I take responsibility for all my actions (I'm sorry)

I finally escaped from the delectable black widow-clutches of Lavish on Wednesday morning because she had to leave for Kilifi. For the first time since those events I was a bag of nerves over breakfast thinking about George and my squalid actions of the last few days. She remarked are you always this grumpy in the morning even after you've had your sweeties? I don't know why but Lavish in broad daylight was already beginning to grate on me. I said 'excuse me if I'm not giving you my full undivided attention but I think my lust for you almost certainly lost me the only man I ever loved completely.' I remembered a line from "Good Girls" that song by Joe - why are all the good girls taken everytime. Lavish paused to put the glass of orange juice down and said tell me it wasn't all worth it because you were more than a willing participant. We were sitting downstairs at the Thorntree cafe looking out where they are extending the sidewalks further out to Kimathi Street. She continued, 'look at me and tell me you never want to see me again and I'll walk away.' I was staring at her breasts, now covered in a lavender crisp business shirt, where I'd rested my head the previous night. I felt nothing. But she knew me a little bit better to be confident that having binged on her juice I could never forget her easily. A tear rolled down my cheek as we embraced bye bye yet my crucifixion was only just starting.

When I got home it was mid morning, the sky was a hazy blue from all the Nairobi sunshine but my skin was cold. George was not in which was fine because i assumed he was away at work. Imelda looked at me with an accusing eye when she came to meet me in the hallway, I said I'm sorry pal for causing so much pain; she just nodded as she handed me an envelope from George. It was a Valentine's card with the love message crossed out. On the other face he had written 'To the love of my life, Tamaku', then: 'You have broken my heart in a million pieces with your cruelty. I've gone away to Eburru to be with Ken and Mwangi. Don't know when I'll be back. ' Signed, Yours Gee, and he had drawn a smiley of a sad face. I felt that dull, cutting pain where my heart should be. My near-perfect world was exploding around me and I had only myself to blame. Well, myself and the intoxicating charms of one Ms Lavish Mwanaisha Maingi (L2M for short). Mostly self-inflicted because she hadn't tied me to any bed.

I'll be a liar if I didn't confess to you that I also felt a deep sense of shame. I had let George down and people that I thought were my friends some whom I met through this blog instantly became hostile. It's no exaggeration that from the slew of emails received I have become the most detested Kenyan gay blogger. Someone even threatened to slash my penis and pour lemon juice on the cuts before cutting my balls off and stuffing them in my mouth! I was stymied to discover how many people think they know what's best for me, thanks for the concern btw. Later that afternoon I picked up myself from the floor and called George. We spoke for ten minutes but all I remember is I was sobbing like a baby saying sorry, so sorry honey. George on the other end was cool, his voice emotionless, not saying much just that he would be back when he was ready.

So I spent the rest of the week in a state of mourning and depression. Somehow I did manage to put in some long hours in a project that I'm working on although my heart wasn't in it. Saturday night just before midnight Lavish called me from Kilifi, she said I see you've been writing about us because she discovered this blog. She said you'll make people think I'm a heartless bitch but I don't care much for the opinions of strangers. Then she said to guess what colour panties she was wearing and I replied baby, whatever colour it is, it must be on fire but I don't feel like the phone-sex thingy tonight. She said wrong answer; I'm not wearing any now. I called to tell you I must have you for myself soon or I'll die. I said baby you won't die, but please, give me some space because I have many issues on my plate that need attending to at the moment. That night I unwisely drunk myself silly in a vain attempt to assuage my tormented soul and fall asleep.

George finally came back home early Sunday evening. We had spoken a few times more but I wasn't getting through to him the way I desperately wanted. I was still unforgiven and from his tone I sensed I could soon be forgotten. How foolish had I been and for what? I feared I had traded true love and security for lust and heady adoration that had left me feeling unfulfilled. I knew that George needed me (which I like) while with Lavish I would just be a trophy (soiled goods really) or a plaything at best (which I'm not used to). Sorry Lavish, but are you really a keeper? Am I not just another conquest, a notch on you bed post? After George had his shower and changed his clothes we sat in the patio silently enjoying the breeze. The air was heavy with the tension then he just cleared his throat and my heart stopped:

'Tam, it's over between us.'

Getting to know Tamaku

Ok, I’ve been blogging about my life now for close to two years but I still get emails asking me so many crazy questions. From - "how much money do you want me to send you" (enough is never enough, baby) to - "Hi Tamaku, I’m a really lovely girl if you have sex with me you’ll dump that George of yours so fast" (er...I don’t think so sweetie because sex is not all I have with George). So I thought I’d put a survey together and answer some questions hopefully people will get to know me a little bit better.

How often do you have sex?

With myself about four times a week but it’s not getting out of hand. Mostly due to just boredom and as a stress reliever. With boyfriend George less frequently. He says he wants to keep it special, blah, blah, blah. Sorry Gee, just kidding.

What’s your favourite condom flavour?

I don’t know, lol. I’ll have to ask my cock when I get home.

What’s the most sensual part of your body?

My brain when it's stimulated.

What’s your favourite car?

It has to be Land Rover Discovery. My dream car would be Porsche Panamera, the one pulling 500 horses. In ivory. I see stars and get hot flushes just imagining myself driving one. The best things in life ARE NOT FREE.

Are you a top or a bottom?

This question is intrusive and so unfair, fake survey! I don’t see you asking a girl whether she swallows or if she uses a strapon. Anyway I'll answer in the spirit of transparency. The usual position is top to bottom though I also do sideways. I hope that's cleared that little mystery then.

Have you ever been offered and accepted money/food/booze/ice-cream/drugs/shelter/socks for sex?

Yes, haven’t we all! It’s impossible to have sex 100% on your terms every time without sneaking some good old Rohypnol in their drinks. So sex is all about give and take. It’s also nice to be appreciated for a job well done, lol!

You come across as a very happy person. What makes you angry?

I am a happy, easy-going man. The sight of smiling Attorney-General 'Chubby Cheeks' Amos Wako makes my blood boil. I actually loathe the man. Where is the justice in this world? Also people who treat their staff like dirt get me very mad. Case in point that woman from Booksfirst.

When it comes to relationships would you say you are a player or do you get played?

I hate mind-games so I always put my cards on the table. I expect others to come clean as well, has worked for me so far.

Which celebrity would you like to have sex with?

Nick Cannon aka Mr Mariah Carey

Why?

He has a lovely smile and nice teeth which means he’s likely to be a good kisser - big, big plus with me. My fantasy would be to rub baby oil on him then blindfold and handcuff him to the bed and tease him with a feather see if he'll even remember her name. Mariah Who? Also something tells me that for Mariah to be with him, all her fame and fortune, he must be packing more than your bog standard in-the-back-garden cannon. She’s just sapping that baby juice out of him. What a waste!!!

Final word?

Accept the person you are before expecting others to accept you for who you are.


End of interview.

No Means Yes (Chopped and Screwed)

My life here in beautiful Kenya sometimes feels like a movie. You’ve met the main actors: George (boyfriend), Imelda (housekeeper) and Sheila (best female friend). Weeks ago Lavish made a cameo appearance. Well it looks like she wants to become a regular. This is an account of what happened to me yesterday:

I was in the garden just working on my laptop when I got a call from Lavish. I had spoken to her twice since our first meeting. So she calls me and says hi Tamaku, I’m in town can we please meet. I said what a lovely surprise; of course sweetie just let me know place and time. Lavish said come to the Exchange bar at Sarova Stanley today 4pm-ish. I said sounds super I’ll be there. I felt a strange tingling sensation and sweat down my spine, like excitement mixed with anticipation. Anyway, I finished the report I was writing and then had an extra long shower. I soaped while singing I’ve Never Been To Me by Charlene…Oh, I've been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run,Took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun, But I ran out of places and friendly faces, Because I had to be free, I've been to paradise but I've never been to me…..
My intuition was telling me to make an extra effort so I wore my vintage Diesel Jeans, my lucky pink Number 7 polo shirt from Hackett (sometimes I feel like a Brit, hehehe) and brown Hush Puppies from Bata. I over-splashed Tsar cologne on my chin and neck and also some drops on my crotch and I was good to go.

I got the car valet-parked at the Stanley and climbed up the stairs to the bar at a few minutes to 4. I saw Lavish seated at a table by the window looking out to Kenyatta Avenue. I walked up to her and she stood up to give me a hug. She was looking stunning in snow-white denims, I said wow you look spectacular who is it this time. She laughed like a teenage girl and said thanks Tamaku, you always appreciate what I’m wearing, it’s Guy Laroche. I sat down taking in the aura of Flowerbomb which I now know is her scent and the waitress came to our table. She asked what are you having, I said please bring me whatever madam is drinking which turned out to be a delicious Merlot. We talked with Lavish, she told me she was in town to see some people for business including me. I said I’ve been expecting you because I loved your company very much from last time. I was looking inside her brown eyes, she was talking with them code-blinking me you make me feel good and I like you a lot. I thought I must tell her what I’m about so I just told her after the first glass of wine please listen to me . She said what, what and I whispered I’m gay. Lavish was quiet for a minute looking out of the windows through the white sheer curtains then she turned to me and said I knew it was too good to be true. She told me as a successful career woman many men are very intimidated of her. I was thinking what’s wrong with my straight brothers because this is premium grade and she is crying out to be asked on a date.

After the second glass it was now about 5.30 pm so I said please let’s change venue. I was feeling slightly tipsy and my instincts were calling for the chase to begin. We left the Stanley and walked down Kimathi Street and round the corner to Mama Ngina Street. I said let’s go up the Porterhouse bar which is normally full of hoity-toity start-up lawyers. We entered the bar and the room went silent, Lavish has that effect on people and I’m not that bad a catch also, lol. I told Benson the barman, please get us two glasses of Merlot and we carried on drinking. Naughty thoughts started going through my mind sitting next to Lavish brushing thighs and feeling the vibes. After two hours she was licking her lips and telling me man, how about it? I said please let’s go with the flow, don’t rush it.

We left Porterhouse at about 9 and walked towards Hilton holding hands. George called me on my mobile and said where are you, I said I’m with that bird I told you about called Lavish and I’m taking her clubbing to Westlands. He said that’s cool, do what you have to do because I know you like her, I’ll be at home whatever time. Lavish and I got into a cab which dropped us off at Black Diamond. We entered the rooftop terrace and everyone was looking at Lavish because she looks like a supermodel and she made the other Nairobi lovelies look very ordinary. We carried on drinking until midnight. I was feeling peaked and my resolve had long been broken. I said to Lavish, I’m coming back to your hotel with you. She said yes I know you are. Muchiri, the cab guy picked us up and took us back to the Stanley. I was thinking with my dick - please be a good boy today and don’t let this mammy down. We went up the lift and into her exquisite suite. When we got inside she shut the door and then we kissed like virgins although we both know the game very well like La Liga pros.

My hands and lips were on auto-pilot finding rarely ventured routes. Lavish was moaning No, no, please Tamaku. I looked deep in her eyes and said I know baby, No means yes. So we did it, my love-plank didn’t let me down even though it’s been a long time with a woman. Of course I also durexed because that’s my religion and I care. When we got there, Lavish bizarrely said to me please baby tell me you’ll always love me unconditionally. I said honey you are ranked but that was sex and my situation right now is very sticky. So she said I understand but I saw tears in her eyes before we both fell asleep.

This morning I got up at 6, Lavish was still asleep. I put on my clothes quietly like a two-bit whore. I wrote on the pad at the desk ‘thanks; last night was heaven’, and tiptoed out of the room. I got the car back and drove home fast, not thinking of much. Luckily I found George had not left for work. He looked at me and said I know but I still love you. I said sorry baby and he said that’s OK but if it was a guy you’d be history.

So now I’m just here in the garden where yesterday started. Lavish called an hour ago, she said I want you to come see me in Mombasa next week. I said I’ll think about it and let you know. Somehow I feel like things might be getting out of control.

This is my confession

Last night I was home alone. George was away visiting parents and Imelda was on leave. After dinner I couldn't stand the utter loneliness. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my own company very much but sometimes you need to be with people. I didn't want to go out to bars because nothing worse than a lonely drunk. I called George to vent my frustrations and he understood. He said permission granted to seek human companionship for the night but on condition that you both sleep in the guestroom and absolutely no sex. Oh, and it can't be a guy you are dead if I find out. It has to be a girl!

So I got in the car and cruised to a deserted city centre. I saw her on the kerb across Standard Street opposite Trattoria. She was a leggy stunner in a tight halter top and tight short skirt carrying a denim jacket who didn’t look like she’d be a day past 21. It’s amazing how fast a British-made SUV in champagne draws them like flies to shit. She asked me are you looking for action, I said may be, please get in the car we talk. When she jumped in I said my name is Tamaku, she told me hello darling I'm Nicole and it will be 4500 shillings for the night your place or hotel. I said fine and started the drive back home. On the way we listened to some old music like Rick Astley - never gonna give you up and Automatic by Pointer Sisters - every word I intended to speak winds up locked in a circuitry. Nicole told me she was a second year student at the University of Nairobi who was only trying to survive in the big city. I told her I'm not judging because we all have to do stuff at one point or another.

When we got to our estate I could see she was wishing she'd asked for more money. I told her don't worry I don't want to have sex with you, I just need company for the night. I could tell she didn't believe me and some of you guys won't believe me either. Listen up: there's nothing wrong with my truncheon and if there was, which there isn’t, I'd have easily stopped at the late night chemist for some Viagra 100 mg, hahaha. It's performance-enhancing just like cheating but it always does the trick (pun unintended).

I pulled up at our gate and the askari from KK Guards very briefly looked inside the car in shock. He knows I'm gay from how I am with George so he looked at Nicole sitting next to me looking all dolled up like a girl fulani ready for business. We got inside the house and I took her jacket, Nicole said wow what a place you have here, I said thanks and please feel at home. I went to get drinks, Nicole wanted a brandy and I had a chilled Tusker malt lager. Then I turned to look at her.

Let me say that I met many beautiful women in my life so I can safely say that Nicole was an 8.5. Her large soft eyes told me she didn't have much mileage on the clock. She told me she was also a single mum. I told her I'm a fag who lives with a man but he's away for the night. She said no way, I couldn't tell but I won’t let you do me in the butt. I said, ‘no Nicole I told you no sex, not even kinky sex.’

We soon started dancing; I even showed Nicole my dodgy moonwalk to Shalamar's Night to Remember. She laughed at me and said I never met a client as nutty and kind as you. I said right now I'm not a client I'm just a person but I'll give you the money we agreed on. Then we cuddled on the sofa listening to some R Kelly. She felt all soft and vulnerable when we were not talking just listening to slow jams.

Temperatures started rising so I got up and said let's go to the room and please bring your drink with you. Nicole followed me to the downstairs guestroom. I went to run the bath with lots of bubblebath and took off all my clothes. When I was in the bath Nicole appeared at the door and asked can I join you, I answered if you like. She undressed and got in the bath and I just held her in my arms. We stayed for so long we almost fell asleep and the water was getting cold. By the way never have a hot bath alone when you've been drinking - it can be lethal. When we got out I wrapped us both in a large towel and dried her. Nicole looked up my face and asked why are you doing this to me. I said I don't know. I fetched her a spare set of pyjamas, her petite frame was floating in them, lol. I put on some shorts and we sat by the window drinking her brandy.

After about an hour we got in bed. Again Nicole asked don't you find me attractive; I said you are a very beautiful and intelligent woman now go to sleep. When I turned off the lights I spooned Nicole and she started sobbing telling me things that have happened in her short life. I rubbed her chest gently saying I'm so sorry baby, it will be ok. I was thinking evil bastards.

Early this morning I got up and made breakfast for us. We shared a fried duck egg, sausages and Kenylon baked beans. When Nicole went to have a shower I called George and told him everything that I've told you. He said I believe you, now get that girl out of our house I'm on my way back. So I gave Nicole the cash and called her a cab. I declined to give her my number because I said it would just complicate things.

That's my confession.

Saturday

I was at the Exchange Bar early Saturday night waiting for my pimp and drug dealer. I also have a forked tongue and tufts of hair on my fingernails, lol! I was actually waiting for none other than my only addiction which is George. Some think it should be Cristiano Ronaldo in his wildfire pink soccer boots but they don't know what I know. I had a couple of Tusker malt lagers and got served complimentary crisps and nuts. I even took a picture that I’ll show you later because my internet connection today is a complete joke. There are few bars in Nairobi that can match the cosy ambiance of the Exchange in the evenings.

While I was waiting for the prince I met a Kenyan goddess - a lady of breathtaking beauty. She really is a living caramel doll. She was also sitting at the bar looking resplendent in signature Penny Winter linens and beaded sandals made from old tires. By the way check out Penny’s 2010 Collection if you want to get the full picture. I took my chance and said hey lady do you come here often, I’m Tamaku, when does your centerfold come out or something lame like that. She tossed back her head of beautiful thick abuja braids laughing. She said I like you already 'My name is Lavish' - you heard right L*A*V*I*S*H. Not Mary or Sue or Charity or Crystal but Lavish. Think of the pornstar that even granny would approve. She told me I'm just waiting for somebody. I answered aren't we all. She handed me a business card which says she heads a company in Mombasa but she was down in Nairobi for meetings etcetera, etcetera. I was captivated by her eloquence, poise, elegance and schmaglitization which is a word I made up just for Lavish because God broke the mould once He'd baked her.

After talking for about an hour Lavish told me she felt like we had a connection, I said that's even without trying - I also feel you. She then gave me her real mobie number. Friends, my dream is to fly over the rainbow so high was also playing in my head as we chatted. The bar pianist was trying to tap something mellow (rather badly, sorry) away in the background. Just as we were getting down to opening up on our secrets, George rang me to say baby come downstairs now, because he didn't want to come up. When I went to pay the bill, Lavish said please allow me so I kissed her on the cheeks - thanks, bye-bye I'll definitely see you soon honey. Just to cap it all that’s when I noticed she was wearing Flowerbomb by Viktor & Rolf. Power. Enchanting. Hot. Very Lavish.

So George and I drove to Westlands, we stopped at the club Black Diamond. Beautiful Nairobians had come out to play, you'd never see them during the day because the sun is too hot for those wisps of a delicate disposition. Rugged expatriate men hovering around sophisticated barely-legal black girls who love chain-smoking Embassy Lights. Or butch black boys strutting all over the place with their white boyfriends watching football on the TV screens while sipping lager from bottles pretending to be straight. It's a surreal hedonist's world fueled by snobbery and money. Lots of cash just swirling in a pot owned by a select few. That's Nairobi's playground for you. However Monaco it most definitely is not because our version is just cheap veneer. Scratch the surface and most posers here are but one paycheck away from financial devastation. I can see through you, hahaha!

We quickly both got bored of the fakery, sadness and pointlessness of it all after an hour or so. Usual drill, one drink at the rooftop terrace of Black Diamond which was kicking then we decamped a notch downmarket next door to Red Tape and finally finished across the road at Rezorus for a sip. Then we both decided to call it a night and go home when Neyo started singing So Sick -Do do do do do do do-do - because we never get sick of love songs. We weren't feeling tired so we cuddled each other in bed watching the movie that questioned the way I think. I'll tell you all about it soon.

No swimming with piranha

A couple of fridays ago George and I went for evening drinks at the Hilton's Jockey Bar. We also shared complementary roasted peanuts for both our nuts which is important for libido and stamina. Not too many salted nuts though because you might have a heart attack. I’ll let you decide, studhood or an early grave. As the evening wore on George was looking even more deserving of a good tickle, he's a generous lover and good ex-cop because he only had two bottles of chilled White Cap lager. I didn't want to let the side down and I wasn't driving so I downed a mini forest of Tuskers but very, very reshponshibly because they were getting planted at over 300 shillings plus taxes each. Ouch.

Soon we met the inevitable ma-gals, I say ma-gals because they were working girls (prostitutes is too entry-level). They didn't look too appetising but one man's poison may be another's meat. I should confess now that sometimes I think I could backslide and make an exception for the right chick only if we clicked on a sensuality level (only true freaks will understand) and if said candidate is an exceptional kisser. But not this sleazy clock-watching pair, I wouldn't screw them with your dick for money even though the recent census says the population of Kenyan women is almost equal to that of men. Also it tends to rain heavily in Nairobi especially when you've been drinking one must always pack a durex raincoat in the wallet it may be what saves your life in a storm. Many punters had their twelve minutes of fun and now they pray to God to just see another sunrise. Boys na girls, munanifeel?

I telescoped a benign but tipsy gaze on them just in case they wanted to steal my mano George but they can't give him the sugar that he craves. One of the other girls said hello handsome when she passed by us going to the loo, I answered 'hi sunshine' but she turned back and said I wasn't speaking to you - I was speaking to your friend. I was shocked because she looked like she wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thing is George didn't even look up, he's very allergic to certain women. I also find girls who make the first move as appealing as a Somali pirate, I don't know why. When I left the bar counter to go for a smoke at the poolside area a floor above, I mapped everyone's drinks' position to make sure no one was encroaching on my territory.

Eventually the women realised we were not immediate fodder laced with molasses because George had locked the palm of his hand on my knee and I was looking totally owned. Imelda may have had a point. So we decided to have innocent fun with Betty and Terry, who skillfully milked 3 drinks each from us of frontera chilean merlot wine expertly served by barman James. Betty, the one reeking fake Dior Addict Shine and stale dishwater breathe, sneakily showing the collar of a purple thong (so 90's) and desperately in need of manicure overhaul, told me she lives at Githurai 45 and said she wanted me to be a daddy for 5000 shillings for 2 shots bei ya kuongea (negotiable) at her digs. However breakfast, toothpaste and hot shower extra. And no early morning game drive which was the deal breaker. Cheap like lust is expensive, so I said sounds fab but no cigar babygal but here is a little something for you and your friend, enjoy yourselves - words even Bill Clinton couldn't bring himself to say to that woman. Being decent, gay men without firearms we declined to squeeze the melons or pinch their femme butts and left for home to start what we never like to finish.

On the way home we sang along to the CD with TLC's Red Light Special turned up loud...baby it's yours, all yours if you want it tonight. You can see the video here and fill in the blanks about what we did when we got home, lol. George says I'm more than a handful when I've had a drink. Guilty as charged.

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.

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….

Our father who hurt in heaven (Easter Special)

As I watched the news on the latest abuse scandals engulfing the Catholic Church, I was reminded of an incident I witnessed years ago involving a priest from that boarding school where I also learned how to conceal a weapon. Father John D’anonimasi lived in a flat attached to our boarding house and it was the duty of students to clean his flat on Sunday mornings before Mass because we were constantly getting told that the path of duty was the way to glory (just a ploy to exploit children if you ask me now)

One dewy morning when my turn came and being the keen prayerful lad that I was, I found myself about half an hour early trotting along to Father’s flat. When I got to the door I knocked softly and then noticed that it wasn’t completely shut. I didn’t think anything of it as I let myself quietly in. That’s when I saw the sight that refuses to leave me even now two decades later. Through a mirror in the hallway I spied Father John – who would be saying Mass in just over an hour’s time – standing buck naked, hairy back to me and facing the window with a wtf-is-that-up-his-arse? He was driving the blue marker pen that we used to write announcements on the house noticeboard eewww up and down where it’s dark because the sun never shines aka da butt. And his man boobies had some metallic clamps on the nips weighing them down ouch, ouch but I hear that it’s more about pleasure than pain, hahaha. All I could think of was that must hurt like hell especially the sharp bits of the marker but he was making sounds like he was in heaven already. I froze momentarily and then tiptoed out of there but not before I also snapped an eyeful of balls projected on the wall as shadows the size of large oranges. He hadn’t seen me and to be fair it wasn’t as if I’d caught him perming his eyelashes but I still think the Church needs to revisit the issue of celibacy and whether it’s even relevant.

Now sit back, get the popcorn, keep the tissues close at hand and let’s wait to see what outlandish story Denis shares with us about three nuns, a monk and a strap-on. By the way Denis also has a column here.

Please forgive me father for sometimes I know not what I do when I blog.....Happy Easter folks.



(Pic is of a marker pen that I use on my whiteboard, NOWHERE ELSE ok, lol)

My untamed youth

I took this shot of downtown Nairobi on my way from a friend’s office on Commerce House 5th floor, Moi Avenue. That’s the building that housed Florida 2000 nightclub, that wonderful den of iniquity. Actually last time I was in F2, Flonje as a true aficionado calls it, was at least 18 years ago. But as you can see this time I was in the vicinity during the day, mid-afternoon to be exact.

Years and years ago when I was a still a chicken (14-16 years old) I was a regular fixture at the nightclub even during school nights ogling at the dancers (male and female, all amazing) and their super-toned bodies. Those were the days frittering away my parents’ cash (money that I could do with right now, by the way) cavorting with hookers, drinking beer and eating pilau with kachumbari downstairs outside the ART shop with pimps, drug dealers and taxi drivers. All this while the parents, my siblings and most normal people slept away…

Yes, there was a time when Nairobi was a safe place to walk at all hours, except on occasion when I encountered policemen with dogs on patrol around that dodgy zone behind KCB Kencom House as I club-hopped from F2 to Tamango (before it was called Visions) on Kimathi Street at 3 am. Always the same script wanting to arrest me on trumped-up drunk and disorderly or loitering charges unless I greased their palms with some chai or tea. I wish I'd go back to those days because I'd be carrying a flask of hot tea for such encounters . Luckily an accident of birth meant I bore my famous grandfather’s name whose mere mention I’d learned early in life could open the right doors wide and the cops normally ended up escorting me to the other club and even gave a little salute as I trotted up the steps for part 2. I guess I was a corrupt little Kenyan, just like most of the others back then, lol! I was also a bit of a brat...

Back to F2 and its mock zebra-skin carpet which I understand nowadays even has a strip club next door. Some nights I’d forget myself only to crawl out of the nightclub in the morning to dazzling daylight and bustling streets. My parents usually left the house for work before we got up, so I’d just go home on the bus and sleep the booze and other substances off before getting up to go back to town to pick up my Enduro trail bike where I’d left it unchained outside F2 because I didn’t want to get myself killed riding under the influence. In fact how I passed my exams I’ll never know because my teachers often wrote in my report card, ‘shows great potential and should go far but is easily distracted’. At least I never missed a scouts overnight camping trip and I never ever went to school pissed….hahahahaa

I also learned the valuable art of keeping people sweet (always smile whatever the situation and never say a bad word behind someone’s back) so the servants and siblings even covered for me. Of course I forged dad’s signature on absence letters to school and one-finger typed these out on mummy’s old manual Olivetti for authenticity. That soon unraveled through a painful ordeal which is a story for another day. Oh, the folly of youth but I was having too much fun reducing my life expectancy by at least 10 years while experimenting with more stuff than many people fit into a lifetime. I count myself very lucky to have escaped unscathed because I quickly got bored and grew up super fast and just managed to get my act together. By the time my friends from school were discovering nightclubs I had that part well and truly behind me. One of these days I might even tell you about my graduation to the massage parlour ‘phase’ with the ‘extras’, if you’re as nice as you usually are.

Sorry about the pic by the way, not being top notch, it’s taken using my iphone’s measly 2 mp camera. I damaged my other camera recently when I dropped it on the bathroom floor (don’t ask) and I can’t seem to get anyone to fix it. I’m not shy, if anyone has a spare slr feel free to swing it my way and I’ll take some interesting shots just for you. Yes you big, big boy there in the tight jeans and nice butt. Eeww, that sounds so creepy.. lol!

The Beautiful Game and understanding the offside rule

Last Sunday George and I got invited by our Nigerian neighbour Theo to watch the televised final of the African Cup of Nations final at his house. I was rooting for Ghana because I like the way their kit showed off their well-toned physiques and the contrast of the white on the ebony was just pure gay heaven. George came along for the football (I’m also a fan of sorts) while Theo was cheering on Egypt because he was still holding a grudge following the semi-final defeat his countrymen suffrered at the hands of the Ghanaians.

So we drank me brodah Theo’s booze (lots of it, remember I don’t have to get up and go anywhere these days) and gorged ourselves on among other delights boiled quail eggs (from that lady doctor over in Lavington). I need to get off my fat ass and make better use of my membership at Parklands Sports Club to get back in shape like the hottie I aspire to be. Incidentally Theo’s mid-thirties, handsome in an African Forrest-Gump sort of way, athletic and a scientist who lives alone with two cats in a beautiful bungalow. Just the kind of guy you shouldn’t introduce to your boyfriend because you should keep him all to yourself, lol. There are some things about Theo that scream iko matata hapo mbele (trouble lies ahead). It was the first time we’ve been to his place, we normally meet while taking walks in the evening and just wave. We both assumed that Theo was straight but after an hour in his house I set my gay-o-meter to alert mode.

Here’s the evidence that set those alarm bells ringing:

- Straight alpha-male ( Theo) in lush dreadlocks invites two male neighbours who live together and are obviously a couple (in love) to his house to watch a game of football. Unfair home advantage springs to mind.

- Straight man then sprawls on the floor of immaculate home drinking lots of lovely alcohol, moisturised footballer-legs wide apart (slut) wearing only a tiny pair of mauve Ralph Lauren shorts (displaying what looks like a yummy overstuffed wrap-sandwich), fingers lazily stroking away silky navel pubes while flaunting naked tight six-pack abs (who does he think he is, Tyrese? Why‘s he gonna act like that?)

- Straight man’s pumped man titties on show are just crying out to be tweaked as he lies on that super-soft luxurious sheepskin made from at least three innocent Molo lambs (poser).

- Straight man arranges napkins on rustic teak coffee table in the rose fold.

I was thinking wishing, is this guy not gay because from what I could see he was Interpol’s description of hot Nigerian man-stealer called Theo ( a love-god’s name to boot, tsk..tsk) but I might have been offside.

I kept a beady eye on Theo whenever he rolled side to side on the rug as he stretched a pedicured foot playfully catching George’s calf with a ’free-kick’ (surely a bookable offence) every time the ref blew the whistle…..like he himself wanted to blow something else....puhleeze!!

The au pair who loved me (without those irritating subtitles)

Three years ago I stayed with my best friend Mike in Thigiri for two months while our house was getting renovated. I was ensconced at the lavish poolside guest suite at the back of the main house separated from the domestic servant quarters by a large cabro-paved courtyard.

Mike’s two angelic offspring are my cherished godchildren and at the time they had an au pair, a young woman from a neighbouring French-speaking country. Mike and Zawadi just wanted their kids to get a head start in life from speaking a foreign language. The au pair’s name was Brigitte and she used to sleep in the domestic servants’ quarters 20 metres or so from my suite.

One breezy night I was startled by an urgent tapping on the bedroom window to spy Brigitte standing outside in the leafy shadows. I thought she looked petrified so I said come to the door and then I got out of the cosy warm bed in my pyjamas after I deftly shut my proscribed-in-Kenya gay porn mag and slipped it under the mattress. When she came to the door I saw Brigitte only had on a deliciously flimsy lavender-coloured see-through nightie more like a mini-camisole and nothing else under. And I mean nothing. Picture that sight because it really happened but then I thought, wait a minute, am I imagining things but I wasn’t imagining because she was there in the flesh and I hadn’t had a drink (hard for some to believe but true). I asked her what’s the matter and she said she was so afraid to sleep in her room alone because she’d eyed a monster spider careening under her bed.

Now, I totally understand the fear of arachnids and other creepy crawlies so I caught her arm said you better come inside quickly and get out of harm’s way. I closed the door and said I’ll go wake Mike and ask him what to do but she sshh-shhed me and whispered hoarsely (excuse me but I’ll do my best to do the accent):

‘No need to coll Mr Mike, Tamakuh. Of al’ ze men I’ve met since I come to Kenyah, therez sam-sing spécial that…how do you say?….. ooo- la- la….draws me like a magnet to you….aaahh. Me and you…we spend ze night togezzer and no ozer personne needs to know I promesse, non?’

So flattering these French-accented lovelies, but oh so, so unfair. Why, why, why knock on the wrong door? Why would it not have been a monsieur kneeling before me asking me about suckin ze kok..

She was standing right up close her eyes flickering wildly like fireflies and I was gulping the night air ogling her goodies. I sink ze fear of ze spider and ze cold July night had made ze nipples stand all sharp and pointy like…

That’s when the penny dropped. But you know me I always do as I’m telled (new English word, lol!)and don’t like to disappoint anyone, least of all damsels in disdress, so I said it’s a very generous offer but not here and not tonight my dear. If you like you can have ze warm bed and I’ll sleep on ze couch. This is what we did until the next morning when I woke up to find she’d gone.

Later that day I called the house from the office to speak to Brigitte. I told her she was absolutely gorgeous but I didn’t think anything should happen between the two of us because of too many complications but I was happy for us to remain friends. Brigitte was taking none of it lying down, she asked me sweetly why not, could we not be friends with benefeets or what you call in English buck fuddies? (opps there’s a spoonerism just for you!) I said I’ve thought long and hard (lies) - but I don’t want to use you and end up hurting your feelings (trues)…I remember also using other words like ‘respect’, 'frogs and princes' and ‘commitment’…blah blah blah. After that we shook hands mentally and agreed to just be friends.

It all turned out well in the end. Brigitte soon met up with one of her compatriots who swept her off her feet in a Mills and Boon with violins-in-the-background romance style. Last year they went back home and now I’m invited to the Land of a Thousand Hills for their wedding later this year.

I’m happy that we were able to develop and maintain such a wonderful friendship to this day.

Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?

A long time ago, around the time that Trust Bank went under with our terminally ill neighbour’s life savings, I used to be flat mates with a lovely young lady from somewhere down south. She was a stunning black beauty (a deep-black gem a kind rarely seen in Kenya those days).

One day she said to me, ‘Tam, I’m sexually and emotionally starved, I need a boyfriend. Why do the ‘half-caste’ girls have all the nice guys?’ Fact is some black Nairobians equate biracial (aka ‘.5’ or ‘pointi’) with superior social and economic status placing them somewhere in between White and Asian people. These snobs, usually wearing emerald-colored contact lenses, like posing in roach-infested nightclubs combing tobacco-stained fingertips through the tangled blonde weaves sewn on their heads. I replied in a lisp because I used to wear teeth braces back then: ‘Join the queue thithta. I know how you feel because I too desperately need a boyfriend but any caste will do.’ Anyway deep in her mind she was convinced that the reason she didn’t have a steady guy was because she was pitch-dark in complexion. You’ll be amazed the number of people who have self-image issues.

So Janice went out and bought some skin lightening creams which came in yellow tubes, it’s not legal to sell them any more. I said please do be careful you don’t need that poison, you really look amazing just the way God made you, however if you must then don’t leave the tubes lying around in the bathroom I might confuse them for that cream I use to treat my piles. Her mind was made up to attempt to dilute her blackness and nothing would stop her. Well, the results in a few short months were extreme. Soon she looked yellow all over even difficult to ‘treat’ areas like knuckles, knees, ankles, and elbows. She felt vindicated when she shortly hooked herself a nice guy who loved to show off his light-skinned catch.

One Saturday night we were all at the flat jus’ chillaxin’, too broke to go anywhere listening to Musical Youth, ‘how does it feel when you’ve got no food?’ when the boyfriend chanced on a photograph of a younger ‘old’ Janice in the drawer where we used to hide our stash of weed (highly illegal in Kenya make sure you never get caught or they’ll make an example of you unless you have friends in high places – lol!). He asked aloud, ‘Who is this?’ Janice looked spooked but she recovered quickly and lied: ‘It’s my cuzin from bek home.’ The boyfriend looked at the picture again and said, ‘Your cousin is one deadly chick’ but he didn’t mean she had chlamydia (now that's deadly) that’s just the way we used to talk then. Then we carried on passing the spliff on the left hand side.

A year later I was overjoyed to learn they were expecting a baby. When baby Tandy finally arrived she was an original dark copy of her mother. 100% African.

Sting in the tail is that the boyfriend left them because he felt cheated to discover that he had been dating 'local' all along....

How to conceal a weapon

Back in school I used to daydream a lot, especially during lazy Thursday afternoons staring outside at the grassed football pitches and beyond when we had double Geography. In my mid-teens more than 98% of these retreats into my own world were sexual in content the other 2% being about food. Not much has changed since, just the food replaced with booze. And I was not alone. In boys’ boarding schools MUCH time is spent thinking about sex, sex and more sex. Just ask those who do the laundry. Most boys myself included spent the afternoons drifting in and out of a state of blissful sexual intoxication, if you’d looked under the desks you’d be poked in the eye by the numerous painful boners threatening to topple the desks over. Back then that was the main reason boys had that glazed over look in class. These days teachers need to look out for glue sniffing and mobile facebook. The good ol’ days, aaahh.

I was nearly caught out one such afternoon during Miss Ruth’s class. She was a youngish beauty with a body that made it naked into many of my classmates’ bedtime fantasies. Many boys turned out A-grades in Geography hoping madly that they would be rewarded with a cup and tinker of her double C bells. On this afternoon I was dreaming about Dan our goalie who I’d recently discovered also liked ball play of a very different kind. Anyway Miss Ruth interrupted me out of my teenporn dreamland by the window: ‘Tamaku, would you come to the front of the class and present on the effects of rural-urban migration on African cities’.

I wouldn’t because I was wooden down there. I’d done my homework on demographics and could talk for days but if I stood up now Miss and the rest of the class would see the tent in my trousers. So I hurt Miss Ruth’s feelings because I was one of her favourites and shocked everyone else when I said, ‘No Miss, you can ask someone else I’m feeling rather tired today’ – which was the gross misconduct of high school but she let me off on account of my previous unblemished record. I also suspect that she realised that beneath an insolent male teenager might lie a throbbing head.

From that day on I learnt how to park my tool so that an erection did not turn into a wardrobe malfunction (I wear to the left, facing north-east when in y-fronts). Also I find a blazer buttoned up takes care of these embarrassing indiscretions. That’s the only reason why young hot black studs love their baggy jeans and why racist policemen who are closet gays love to stop them for searches...

Confessions of a gay Kenyan student

“There was this older student who singled me out for bullying when I joined a leading secondary school some years back. John, a prefect of my private boarding house was muscular and quite handsome in a rugged way but he started picking on me the day I started. The abuse was mainly verbal insults and sometimes physical (slaps and kicks), generally making my life a misery.

One early morning I caught John peeping at me from the next cubicle as I took a shower. He had that hungry look in his eyes, the sound of slapping as he soaped himself vigorously up and down. I see that look even today in some older men who lurk in the bars here in Nairobi sipping warm lager from the bottle as they ogle at younger men from dimly lit alcoves. That’s when I decided to teach John a lesson.

Days later on a Saturday evening John came to me in the common room as we watched TV after supper and whispered hoarsely, ‘Hey you, I’ve got a half bottle of vodo, come see me in my room after lights out.’ I knew what he wanted and he was taking a big risk – and not just with the alcohol. He looked so pathetic and that’s when it dawned on me that I had the upper hand so I whispered back to him: ‘I’ll be busy scrubbing my feet as my toes are itching so bad, I think I’ve got athlete’s foot. After that I’ll have my mug of bournvita with milk and then go to bed.’ I’m so busy galfriend. All these years later I still delight to recall his face crushed in disappointment.

The bullying stopped then and John spent the rest of the term chasing after me like a puppy. I kept him keen with my choirboy smile, a dose of slow sleepy eyes and the occasional flash of my toned teen cakes in the showers pretending to drop and then slowly pick up my soap when it was just the two of us. It got ridiculous when he started writing me love notes and leaving them under my pillow in the dormitory (a conundrum for 'dirty room'). Then one evening before we closed for the holidays when he caught me flicking through a much-thumbed copy of Tits & Clits that the cook had lent to my friend Martin, I let John blow me. I’ve never been a heartless monster, I do my bit for charity and I didn’t want him to do something reckless that would see him get expelled that’s why I gave in.

So on that moonless March evening John, Senior Prefect and Rugby Captain went on his knees on the cobbled walkway behind the physics lab and finished me off. All I remember is watching him slavering like a rabid dog on a hot day in Nanyuki. So desperately heartbreaking.”


As told to Tamaku, names changed to protect the guilty now married with kids.