I have Erectile Dysfunction;
I am made in the image of God;
Ergo, God has Erectile Dysfunction.
Now Ivory Tower philosophers will call this syllogism a fallacy of the nyenyenye middle term or some related bull crap, but me; pseudo-intellectual me, I call that the fallacy of the wrong middle finger. I mean, I have told you before that I can put sex on a pedestal or up a maple tree but I cannot seem able to put it up a willing pussy (or anus) where it belongs.
Story of my sex life! As most of you are always looking for some neat law to crystallise my sexual inclinations into, I suggest we try Sod’s Law.
Picture this: Marooned on an island, 69 degrees Nowhere South Nowhere of the Statue of Liberty, you would think that Ms. Sexus Tourista Americana would yell Mayday!Mayday! Hardly. She screamed: Dakimu! Dakimu! Dakimu for those still living sans a formal (or coital) introduction is that gismo otherwise referred to as The Potashian Male Member.
Ms. Americana’s Noble arse called out for Savage sodomy. She lifted her arse higher than the fellows down at the Main Street Mosque her twanging yell drowning out the calls of every Muezzin from Shela to Kipungani.
While many islanders had left the islands on pilgrimage, Ms. American had come here. She had come to pay tribute to the object of her highest desire. She that was a Literary Dick Collector had finally reached her Mecca. She had found the Holy Grail; the mythical dick of the Kenyan Blogosphere- Dakimu! Ms. Americana prostrated herself beneath the Potashian prostate (and related organs).
Behold Anus Americanus- tighter than the mainsail of Nassir’s dhow in full wind- presented to that Noble Savage Dakimu. And thus it came to pass as was written in the Holy Blog:
“From the barbarous North;
Winged serpents brought forth;
Travellers with mouths wide open;
Pudenda flung wider even;
Garishly tanned maws;
Gold coin and tablets (of ecstasy) on their claws;
All their trash with no winnowing;
Down here Sucking and then swallowing;
On African sunsets and the sands of Lamu:
They all live to honour ‘Kimu.”
But all that shivers is not cold; all that is hyped is not ripe and Dakimu is nothing more than stuffed tripe.
Nasal twangs of anticipation: Oh my God, this will be awesome!
Readership what if you went to heaven and found the throne room empty, would you genuflect and wait for a higher revelation? What if you went to Africa and realised that a dick by any other colour would still shag the same? Or worse if you were to learn that Africa needed more Viagra than mosquito nets, would you sit and play with yourself?
In truth you wouldn’t have to because in the Heart of Darkness a mystery and or a Hard on always lie around the corner. To end an African sex story in silence, then would be premature (ejaculation). It would wrongly suggest that orgasms don’t live here anymore or that Karen Blixen died of Syphilis that she contracted while playing with herself. Please!
So my horny people, to avoid bullshitting the efforts of my good friends at The Kenya Sex Tourism Board, allow me to employ a time honoured literary device to tantalise your vanilla clogged taste buds with chocolate flavoured ejaculate. The device I will use is referred to as Deux ex Machina but since God is still not taking my calls I will settle for my upgrade called Sex ex Machina.
Arse will be long suntanned before Dick can splash her with some of that Chromosome X Body (fluid) Lotion. Press on Mr. Dakimu, Kenya’s dick Economy doesn’t need any more bad press. You know, sex tourism thrives on word of mouth. Yeah, give her a mouthful! Tourists shag and tell and because of your faults next season we might as well be fucking our right hands- for fucking free!
Get a grip Potash… on the tourist’s arse, silly, not your dick!
The day and possibly Lamu’s sex tourism industry was saved by Hassan. Hassan the cocks.. er… coxswain extraordinaire and Beach Boy* of insurmountable aesthetic appeal. Hassan a Mandingo warrior with dreadlocks hennaed right down to the pubis. Hassan who could come in Flemish or whatever other fringe European tongue that wrapped itself around his dick. Hassan a.k.a James Njogu Gitau. (Moral: For money, a Kikuyu is a good shag; for love, a Kikuyu will have another beer and sit there scratching his balls like a cartoon husband.)
Hassan had landed at Kipungani beach at 0000hrs Crotch Time. In Lamu, every time is Crotch Time; either you clutch it or you miss it- well, until the next boat lands at the jetty laden with Nordic women, as Aryan as Hitler’s dream, hell bent on living out his nightmare of miscegenation.
Hassan had sold a boat ride to a clump of antiquated German ladies- must have been World War II widows- but not managed to sell himself. A little earlier, they would have killed each other to spend the rest of their menopausal years with him, but now after spending three weeks with Euro- starved beach boys all that these nice ladies wanted was a quiet place to stuff themselves with douche, suppositories and double doses of Brufen and valium to still the maddening rage of arthritis scorned. (Yeah, hell hath no fury like arthritis scorned so take only a hot water bottle and reminisces to bed tonight, old girl!)
Once thwarted but ever cocksure or rather his cock sure of getting laid and getting paid, Hassan hit the beach- enticingly choc blocked with American pussy- like it was Pearl Harbour and he was here with his canon balls ready to blow them off to Come-land. With uncondomed (Kamikaze?) bravado he staked out the shoreline and all the while screaming the Beach Boy Regimental Motto: It is not over till the white lady comes (back with dollars!)
His chest was bare and his wee pants had long given up on the elephantine task of reigning in a savage in pursuit of ivory (hued cunt). A savage created in the image of Shaka’s assegai, at least in its lust for white blood; honed for battle with later day Imperialists and their newfangled Scramble for Africa… or is it Scramble for African Dick, now?
Now that I have you by the pussy hairs Ms. Ardent Fan, it is time to lunge at you with my new found phallus: To Be Continued! How do you like that now? When I said I had Erectile Dysfunction, I meant that of the Literary variety…. Nyenyenye boo boo!
*In the event of my cruel death and posthumous infamy, I can foresee a mercenary publisher putting out a title: The Pseudo-Intellectual Goes to Lamu. This will contain my quasi-scientific explorations of the Lamu Archipelago and will include my inebriate study of Beach Boy culture and the seminal-ahem- Freudian Analysis of the Wakalapi Tribes People of Southern Lamu. In the meantime, this blog can only promise snippets and anecdotes from the same.