J for Just Kidding
The beginning of a new relationship sucks. This is where you just got her number, know shit about her, and so you literally have nothing to say to her. You have already said she is gorgeous, so you cannot say that again.
You cannot ask her what her hobbies are because no one has hobbies anymore. But you agreed to go on a date on a Sunday, which is six days away, and you are not sure whether you have to fill these six days with words or just wait for the day to come.
But you cannot let silence reign because this is the generation obsessed with communication. Oh, communication is key, oh, going silent is toxic, and all kinds of brouhaha. So you can’t wait to go on that damn date, have sex, so you can finally text her, “Lakini missionary is underrated!” without coming across as a freak.
I am always fascinated by people who fall in love easily and stay in love. These are people who date for years yet still hold hands in public, wear matching sweaters, start a youTube channel together.
And when the waiter brings food with salad on the side, one of them whispers in the waiter’s ear, “This one does not eat salad,” as if the one that does not eat salad cannot speak for themselves. I envy such couples. I envy the ease with which they slide through the years, going through the phases of life, like growing molars, together.
They introduce each other to their parents. And one day they might or might not get married, but whatever happens they will have enjoyed their love.
I have never been in such a relationship. Mine are usually inspired by vigilantes’ mode of operation. It’s a gorilla warfare. Now you see me now you don’t. No one asks who are we? because we are who we are, Mau Mau in disguise.
In new relationships, the rule of thumb always is, never ask for your person’s body count. Especially if you are a man, because the answer is not what you want to hear. But we are humans and it’s in our nature to ask questions.
The first time you have sex she takes you to that place between life and death. You sweat from the ears then your forehead. At some point you will be tempted to cry and maybe even cry, and when she’s done you will lie next to her, struggling to breathe while thinking, “Surely, what she knows she knew through experience.”
Every man is curious about his woman’s body count but only the foolish ones actually ask. The wise ones know not to even bring up that subject because nothing good comes from asking that question. No matter the answer, your ego is going to take a beating, unless the answer is that you are the only one, but you can’t be the only one if you have to ask.
So you will naturally want to ask about her body count. You will think about it over and over and one day you will bring this issue before your friends, asking in a roundabout way if a man should ask a woman her body count.
“Never,” your friend will say, “In any case, she won’t tell you the truth.”
“Si I will just multiply by 4, ama?”
“Wachana na hii story, bro.” But you will not listen.
You know not to ask because your ancestors told you not to ask and also because the constitution is clear on the unconstitutional nature of that question, but this day you will ask it anyway because it’s in your nature as a man to do things that will kill you.
When you ask it she will sip her tea loudly and pretend she did not hear it. You will ask it again, casually, as if the answer won’t shift your equilibrium, and she will say, “I don’t think that’s a fair question.”
“I think it is. I mean, the number can’t be that high?”
She will set her cup down. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“You won’t feel some type of way?”
“No. Why would I?”
She will grin, and from the way she will stare at her fingers you will imagine she is counting. Then she will glance at her toes and continue counting and right away you will regret that question. You will feel your nini retract in self doubt.
“We do not count those who did not make us cum, do we?”
You will groan and she will say, “I can’t remember but, 13?”
Your mind will do the math we all do. Because she is a girl you will multiply that number by 4 and suddenly feel dizzy. Your ancestors will be laughing in your ear because they warned you about asking about her body count. Later on, as you slide into her, you will feel sufficiently under pressure and sufficiently inadequate.
The bar was already set. You just need to give your honest best on your 3 minute mark limit.
Then one day, during Tiki-Taka, she looks like she is thinking about something else. Or someone else. She doesn’t seem to be aware that you are striving to set a new record and so after, you tell her you were not impressed with her lack of participation in this noble exercise pertaining matters of the flesh.
“I am sorry,” she will say, forcing a smile, “I am just tired, babe.”
“We have both been indoors the whole day, doing nothing.”
“I know. But you know me. I get tired from doing nothing.”
You don’t believe her. Your mind shoots straight to those soldiers of the Lord that came before you and wonder who among them raised the bar so high. In fact, what if you are the least performing of them? And chances are that you are, if her facial expressions are anything to go by.
“It’s one of those exes of yours, isn’t it?” You will say.
“I knew it was a bad idea telling you the truth.”
“You should have lied! Who in their right mind tells the truth when asked about their body count?”
You’ll tell yourself you don’t care who was there before. But it’s going to eat you up. That night you’ll blame insomnia for lack of sleep but you’ll know the sole reason for a disturbed night.