Category Archives: Episodes In The Life Of A Sexual Hitchhiker

Hate the Player and the Game

Ice-T said “Don’t hate the player, hate the game”. Fuck him. I say hate the player and the game. We are a bunch of pathetic fuckers. Teargas has made us cowards and boda-bodas have made us lazy. Sweating out the jam in humid, airless taxis has baked our brains into submission, like cows.
When we were sitting in Effendy’s, I told you what I thought you would like to hear. Every time I wrapped my lips around the hookah pipe and sucked I was calculating. Say enough to let you know that I’m a freak, but not a slut. See just how naughty, but not how destructive I can be.
A wicked smile or a playful pout; “I’ve been bad and deserve punishment. Won’t you spank me?”
This manipulation is not gender-specific. I have fallen for a trick or two in my lifetime. Take Miles, who professed only the purest intentions even after I made it clear that he wouldn’t have to lie to me for me to do him (and be done by, and do bad, bad things with…)
Men in fact, are so in love with the untruths. They want to believe that you were born knowing how to do that with your tongue, that you didn’t learn it from Jimmy. They therefore cannot quite believe their senses when a tart-mouthed young lady says, “hey, no bullshit, no games, let’s have some fun”. They have to lie anyway, or prove that they are player-than-thou. So they do dumb shit like break up with you via sms, and then sext you a month later about getting back in your good graces with cunnilingus & weed.
Alternative ending: “The fade-out”; contact simply becomes less and less frequent until the lack of message gets across. Also known as “the Jay-Z”:
“If you can’t respect that your whole perspective is whack/Maybe you’ll love me when I fade to black”
Paulo (a more-than-decent lay even though he made a weird high-pitched noise when he came) turned out to be an expert practitioner of the fade-out. I’ll admit, I was pissed, hypocritical I know. When I see him these days, he gives me the biggest friendliest hug, like “let’s pretend none of that unpleasantness ever happened” … the bastard.
He taught me that sometimes being nice to a former close encounter can be the nastiest thing you do. So that time I saw you at Club X and pretended I didn’t know you I was doing you a favour… honestly… you were too drunk anyway, I saved you considerable embarrassment.
The game; dropping braids on bathroom floors or holding on to someone’s nude pictures, just for just. The players; Me, you, your uncle’s neighbour, the maid downstairs and your last ex-boyfriend, Diana, Charles, Becky, Ronald and Geraldine.

The Network

The Hitchhiker

He was hanging up the phone as J walked up to him. He stood up, widening his arms to welcome her in a hug; all one long, fluid, tall sentence;
“What’s up?”and a kiss planted on my cheek as a full-stop.
“I’m ok. How are you?”Her response drowned in the thick cotton of his dark blue hood.
“What?” he asked, as they extricated themselves awkwardly. J got a chance to repeat herself. “Where have you been hiding?”
“Me, hiding? You’re the one who said you’d call me.” This was true, he had promised he would call her, that night she let him do everything but fuck her in his friend’s car in the parking lot of —————. Kevo intended to blame it on J nonetheless.
The reason he had not called her was that his girlfriend Penny, had found a braid on his bathroom floor while cleaning on Monday morning. Kevo had spent most of Monday trying to convince Penny it belonged to the maid/his cousin Beatrice/the madwoman in Nakawa market who pretends to play a guitar covered in Samona stickers.
Tuesday morning he admitted he had slept with his ex – Sharon. The next two days he spent sending texts and listening to the Warid lady say “the number you have dialled does not answer,” in her frightfully fucking cheery voice. Friday he bought flowers and chocolates, apologised profusely and even managed to squeeze out some tears. At the weekend he had dropped 500 000shs on a ridiculously large red leather bag and took her to The Lawns and watched her open his gift, squealing more enthusiastically than she would when they had make-up sex later that night. So he hadn’t had much time to call J, though he had indeed promised he would.
Meanwhile, J hadn’t really been expecting him to call when she had climbed out of the steamy car the Saturday before. She had wiped her thighs in the bathroom and gone back to the table where her boyfriend Philo was sitting with her friend Alice.
“Sorry, my dad called, had to find somewhere quiet. I hope Alice was keeping you entertained.”
“She did,” Philo smiled, as he leaned onto the back legs of his plastic white chair and took a swig of his Club. “She was telling me how one of her friends pretends to drop a braid in guy’s homes for the wife to find.” He made annoying air quotes around the word pretend.
“No! Alice, who does that? You are lying.”
“I swear! My friend was telling me she did it to her ex-boyfriend just last week.”
“Oh God, Alice, your friends!” They all laughed, J a little louder, stopping sooner and a bit more abruptly than the other two. She wiped some sweat from her brow and beamed at Philo as though a halo had suddenly sprung up around his head, with a choir of melismatic Beyoncés dancing around it.
That night J had thrown herself into pleasing Philo with the zeal only expressed by the guilty. She didn’t even think to be suspicious when he gave her an oversized pair of women’s jeans to go home in (after he had cum all over the back of her little black miniskirt). After all, Philo was so into being honest about his feelings for her, talking about how she made him want to make the leap into serious relationships, and sending her text messages about how she was “good for him”.
What J didn’t know was that the jeans belonged to a certain Sharon, who had built up such a collection of things in Philo’s little hostel room that she could afford to pick and choose which items of clothing to go home in.
But of course J was oblivious to all these comings and goings-on in the lovely city of Kampala when she hugged Kevo goodbye after their short conversation.
“Let’s leave this place, and finish what we started off last time” Kevo suggested breathily into her ear.
J shrugged. “I’m with my friends”
“I’ll send you a text”. And she walked away not wanting to seem too eager. Guys like him were a bit too enamoured by that kind of thing.
Kevo pulled his phone back out of his pocket and dialled.
“Hi… No baby, of course I didn’t hang up on you…come on now, why would I?…No…. It’s the network”

Part II – Her

From the Honourable School of Legends, the Streetsider presents:

Our first guest writer. Please welcome our very first Sub Urban Legend, The Hitchhiker.

“Not suitable for persons under 18. Please read responsibly.

This is a schizophrenic town. Like a whore that crosses herself when she passes Christ the King, or a nun who cannot explain the bruises on her buttocks, nor the thrill of pleasure, mingled with pain, when she sits down on them.

I should have known he was crooked. I should have known he was crooked when I pulled down his pants and found a bent dick; curved like the letter ‘C’, warped like a paedophile’s sense of humour. I should have known right then that there was something irredeemably wrong with him; but a girl gets used to the taste of slime after kissing too many frogs.

In my defence, I didn’t know all that much about him before I decided I was going to sleep with him. I didn’t know if he was a Man U fan (read: boring), I didn’t know if he liked to watch House (read: predictable), or listened to Lil Wayne (…yawn). I didn’t think about how he liked his eggs in the morning, because I sure as fuck wasn’t going to be making them.

When he introduced himself to me, over the music blaring in JK [Radio crooning: “I’m the one you’re looking for…”]. I know that he gave me a hug just so that I could feel, as well as see that he had a really nice six-pack under his tight T-shirt. “You’re looking good” he said, and before I could raise a single unconvinced eyebrow he added “not as good as me though”. (Do you know that I‘m relying on the fact that he probably says this to every girl to remain anonymous)

I reacted to that red flag the way a young bull would when a matador waved one in its face.

You know how sometimes you meet someone and you can immediately be honest about your freakiest shit? On your second meeting you find yourself telling them about the fantasy you can’t wank to in your mama’s house it’s so freaky. You may, or may not also find yourself being fingered by said person at 8pm on a Sunday in the gardens of Casablanca.

It’s that kind of insta-intimacy, superglue bonding that makes you ignore a curved dick until you are riding it and can feel it poking your appendix.

At some point later in the week I am telling this story to my workmate ‘D’ and she looks at me with eyes wider than a nocturnal jungle animal. “Curved like the ‘C’ on your keyboard” I tell her. I’m not entirely sure why I am telling this to D. Even though we’ve been sitting next to each other all day, 5 days a week for the past 6 months, we’re not friends. Something about the way she looks at me when I come into office an hour and a half late, in yesterday’s skirt and the Bobi Wine T-shirt I just bought in the park, parfum de stale-Guinness trailing behind.

So, yeah, we’ve never become “tights” but here I am, tongue loosened by too much coffee. I am therefore pleasantly surprised when in response she launches into her own story about a tiny little white guy she dated who she discovered was carrying a Godzilla dick. I tell her about the Russian contractor who must have been on Viagra (or Silagra, as the generic version sold in Ugandan pharmacies is called), she tells me about the dude in Kabale who barked when he was “finishing”. Me and D, bonding over sex-gone-wrong stories, who knew it was possible?

The end of the workday finally shows its face and she tells me she has to pass Nakulabye anyway so can she give me a lift? Of course, that would be great. Halfway across town she says she needs to stop somewhere in Wandegeya but she won’t be long, do I mind? Why would I? We get to some nondescript building and she says why don’t I come and wait inside, it won’t be long. Uhhh, ok, that’s ok.

We walk in a door on the ground floor and I trip as I enter the threshold, stumbling a couple of steps into the church before I look up and realise what’s going on. Yes, a church, with red chairs arranged in rows, and people singing with their eyes closed and palms held skyward. I stop and wait for God to strike me down with a bolt of fire or lightning, but instead D takes my arm with the benevolence of a teacher who works with mentally disabled children and leads me toward a seat.

What the fuck is this, D?” I try to convey the full force of my bitch-if-I-get-out-of-this-situation-with-my-sanity-intact-even-God-himself-won’t-save-you sentiments in a furious whisper out of the side of my mouth. This is not easy to do while simultaneously fake-smiling at the other churchgoers who are wondering if I just said fuck. “This is my church, I’ve been wanting to invite you a for a while”. Invite me? D increases her grip on my arm and womanhandles me into a seat.

“Hallelujah!” the guy leading the service shouts as the singing fades and the keyboard player is left playing his jangly, too loud chords. “Hallelujah!” There is something familiar about the way the sweat runs down the back of the service leader neck and as he turns around my eyes pop open even wider than D’s jungle creature.

“Holy Fuck”

This time around my fellow churchgoers have no doubt about my choice of words.

I don’t even notice. I am staring at the service leader.

It’s Curvy Dick.