I met him at midday. It was hot as hell in Mombasa, and there was no way I was walking from Equity to Cannon Towers, a 10 minute walk in normal circumstances…ah, who am I kidding? I never walk in Mombasa. So I did the usual and got into a matatu, right next to the conductor. My mind was on my work and I only concentrated as far as to pay the conductor and my mind went straight back to the paper work waiting for me at the office.
He was drunk as a skunk! It’s a testament to how preoccupied I was that I hadn’t smelled the reeking body next to mine! Dragon breath redefined! He was exhaling fumes that could only be a potent mixture of keg, naps, kibao, flying horse and whatever illicit liquor college boys poured into their mouths those days.
“Ghai! Si you’re a beauty! Konda! Nini mbaya na wewe? Mbona hukuniambia mrembo ameingia kwa matatu?”
Ah! Not a native then? A Nairobian is allowed such bad manners when at the coast. I graciously accepted his compliment with a quiet asante. ‘The whole matatu’ was staring, nodding at his assertions that I was the prettiest girl he’d met in Mombasa. Not one to shun the limelight, I smiled at him, flashing my perfect set of not-so-pearly whites. I was being nice this being Pwani, besides, there’s no way I was ever seeing this drunk again.
Ha! He got off at the same stage as me and watched me walk into the building, ass waving goodbye as I walked.
He was outside waiting for me when I left at 5 that day. Clean, sober, smelling so good I could have eaten him for breakfast, lunch and dinner (parts of him anyway ;-)) . His name was Johnny and could he take me out on a date? Most definitely!
For a drunk, that boy sure cleaned up nice! Tall, light skinned, cute and as later proven by conversation, not as dumb as the stereotype suggests. He was fiiiine! So fine I knew immediately none of my girls would ever get introduced to him. He had a loyalty reducing kind of fine-ness. The fisis that my girls are, apana, we’d just end up sharing him.
A few dates and he was giving me butterflies. The first time we kissed? Magic! In public, on an estate walk way in Tudor Four, with mathes staring at us, judging, envying. First time we did the nasty? In public! At the beach, doggie style. Snuck behind the perimeter walls of one of the beachside mansions at Barracks beach. His dick!!! My God!!! Huuuuge!
Turned out he lived in Ganjoni, 5 minutes from my office building! I happened to be reading Summer Camp by Nick Scipio, erotica king extraordinaire, at the time! I was horny 24/7. Do yourself a favor and Google that book. You won’t regret it. I couldn’t get through a chapter without going to his place to relieve the umm…tension. In a variety of positions. And he never disappointed.
That guy was a stud!!! There is 4 books in the Nick Scipio series, each with 24 chapters, that’s 96 times we did it, and he didn’t cum. Not even once. I can’t even tell how long he could last because I always gave up after cumming twice or at around the 40th minute.
I had to break up with him. I was going to get addicted to that dick! 96 times in 2 months isn’t normal behavior. Didn’t want to end up doing the Esther Arunga and being a slave to some phallus!
He looked for me for months then disappeared one day. Poof! Like a whiff of smoke. I concluded that Johnny was the devil come to lure me into sexual addiction.
That experience left me convinced that the name Johnny is magic. There’s a reason it’s associated with pervs. Whores call their customers ‘Johnnies’? No? The dick on Johnnies is laced with some ancient witchcraft. Only a few can successfully wield the power that comes with that Johnny phallus. And it can never be tamed.
That said, every girl needs a Johnny experience. It’s healthy to know how much good sex is too much. Never try to husband a Johnny though. Hiyo ni kujitafutia mashida tu.
N/B: If you know a Johnny that does not live up to his holy name, send him to the registrar’s office ASAP! He should be stripped of it and given to one that is more deserving. A misnamed Jimmy perhaps…