. I put the book down and Mwangi shook my hand as I instinctively checked him out. I saw right away that here was a very handsome man with a friendly confident face standing before me in a faded lumberjack shirt and black jeans clinching a physique full of delightful promise and he had the whitest smile as if he regularly used close up menthol chilli toothpaste. Imelda fetched him a mug of tea as I explained what the problem was. He said he’d been very busy fixing roofs around our area due to their flattish designs which don’t allow water to run off quickly enough. And I can tell you that the deluge which has drenched this land is something close to epic; I just hope that people are storing all this water. I watched Mwangi speak with his eyes dancing and a tantalizing tongue-tip darting the corners of his dark lips. I was thinking to myself where have they been hiding you from me…

I recovered my composure enough to ask Mwangi to come with me upstairs so he could see where the water was gushing through. I led the way and I could sense behind me he was taking in the nude art that I once bought from this gallery which lines up our stairs. When we got to the room there was so much tension between us and my gaydar was starting to beep beep beep, you know when you are being studied on so many levels - sexual, emotional, even nutritional potential (hehehe, bj, slurp, slurp) - then he said he was going up on the roof. He started to take off his shirt to change into his work overalls, so I excused myself and left the room with the door ajar before I could pass out and it would be Houston we have a problem. I waited in the corridor as he got changed where I accidentally voyeured a reflection of his magnificence on the cheval mirror. Meaty chest. Juicy ass. Succulent thighs. Fingerlicking delicious chicken. Luckily I got out of the way quickly before he caught me.

To be continued….

Love (Feel no shame, come get some)

Hello World! I knew there were so many ways to be in love even before I posted this dedication to the wonderful Lindsay. However that's not even the half of it. Truth is there’s enough love to go around if only we all open up our hearts but I don’t mean you should all become raving homos. Allow me to take very good care of that perversion. Years ago I was introduced to Anita Baker's music by ex-girlfriends who still remain much cherished friends. Mwaah, hey to you fabulous LO and MM, you know who you both are. Time for some more confessions - yes, I had many wonderful and beautiful girlfriends in the past - way before I acknowledged my persistent and explicit homosexuality . So, as you can see there’s enough deep and nondiscriminatory love to go all round. I hope you enjoy the vid, and have a great week ahead. Tomorrow I plan to tell all about what happened when a very hot and handsome repairman came to our house last week. xxx xxxx

When sleeping together is not about making any babies (with some extra sugar)

Someone wrote to ask me how two men can sleep intimately together. So I thought I’d share with you on our favorite sleeping position on those evenings when we are not doing it.

George likes to lie on his right side (facing away, I used to wonder why because he hasn’t got even a hint of halitosis and neither have I). I half-scoop him with my right forearm from behind, sort of midway up his back to clasp his left shoulder. I can only describe it like how a man places his arm on a woman’s back whilst leading in a ballroom dance but without stepping on delicate toes. Because George leans back to lie on this arm I usually wake up in the morning with that member partially numbed. I then slide my left arm under George’s, across his ribcage - like a pretend one-armed sideways Heimlich manoeuvre because he’s pulling me to him - to place my hand on the inside of his right shoulder where his stubbled-jaw rests for the night. Aaaahh, we sleep so closely together you wouldn’t get a bed bug in between but if there are any they can gladly have the other two-thirds of the mattress space.

Falling asleep like this we both feel equally contented and safe, purring through moonlit, twinkling Nairobi starry nights as the curtains are caressed by the fragrant air, whispers of moisture from our flooded garden. Thank you dear God for all the rain you've sent us. We lie in this lovers’ embrace, dreaming of a distant fairyland where gay cherub angels, gently strumming harp-strings to Michael Bolton's How Am I Supposed to Live Without You, float softly away on carpets of fluffy clouds to eternal paradise. (I know, I think I might have over-sugared it just a tiny bit but I'm seriously all loved-up at the moment, lol. Sorry there are no naughty pictures).

For a favorite girl called Lindsay

Sorry to have kept you waiting, I’ve been very busy making love

Time has flown by while Foreign Affairs Minister Wetangula and his posse of civil service mandarins were delicately finding the right tricks to cajole - successfully by the way, yippeee! - Dubai, to rescind that country’s earlier unfair visa rule for Kenyans. But at what cost still remains to be seen. When will people get it that Earth and all in it even Emirs are just God’s chattels? Meanwhile George and I seem to have discovered our second wind on this magical journey through life together. Our love and commitment to one another just gets stronger by the day, if the lust we’ve got for each other is something to go by. George has been with me at home on a week’s leave from work.

I hope that last sentence explains the silence on my part for the past week or so. You see, we’ve been at it constantly - sometimes thrice a day, delightfully ignoring that archaic Kenyan law which says gay sex is "carnal knowledge against the order of nature." So if you’ve spotted a middle-aged-without-the-spread, bespectacled and goateed male of suspect androgynous appearance, shaking it (many accuse me of being a Sugar-Daddy) and a younger, athletic dish of a stud with a Maasai Moran’s fluid spring to his step (would be George, wrongly fingered as the Toy Boy) wandering through a Village Market in the afternoons and you thought jealously to yourself, that pair is wearing a dazed-look of sexual satiation on the face like the pussycat that got the cream, you know what, you wouldn’t be too far off the mark…..heheheheee..