Category Archives: Episodes In The Life Of A Sexual Hitchhiker

The Beat Goes On


This guy had just told a joke and Stella was mid-laugh, her mouth frozen open in a snapshot when she saw something across the bar.

Excusing herself from her friends she went in the opposite direction of whatever had caught her attention, towards the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor. There she danced, alone, simply turning whenever a guy tried to approach her, hips-, or worse, crotch-first.

She would whirl, keeping time with the driving diwali riddim, to place a hand upon their chest and push them off, or a withering look upon their egos. Then she shouldered and shoved her way deeper into the vortex of humid, gyrating figures, to twerk near the woofer, to think in the quiet between each booming bass beat.

When she emerged, her brow a little damp, she left a heady scent of pheromones that left the men in her wake watching; attempting to theorise what it was about her that drew their eye. Was it the quick wit of her hips or the promise of heavy sighs in the curve of her lip? At the bar she ordered a Smirnoff Black and appeared indifferent to the double-take the tall, dark man beside her had done on seeing her.


“Joe, hey.” She gave him a glance that spoke nothing of the depth of feeling between them, the sweat they had shared and the chasm of quiet that had stretched between them over the past year.

“You look great,” he said, and she believed him. He could say the corniest, most clichéd lines since Casanova made them famous and she would smell his bullshit a mile away. This, however she knew was true.

“Why, thank you,” and she allowed herself and him, a playful smile. “You don’t look half-bad yourself.”Indeed he looked great in his small, yellow t-shirt that told of hard abs beneath. She had seen him in it many times, back when the two of them would meet regularly in crowded bars, and then slip out to a lodge, or to her flat… but never to his place. He lived with his “saved” older sister, he had told her, who would not approve. She thought it more likely that his sister would not approve of Joe cheating on his girlfriend with 3 am booty calls and side dishes and probably a few one night stands.

“It’s too hot in here, let’s go outside,” he grasped her arm just above the elbow; a smooth motion, as though just one part in an inevitable sequence of events, the first lever of a Rube Goldberg machine.

She gently twisted out of his grip, “How’s the baby? Joseph Junior”. She would not make it that easy for him. “He’s fucking adorable,” she added, as always taking a perverse pleasure in the hard ‘k’, “I saw the pics on FB”.

“Yeah, and then you stopped talking to me.”

She shrugs like she doesn’t remember the reasons for it, or like she remembers and the reasons don’t matter anymore.

“I’ve missed you” he says, just above the roar of white noise of a loud, 1 am bar in Kampala; bottles clinking and crashing to the floor, drunks yelling more moisture than volume into the faces of patient bartenders, and always, the ever-driving ¾ beat. The ridiculous idea occurred to Stella that should the music stop, everyone would collapse to the floor like toy aliens in a Disney cartoon. She smiled almost inadvertently. Joe placed his hand on her thigh, her skin tingling where his mouth almost touched her neck as he leaned in to ask if she’d like another drink. She tipped her bottle, surprised to find it almost empty and nodded her head.

As happens in a club it became easier not to talk; conversation is quickly driven underground by the beat, the march of feet against wooden floor, and eventually one ends up talking with one’s body. Stella shifted ever-so-easily until she was leaning against him and they were grinding lazily to one delicious, sweat-drenched dem bow riddim after the other. This time when he took her elbow and began to lead her toward the door, she did not resist.

They ended up in the backseat of his friend’s car. Stella was being reminded that she liked the way Joe kissed her, like he was physically hungry for her, taking each of her fat lips into his mouth in turn. She let him suck on her neck, and paw at her blouse until her breast popped out like a ripe fruit, which he took in his mouth. Ripples of pleasure coursed across her body.

She did not resist when his mouth moved lower, encouraged him to keep moving when he spent too long around her navel by gently flexing her belly. He responded, lifting her skirt up and pressing his mouth on her clit through her rapidly-soaking cotton panties.

Stretching her long limbs so that her heels touched the driver’s headrest, he peeled her panties off and then, pausing, skipping one endless beat, he dove between her legs.

Christ, he was good at going down! Stella had missed this. He pressed his mouth hard upon her pubic bone, his tongue whirling around and around her most aroused parts. For a moment she worried that she was too drunk to cum but then she felt that familiar sensation of her body falling away and becoming only this glowing ball of pleasure in her pussy.  Her hands on the back of his head she pulled him into her, for once not caring if she suffocated him. And then she came. Wave upon glorious wave, she rocked, and shuddered and sighed and clenched…And released.

As her breathing steadied, he climbed up and kissed her mouth and she tasted herself, triumphant.

“That was fantastic” she told him.

She reached downward and found him, hard as a rock, straining against his jeans. He held himself above her, leaning on one hand as the other went to his unbuckle his belt. She took the opportunity to climb quickly into her panties.

“What are you doing?”He asked.

“Leaving” she answered, hand already on the door handle. He only stared at her in disbelief, mouth opening and closing like a fish. She stepped out, adjusted her skirt and blew him a kiss.

“Thank you,” she told the thousands of expressions moving and gathering across his face like threatening clouds. Then Stella walked away from Joe, back towards the insistent beat of the bar.

UMEME Romance

That Sunday, escaping the chokingly dull atmosphere at lunch with the relas, Trish had gone to watch her cousin play football. It was there that she slowly became aware of Paul.

She had categorised ¾ of the boys on the pitch according to the 360° system she and her bestie Winnie deployed, (and yes, she could tell their employment status despite the fact that they were all consistently covered by Kampala mud) when she came upon him.

She watched him running gingerly across the pitch with an awareness of every splash of mud that landed at the base of his legs.  He scored a very average 180.

Meanwhile, Paul too had spotted her, while trying to remain within but at the same time outside, a certain distance of the ball. He had determined that he would find an excuse to go and talk to her afterward since she looked like she might be pretty.

That way the afternoon, which he had originally hoped would involve nothing more vigorous than sitting in front of the TV with his hands down his trousers, would not be a complete bust. A new “friend” whose calls he had successfully dodged for 3 weeks had appeared at his door and shamed him into going to play.

She could be pretty, then again she could have a face like a pair of goat’s testicles, he thought anxiously as he approached her and the box of mineral water someone had kindly deposited beside her.

He actually sighed and half-smiled when he found with relief that she was not, in fact, hairy, malformed and malodious. She had a really nice… She looked like she had an interesting…

Trish watched him approach and thought, “he’s alright… I guess?” His name was Paul, she learned and he also worked in a bank, though in the legal department.

There was nothing actively unpleasant about her, he puzzled out, as he watched her talk about clothes, shoes, her ‘galfriends’ and The Hostel. On the other hand there was nothing he could tell the perverts in IT when adding soup to the story on Monday morning. Not a single outstanding, big, beautiful muscle, organ or pair of glands. She was neither flat nor bintuful.

She appraised him and dismissed him quickly; small feet, smaller salary and the smallest pair of ears she had ever seen.  The next weekend they ran into each other at a house party and she ignored him at first.

Later once the party had long run out of mixers, they found each other in wet, humid embrace behind the fridge. After they were inelegantly interrupted by a puking, crying galfriend he invited her to his place to “watch a movie” the next day. What the hell, Trish thought, he could be fun.

When she finally made it to, after getting lost on a boda who then overcharged her, Paul opened the door to a house that was darker than the evening outside. He hugged her clumsily and went back to lighting candles at the table.

“Oh no. UMEME?” she asked, wondering not that of course, but whether she should take off her sandals. They had a multitude of straps and would make a quick exit complicated.

“Yes, but my laptop has enough battery,” as he brought the candle towards her the light licked her face prettily, her skin glowed warmly and her round eyes reflected the flame back to him.  She actually has a pretty face, he thought. Trish sensed a difference in his approach and smiled, blooming uncertainly like a budding flower. Especially when she smiles like that, thought Paul.

Paul then pulled out his ace, a bottle of champagne that his mulokole boss had given him, he had kept it since Christmas hoping for a woman to impress with it.

Trish was impressed. She took off her sandals.

He had got the movie because his video guy had told him chicks love it. “They get wet in more than one place,” he had said, to be specific, but Paul found himself moved by the story. Tears squatted in his eyes and he was grateful for the dark. He put his arm around Trish as she dabbed at her tears girlishly.

By the time the credits rolled they were kissing and hands were exploring and shirts were being  tugged off. When they knocked over a candle they decided to take it to the bedroom, Trish giggling giddily as she tripped over her own strappy sandals on the way.

Taking advantage of the forgiving candlelight and bubbly, tipsy courage she did a little striptease that she had imagined in her head many times but had never been able to perform for anyone except her mirror.

They proceeded to have good, unselfconscious sex.

Afterwards they talked and with the candles out, unable to see her facial expression and not having to control his, he found himself saying things he had never shared with anyone. She wrapped her legs around his torso and placed his head on her bosom and sighed with maternal concern and contentment.

They proceeded to make soft, vulnerable, eye-contact-holding love.

Very early the next day, before Paul and the sun had really woken up, she kissed him goodbye and disappeared like a good dream. She spent the day gushing about him to her galfriends on gtalk and squeezing her thighs beneath her desk to feel the sweet aftersex soreness and smile.

A few nights later he actually took her to dinner. They smiled at each other the whole car ride, and then across from one another, under the bright lights of the Indian restaurant and as the pauses between sentences grew longer and longer the smiles became strained and then heavy and then stopped.

He squirmed in his seat.

She cleared her throat drily.

They both looked up with great relief as the waiter approached and down with despair as he left with their drink orders. What had gone wrong? Trish wondered. In desperation she began talking about Mari Chui, a terrible idea she knew, but anything but the silence. Dear God, not the silence.

He nodded at the major plot points and interjected with appropriate mmhmms and uh-huhs, but really he was examining her face for something, anything interesting or distinctive. She has nice… ears? Her ears were small and unassuming, they did not call attention to themselves, which, surely is the bare minimum you could really ask of ears. Her eyebrows were perfectly adequate. Not sharp and aggressive nor timid or most-terrifyingly; absent.

As they left, walking down the four flights, the only sound their shoes sliding down the mall floor, they both ran into people they sort of knew, arm-in-arm with their significant others, posed against the red of the Supermarket sign like an advert.

Under other circumstances, they might have all walked by each other with maybe a smile or wave, this momentous collision of awkwardness would never have come to pass. Paul and Trish clung to the others like drowning swimmers and proceed to drag the whole encounter under a tide of awkwardness.

The sheer momentum of it caused handshakes to grasp fists, clumsy hugs to turn creepy and worst of all, that terrifying moment when two people are forced to acknowledge the other prematurely as they wait for the people beside them to finish their greeting so they can begin theirs. This should never have happened, Trish thought, as she did the are-we-hugging-left-or-right-oh-I-think-I-just-kissed-your-ear dance. With her free ear she heard;

“Hi Paul, Patricia…”

“…Patricia, Paul…”

“…Paul, Patricia. Hi”

An alarmed look came upon her face. She was at warp speed transported through a lifetime of being introduced at boring Bank luncheons, boring Rotaract marathons and boring functions with Paul’s family who probably had the same weird fucking ears that he did.  Patricia, Paul. Patricia, Paul. Paul, Patricia. Patricia, Paul!

The six of them laughed the last of what had been many uncomfortable laughs at the alliterative accident and then with a wave walked away in three different directions, a little faster than was strictly necessary.

Without seeing the look of horror on Trish’s face Paul ventured into the silence optimistically: “How funny running into Chris after all these …”

“- this isn’t going to work!”


The Expectation

There is a scene in the film 40 Days and 40 Nights in which Josh Hartnett brings Shannyn Sossamon to orgasm with only a flower.

This scene is bullshit. I have sent lovers home with hands still-twisted into awkward, cramped positions because they insisted on getting me off. Then there are those long, lonely, horny nights, when I just want to cum so the voice in my head will shut the fuck up and go to sleep. My arm feels like it is about to fall off, one ass-muscle is spasming from fatigue, and when I finally get there it is the sexual equivalent of losing a qualifier match with a nil-nil score: Dead-on-arrival and disappointing like when you blow your hardest on a vuvuzela and all that comes out is a sad and strangled, farting sound.

I refuse to believe that Josh Hartnett, who let’s face it, is as sexy as giggling kittens, could get any woman there with Lexington Steele’s dick, let alone a flower. And so expertly that God looked on, saw that it was good and said, So sweet, I forgive you for breaking thine Lenten vows.

No. I feel dirty just thinking about it.

Still, there is something to be said for anticipation; “Sexpectation”, if you will. Those moments before a good night out when you are drinking your Guinness in the shower[1] or slipping on your fuck-me knickers and imagining, in lurid, high-def, digital detail the things you are going to do to that boy as soon as you find a dark-enough corner.

Anticipation like walking around at work with your nipples hard, chafing against the inside of your bra because you are really clicking with someone new, and they have promised to serve you dinner tonight wearing an apron and only an apron.

Sexpectation is the reason some young women wear tiny dresses when they go out and then “forget” their panties.

It is important. I salute all those good wait-for-it feelings because they are also the reason that men with beautiful, successful wives get caught fucking the buck-toothed, bow-legged housegirl. It is also the reason that the guy who is checking you out from the other end of the bar is infinitely sexier than the guy he will be six months from now, once you’ve found out that he gives lousy head and does not always bother to match his socks.

According to Schrodinger’s Pussy, before you walk into Boda Boda on 4/11 you both have and have not had the time of your life and unknowingly taken the Hitchhiker home for a night of wild sex. What? That doesn’t make any sense you say? Don’t argue with Quantum Mechanics. Get yourself to the Legendary Party tomorrow, you never know what may happen.

[1] Really, just me then? Damn.


Fantasizing Without The Cabbage

I was sending flirty texts to a potential lover when he asked me:

<So what’s yr fantasy?>

(If you’re not the type of person who texts in proper English, never shall our genitalia meet. Just saying)

Fantasies, eh? A dangerous topic even for couples who recognise the smell of each other’s gas, let alone those who are still squinting through tight trouser seams to hopefully get a glimpse of a package. Is he a grower or a shower? Are those all her, or is she just wearing an efficient push-up bra?

What’s my fantasy? I begin to type:

<well, I do have this revenge fantasy…

…where I seduce Cabbage Craig, tie him up, blindfold him, cane him within an inch of his life, pour a bucket of ice water over him and cane him again. Then stick a spiked butt-plug up his unlubricated rectum and leave him there for his housemates to find….


Even though just thinking about it had made my nipples hard, I needed a fantasy that was not the equivalent of bringing a crossbow to a first date. I tried again:

<I do have this fantasy where…

I am being endlessly orally serviced by a man with an untiring tongue, and I don’t have to worry whether his neck is cramping, or whether he gets that the morse code of my moans means “yes”, “don’t stop”, “less teeth” and  “do that again but faster and with more swirling action, you know, like an ice-cream”. This fantasy often involves Idris Elba, those Sounds of the Sea CDs they give insomniacs, and, for some unfathomable reason, bubbles.

I decided to keep that one to myself.

<I fantasise about being spanked…

I like the idea of wearing a short skirt and being bent over someone’s lap and being spanked with an open hand. Yes, the idea of confessing that I have “been a bad girl” and asking to be punished seems like too much of a cliché; it belongs in porn movies with long French-manicured false nails and breasts that look like balloons milliseconds from popping from too much pumping. It also screams of daddy-issues.


< I fantasise about…..

<I have this fantasy where….

<I fantasise about having sex… in the rain…?


As he was taking off my clothes he said,

“What should we use as a safeword?”

“Ummm, how about ‘no’.” I responded, between kisses.

The idea of me yelling “Cabbages. CABBAGES!” or some other random word mid-fuck was as off-putting as the smell of day-old come. And I didn’t think I would need a safeword, not with mild-mannered, nerdy Craig, who wore his trousers closer to his nipples than his waist. Craig who I had met when he (literally) bumped into me, at Cafe Mokka, his glasses steamed over from the hot coffee he was carrying. Craig who I had had to stalk and strong-arm into this moment; finally peeling off his checked shirt to reveal his skinny, toned torso, becoming the heat that steams up his glasses. I put my hand down his overextended trousers and was pleased with what I found there. It’s always the skinny, quiet ones. A look came over his face, like Uganda Cranes have just made it to the World Cup final. Safeword? I doubted we’d be needing one.

So it is with the surprise of a sheep being shorn that I suddenly found myself being flipped over a few minutes later. Pleasant surprise, that is, because it is rare in a first-time encounter to find someone with the confidence to take charge, the charisma to lead the troops he is meeting for the first time into battle. He plunged into me, not like a Jamaican teenager trying out something he saw on TV, but with the experienced ease of a deep sea diver.

There we were, rutting away like pleased pigs in mud, when mid-stroke he pulls partway out of me and says this:


“I want to fuck you in the ass.”



“No, not this time” I say clearly, and add a <Moan> that is meant to convey: “but look how much fun we’re having doing this.”

Now, no offense to all you Butt Pirates out there, but anal sex is not for everyone, nor is it for any time. My asshole is a bit like a Savedee on her wedding night; you can’t just shove your dick into her. My asshole has to be romanced first. You have to buy her presents (quality lube) and allow her to shower so that she can feel clean in the eyes of the Lord despite the dirty things you are going to do to her. She needs to be stroked and kissed and convinced, whispered sweet nothings to:

“I promise I won’t hurt you baby.”

“I promise I’ll go slow.”

“I promise I will stop as soon as you tell me to”

My asshole needs to be told that she is beautiful goddamnit!

She needs to be introduced to the idea of being penetrated slowly, and softly, first with a pinky and then with other fingers increasing in size. She has to be worked up to the big one.

I realise that these are a lot of demands for the average African man who has watched too much porn and just wants to see what all the fuss about buttfucking is about, so usually, if someone asks mid-coitus, I just say, “No, not this time.” Still, if the right guy comes along, and is willing to seduce my asshole, then why not give it up for a special occasion?

Craig, however, was not that guy, and this; a random Sunday afternoon fuck amidst his smelly socks and a calendar with an image of the crucified Jesus staring sadly at me from the door, was not that special occasion.

So when I feel the unique and piercing pain that signalled my lovely anus being violated by a foreign object, the first thing that comes to my mind is “CABBAGES! CABBAGES! MOTHERFUCKING CABBAGES!”

Girl On Girl Violence

There comes a time in every young woman’s life when she must grab a bitch by the synthetic ponytail, hold her wailing head steady, and punch her in the throat.

Perhaps, if your life is like mine, this moment will come more than once. Sometimes a fellow female needs to be taught that if she does not want her boyfriend cheating on her, she needs to take her concerns to him, not me. At least her boyfriend will have qualms about resorting to physical violence.

If your life is like mine you understand that getting into fights is inevitable, not because I am some crazy banshee who drinks too much and watched too much wrestling with her brothers back in the day. Yes, my very first childhood crush was on Bret “The Hitman” Hart. Still I would much rather be sitting pretty on a barstool, sipping on something  fruity while a hot guy whispers dirty things in my ear, than rolling around in a ditch with some girl’s ear in my teeth. I get into fights because women are mean to other women.

Yes. Women are mean to other women. It is a fact that has been well-documented and sneered by men with superiority complexes to one another. It is a fact whispered to little girls crying in their mother’s laps, after the shaven-headed, vicious little bitches in her class pulled her long hair.

Girl on girl violence is most often visited upon the pretty girls, the sexy girls, the liberated girls, and the working girls. The ones you like to call cunts, malayas and whores. You think it is us versus them, hoes versus housewifes, Madonna versus whore and never the twain shall meet. What you fail to realise however, is that all of us are hookers (though only some get paid in cash).

It is not always the obvious ones, the ones you see at the bar, in the club, tossing an expensive weave over her shoulder in Equator, the ones you want to be. Sometimes we’re peeking from behind a pair of glasses, or sitting behind you in a church pew.

Yeah, I said it, all of us are whores. True I have never had to bend over, lift my skirt high and display my wares to the government ministers, MPs and tycoons driving by, but I have ever sold my bedroom skills for a hot pair of shoes or a bed to sleep one drunken night. Don’t look at the page like that, as if you didn’t promise your husband 30 nights of blowjobs if he bought you a new car. Your currency may be cash, commodities, affection or good conversation, it’s all give and take sister (whether you take it like a bitch or like a good little girl, from behind or in the mouth, I won’t judge you)

There are plenty of legitimate reasons to hate me; I talk too damn much, I don’t volunteer with charitable organisations and I have been known to use foul language in front of small children. But don’t hate me because I won’t pretend that I don’t like to fuck (and your boyfriend likes that about me). End the violence!

This message of peace was brought to you by The Hitchhiker, with the support of Urban Legend Kampala.


Don’t get it twisted, lust is a beautiful thing…

That warm, honey brown feeling just above the loins.
This is what makes you do crazy/dumb things, like climb downstairs at 1 30 am on a rainy Tuesday morning into the bed of the boy in the flat below.
Here is a pro-tip;
Do not fuck around with the boy in the flat downstairs.
Under no circumstances should you go three rounds with him on the couch, with your mother’s portrait looking down upon you.
Don’t let him “crash on your couch”, after inviting him over for one of your lushy parties. It is only the most transparent excuse, how can you be too soused to step one flight down stairs but not too drunk to fuck (upright, doggy style, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, praying mantis, downward-facing dog and lotus-flower-in-blossom).
When he tells you that he likes to watch you get off the boda after work in your black pencil skirt, don’t bother pretending to be offended by his comment After all, you get up early on Saturday mornings (early meaning midday), no matter how hungover, to catch him, sweaty, still swinging in basketball shorts, on his way from the gym. Most of all do not let him peel said skirt off you on a Friday afternoon.
If, despite your better judgement, you do decide to fuck him, do not be surprised when at 1 am on a rainy Tuesday night, tossing, and turning, you find yourself unable to sleep. Squeezing the covers between your thighs, your hand will find its way southward and your mind will find itself travelling downstairs and then bi-bi-beep, sure enough, “What’s up?”will appear on your phone. From there it is only a a few steps to tossing and turning in his bed instead.
Especially do not be shocked when you find yourself walk-of-shaming knicker-less in your nightgown at 6 the next morning, to be witnessed by the entire block of maids reporting for work (and the askari on his way to bed).
When you overhear the maid telling the guy who sweeps downstairs [no manya ngo ogo mwishiki na kwana omusigatzi womu F12?], don’t act like you do not understand vernacular.
When your local boda guys start acting friendlier than usual, do not bother attributing it to a plateauing of fuel prices, or your latest weave.
After the trysts with the boy downstairs inevitably come to an end, (citing his “work commitments” and not your sexual ADHD) when you come home giggling at another man’s lips on your neck do not squirm inwardly when the three of you meet awkwardly on the stairs.
When you are sneaking a joint on your balcony some breezy night at 2am and you spot him helping some high-heeled antelope of a girl in a blouse/dress out of his car and up the stairs, sleep easily instead of listening to their moans for two hours, imagining their acrobatics, remembering his dick and trying to ignore that honey warm brown feeling between your thighs.

The Loathe Letters

Dear guy who I was slightly obsessed with last year. You would roll into town from Kenya and somehow impress me with your company expense account, and inflated regard for your own wit. When we first met the chemistry was so wild and the sexual tension was so sweet and thick like great chocolate cake. Then we finally had sex and it was … sigh …. calling it mediocre is generous.

Dear Ex who missed-called me at 4 30am last Saturday night. Yes, I will admit it; the cunnilingus was fantastic. You should travel the world giving classes to men all over the world. Oprah should be your business manager and Dj Khaled should be your hype-man. Women would line up to be your magician’s assistant. I, however, will not be returning your call, because while you eat good pussy, your personality is frighteningly so mediocre. Oh and the rest of the sex wasn’t that great either.

Dear Whiteboy who recently re-friended me on Facebook. What did you not understand when I unfriended you the last 2 times? When we dated briefly in uni I picked you up and dropped you like a kitten would a frog. I would ignore your phone calls for months until you finally gave up and then show up again a year later, flirting and teasing like I had never been gone. Instead of telling me to fuck off you would let me toy with you again. I don’t think it was because you really liked me, you liked the idea of me; exotic African girl, all ripples of laughter and ripples of flesh when you fucked me from behind. I am sorry I played with you; I was immature… and you had a nice dick, but your Venus Hottentot fantasy was frankly pathetic.

Dear Brother. I said it when I was 15, I said it when I was 19 and I will say it again. You are not allowed to fuck with my friends. You fly into Kampala, and all of a sudden all my friends are behaving like airheads, flirting and blushing as if they don’t know how many of my friends you de-virginized once upon a time. Then you fly out of the country and I am left answering questions like “why isn’t he replying to my email?”and “do you think your bro will like it if I send him this nude pic?” So I’ll say it one more time. Stop fucking with my friends!

Dear Dad, you are a great father. Carry on.

Dear all men, everywhere. In the immortal words of Shakespeare “learn to fuck better”(I may have paraphrased a bit).

With all the love,

The Hitchhiker


Hiking Away

The hitchhiker has not had sex in months

I know, I know. Up is left and down is right. The pope is boning Paris Hilton and Lexington Steele has retired from his illustrious porn career to become an International Human Rights Crusader. Am I even still qualified to write this column?

In my defence, work was insane at the end of last year. Then we finally broke off for Christmas and it was trips to the village and sharing beds with cousins, and while I am open to many things, incest is not one of them.

Finally, New Year’s Eve rolled around and I thought, this is it! The hitchhiker is finally going to get some! But then I woke up on the morning of the 31st bleeding from my crotch. You know, “raining”, “rebooting the ovarian operating system”, “flying the communist flag”, “enjoying shark week”, “getting a visit from Aunt Flo”, “riding the crimson wave”, “trolling for Vampires”…

*blank stares*

You know, my period?

Normally, a hitchhiker is delighted to find out that she is unpregnant, but the timing was just unfortunate. An old fuck-buddy whose dick I remembered fondly had resurfaced from whatever swamp boys disappear to when they stop calling. I dealt with my anger and cramps by starting to down Waragi and Krests at midday.

The fuck-buddy in question, who we shall now refer to as he is saved in my phone, Bad Brian, had asked me to let him know what my NYE plans were so we could later meet up. The reason he is saved that way in my phone is twofold; Bad Brian as in, so good in bed he’s bad, as well as bad as in bad influence. Brian has a very nice girlfriend. He introduced me to her once outside Casablanca. Then he dropped her home around 1 am, and came back to drunkenly suck my face in that little room with the cushions on the floor (I wonder how often those cushions get cleaned).

I do feel bad for his lovely, leggy, lied-to girlfriend, but I am no martyr. Anytime “Bad Brian” comes a-buzzing on my phone I think, Lord I want to be a better woman than this, but the flesh is both weak and wet and willing.

So, drunk as fuck by 6pm and bleeding genitalia notwithstanding, I put on my best party dress and fuck-me heels and headed out for the night. At least I would have someone to kiss at midnight, if nothing else.

That’s where my memory becomes hazy and non-linear. Champagne makes the world go round, but Waragi makes the world go round and round and round. NYE was a blur of house parties and happiness as Kampala’s young people tried to forget Al-Shabaab threats, and broken 2010 resolutions.

7:30pm: I walk into a house party shouting loudly about Golola Moses’ gologo, then notice that the room is eerily silent. Realising I am the drunkest person in the room, I head straight for the snack table and stuff my face with some crisps. A guy in nerd-chic, Lupe Fiasco glasses and Chuck Taylors is watching me load my paper plate. “Hi” I say, smiling. The chick talking to him gives me the up and down look and grabs him by the elbow and steers him away from me and my heels. “Umm….ok?” I turn to the group on my left. No cute boys, but the conversation seems interesting enough. Something about cells and people who keep going in and out of them. “Yeah… like, what’s up with T.I, you do your absolution song and then end up back in jail?” I say, at what seems to be an opportune lull in the conversation

Another strange silence…

“No… cell, as in bible group?” It’s always the chicks who take such pleasure in correcting me.

“Aaah.. .Cell… Are you guys… from the same cell?”I can save this conversation… I think.

“Yeah… we all are” girl with glasses says, gesturing around the 9 or so people in the room.

“Oh… that’s nice” I back away slowly toward the door and give the emergency signal to my girls, one who has already sunk into the couch in some deep tête-à-tête with a dude, the other who is in the kitchen trying to figure out where the booze is hidden.

10:42pm: We arrive at some house, I think in Naguru, big enough that the security guard is checking bags at the gate. I get in an argument with the guard at the gate. “It’s a house party for fuck’s sake!”

10:51pm: My friends and I get kicked out of said house party before we’ve even entered the gate.

10:52pm – 11:28pm: My friends and I have a long discussion in the car about where the hell we are going to go now. Fridah is blaming me for getting us kicked out of the party, I am trying to explain to her how all this bag-checking is simply “security theatre” and we have to stand up to it before we become a totalitarian state. (Fridah tells me that at this point I started attempting to recite the “first they came for the Jews and I was silent” speech, but could not keep my minorities straight. I have no recollection of this).Finally my other friend Betty interrupts by yelling “WE’RE GOING TO MISS THE FIREWORKS!”

12:00am: We watch the fireworks from somewhere on top of Naguru hill. Betty tells me later that at this point I tried to make out with her. (I claim not to remember this, but actually I do.)

12:42am: We end up at our usual Kafunda, dancing to Ngenda Maaso with the old drunk and trying to stop him from grabbing our asses.

2…ish: I flirt with some guy who is a full 2 inches shorter than my high-heeled self, mainly out of boredom. He tells me “I’m not like other girls” though I have heard this line more times than I can remember, for some reason it seems original and especially true tonight. So I shove my tongue down his throat. He starts asking for my phone number and in a sudden moment of sobriety I run away and hide among my friends.

3… or was it 4am? I finally remember that my phone exists. 4 missed calls and a text message from Bad Brian sent at 10pm: “Where r u? @ a rooftop party in Muyenga. View is amazin & I have no one 2 kiss at midnite…”



The Kinks in Kampala’s Cocks

There is a guy in Muyenga; living on his own in a really great house, apparently no wife and kids, I met him at a charity event for fuck’s-sake. He was even a fun chao; quirky, improvising positions, non-porny dirty talk, funky and confident rhythm like a James Brown classic; “Whoooooooo! Get up! Get on up…”
The only thing wrong with him was his arrow-straight dick. For those of you who haven’t had a long and varied career meeting dicks and the assholes attached to them, dicks are not usually straight. They usually have some kind of bend to them, some variation, or weirdly placed vein that wriggles alive in a way that makes you giggle, at just the moment when you should not be giggling. This dude’s 3rd leg was straight and smooth the way a Ken doll would be… if Ken dolls had genitalia.
The first time I slept with him was the last time. I didn’t want to end up in a septic tank.
I firmly believe that a guy needs to have a little bit of kink in him. Nothing too crazy involving inanimate objects, fire or nipple clamps, just a slight conk and a lemon twist for your drink at the end of the day.
The first time I slept with B, for example, I immediately promised myself and my laughing girlfriends that I would never do it again. His stroke was so very technically correct, and he was so solicitous and polite, asking “are you ok?”every 5 minutes that it was more a good gynaecological examination than a bad shag.
Then I learned that B likes to have sex in public places and I was intrigued. Yes, enjoying the thrill of the possibility of getting caught, without actually getting caught by police is as difficult as you would imagine in Kampala, even at 3am. Still, once we found the right place your boy was inspired.
“Oh! …ah, mmm, ah….. B! … I didn’t know you had it in you.” I told him, in between impassioned breaths “…and now it’s in me!”
Sure enough, the thrill is addictive, but like most addictions, is difficult to sustain. After we ran out of back alleys and bathrooms to bone in, the sex between B and I went back to being flatter than last night’s Tonic Water. Such a pity, he was fantastic against the wall behind a club, but lousy in bed.
When I was doing B, I wasn’t a grown enough fucker to be straight with him and say, “listen B, don’t be afraid of a little kink.” African boys are too quick to be like, period sex eww, and act like anal sex is something only shepherd boys and gay guys do. Let your freak flag fly.
Now I know better. Don’t sit on your kink, lest you end up like Frank, who buys his babe expensive handbags and takes her all over the world, but likes to burn her with cigarettes while he is doing her doggy-style. That wouldn’t be so bad if she liked getting burnt by a cigarette while she’s being done from behind. But it didn’t sound like she did when she called me crying from a boutique hotel in London. That’s kink gone bad. I told her to wipe her tears with dollar bills. I don’t think she was much comforted.