A tale of two men, thumb theory, golfing…Season Greetings?

I’m fucked up. Duh! All zega men lives are. One day you wake up and every man you run into is instant eye candy then the next day you don’t even have an eye for any of them. Yes, on this second last article of the season, I have a tale of two fine men…

This morning during the usual dance-while-you-are-naked-dressing-for-work session, I decided that the gangnam style is totally ridiculous and just like anything that goes viral, it's no longer a fad.

So last time after hosting the money boys’ article which by the way seems to have picked up as my best piece thanks to your kind and well deserved reviews, I headed out to shop for some birthday gifts for probably the most important girl in my life: My honorary mama. Well, it was an afternoon well spent and in case any of you wants to get some gift items for your husband baby, HMB or even that gay digger who devotedly gives you head then I think you should take a stroll to Enka – Rasha. At the jewelry section just next to the entrance there is a counter which has some low cost (Kshs. 500) but classy watches that I think will give that personal touch to anyone you hold dear. I got one for myself of course on impulse; maybe I should get 2 or more to reward any of you who’ll give me an incisive feedback to most if not all of the bitching my guests and I have done here. Had lunch with the sister figure who accompanied me that afternoon since it was a joint effort then just when I had boarded the bus home, some two men walked in…

Behind the Scene(s)

There was a woman whose elderly husband adored sugar which wasn’t good for his health so she really desired him to stop. The woman went to seek the counsel of Mahatma Gandhi over the matter. Gandhi advised her to go back after 3 months. When the lady went back after 3 months, he advised her to again come back after 3 months. When the lady went back after this period, Gandhi now authoritatively advised her to go tell the husband not to take sugar. Why did he send her back and forth in those previous visits? Gandhi was known not to give advice to things he couldn’t do. He had to stop taking the sugar himself before becoming an authority on the matter. Have you registered as a voter? Well this past Saturday I woke up and that was the only thing in mind before the other activities in my social diary. Of course I went to my barber at least to get my hair trimmed a bit. What? The camera on the BVR kit is really flawless and a pretty boy got to look nice for such a noble and National importance appointment! One of my colleagues looked at my Job and National ID’s, my utility card, my drivers’ license and now the voter details screen shot and has since concluded that I’m so vain. Oh Please, isn’t it all in the code? A pretty boy shall pose when any lens is availed before him even for Government documents! Okay, let me be sober now. 

Being a registered voter means I have a warrant to bitch about all these politicians as I please. Forget about those of you seated behind computer screens playing armchair activists and whining on social media yet you are still unregistered. It only takes you 3 minutes and instantly gives you this aura of self-importance of participating in National affairs. Get your damn ass to that center and register, I have!

Golfing ideas, missing holes…

On Sunday I had a meet and greet courtesy of one of you (I do meet my fans). It was originally supposed to be a coffee date but when he finally arrived in the company of some equally adorable pretty boy, plans promptly changed: We went to play putt. Okay being a first timer to some amateur expensive hobby I had to do some little research for the purposes of this article and some of you:

‘Putting is the most precise aspect of the game of golf. The putter must be designed to give the golfer every technical advantage including smooth stroke, good glide, sweet impact, and bounce-less topspin ball launch as well as every technique advantage including perfect fit as to shaft angle and length.’  – Wikipedia.

Maybe it’s just me but the above definition was undeniably supplied by a zega man (check the highlighted portions) Then there is also the bit of missing holes or using too much force to putt! MB even made things worse by softly requesting us to take care of our balls lest we pay a fine of 100 shillings each! Who doesn’t take care of their balls? Thankfully, he clarified what balls he was talking about and we started the game. Of course I sent a quick text to the only golf pro I know in my man inventory telling him I was out playing golf: David. He responded immediately asking me where and with whom. Men are just so fickle at times! 

Wait! I must also address my mind to that absurd quote of the week the Identity Kenya boss shared on his timeline last week. I just have to jerk it off my chest because next season is too far and I’ll probably have forgotten all about it. It was something like this: ‘Being bottom is not a disability.’  I think the primary intention of this avowal was meant to be frivolous but I have since articulated to him that it’s misdirected, demeaning, barbaric and ought to be treated with the utmost contempt it deserves. You really want to get me started on those chest thumping tops that come just 5 minutes into foreplay then leave the over excited ‘pillow biter’ high and dry? What about those whom when they are finally in take ages pumping and thrusting in all manner of positions but nothing comes out of it then they start blaming outside sources like alcohol and stress as the poor bottom nurses a sore man pussy! Please, let’s not get over our heads being top is not ability. These two roles need each other for their relevance and without one the other is disabled redundant, Period. Hope this position is now clear to the original draughtsman of the above-mentioned quote. 

A tale of two men…

The bus wasn’t full and I was conveniently seated next to the window just getting my reading matter (By the way this morning I finished the second book in the Trilogy, it wasn't as graphic) and highlighter. When I raised my head to survey how the capacity was, the two guys walked in. The first one was not so tall, darker than me though but definitely fetching. He had a muscular body that is a product of regular workout; had on some black plain V-neck T-shirt that emphasized his chest features pretty well. I mean the firm nipples were conspicuous and he was carrying a gym bag…I’ll come back to him later.

Number two was similarly tall; very light skinned (but not the mixed race type), had a muscular body that oozed the scent of some not-so-cheap male fragrance and absolutely gorgeous, damn! With the fitting blue T-shirt that accentuated his broad chest and biceps that made me feel tingly in my secret places, he looked like one of those things you see in those glossy Men magazines on the newsstands!

See, they had just walked in together, the dark guy ahead of the light one and the two seats next to me were still empty. For a moment I thought they all play rugby going by their fine chiseled physiques. I immediately relinquished my window position for number one and moved to the center. The stunning number two opted to sit with us but upon reflection (because he had been going to the rear of the bus) such that now I was conveniently sandwiched between two beautiful men. That was the beginning of my problems…

The bus finally set off. Glad I’d folded my shirt sleeves and considering I was reading (or at least pretending to), my arms of course momentarily rubbed with theirs making me feel totally helpless. Guys, someone may look so busy and all professional but the evil deeds they are doing in their brains!

Number one’s phone rang and he got into a conversation. I was too close so I could make out the context of the same. That’s not eavesdropping, No? I think he was talking to some equally smitten lady (or guy). He professed how he had missed her and told her he was just heading for training at Impala. Shit! He’ll alight before me. ‘I’ll call you once I’m back in town at around 8. Love you.’ Fuck, he’s taken!

 

Of course the rest of the journey was screwed and the usual Nairobi traffic wasn’t helping. In fact I withdrew my right arm a bit so that the brief rub didn’t occur any more with number one then I started doing what zega guys do when they can’t get the man they want. Even his voice isn’t as authoritative as I thought. At some two intervals I looked outside and when he turned our eyes met. Gosh he had those dark piercing eyes that only God knows how we’d use them if we were in a desert alone. I quickly considered his fingers particularly his thumb. Call me sick or crazy but I don’t know who told me or where I read that when you look at a man’s thumb you just need to triple it to get the actual size of his erect… so it wasn’t really a loss!

The conductor reached our seat to collect fare and the two hunks of men quickly removed their wallets to pay their fares and I thought I secretly saw lady photos (No offence girls) in their respective wallets. Holy Fuck, they are straight as arrows.

 

Reprieve of sorts and a man’s thumbs…

I whisked my fare payment card out of my man purse and gave it to the conductor. Since I had to turn towards number two as I waited for the conductor to swipe it, I thanked the gods. The edible number two looked intrigued. After the conductor had done his thing and my phone had acknowledged the transaction through a text, number two requests to have a look at the card. Thank you Jesus! The guy not only has a killer smile but his large brown eyes are manly. His light skin is flawless and his goatee and chest frame is a fantasy I think I have kept safely for my future husband pursuits. I belatedly notice that the top two buttons on his T-shirt are open and I can see something like some hair underneath. To be open, I was totally disarmed. Maybe this is what E.L James was talking about when she asked: How can anyone look this good and still be legal? Then just when he’s about to ask me something his phone rings. Shit. I officially hate mobile phones!

‘Yeah, I’ve already worked on the estimates, what you can do is just send me the final quotations…’ Phew, thank God he’s all business but wait...he’s speaking funny.  ’…I’m already on my way to Ngong Road so I should give you feedback by…sure…mwambie tutawasiriana baadaye.’  Fuck! He isn’t Kenyan. 

He asks me to explain to him how the card works which I gladly do in my impeccable English now that I’ve realized he’s Tanzanian (He has that Hemedi of Tusker Project Fame complexion). I quickly scan the fingers as he hands back my card gratefully. Shit, there is a wedding band. Maybe it’s one of those metals men use to keep ladies (or men) at bay. His thumb in this case if I go by the Tripling theory, let me just say I’m protective of my ass! I suddenly feel a bulge underneath my man purse. Holy fuck, I’m horny!

Facing the truth

The bus is now on Ngong Road and I’m trying to make a mental note of these two creatures because I won’t be with them for long. So I get into reality mode. Cole, calm down. They are just eye candy cupid has sent to help you zero down your choices in men. Number one is now on his phone texting or something. He’s the kind of guy I’d just have a one-night-totally-protected fling with because he’s that type of guy you instantly don’t trust but seems quite like an acrobat in sex-ercise. I bet he uses that ‘I’ve missed you’ line on all the ladies (or men). My future flings (if any) ought to accommodate this type and hey, who knows? That thumb theory does not entirely reflect the actual size on the ground!

Number two is the guy I’d show up with at a party an ex is attending just to flaunt him. Make sure I’m seated on his lap, my head resting on his well-developed frame where I’m drawing some circles as he chats with his friends the whole time we are there and upon retiring home, make sure I aim to please him hoping he lifts me at some point during foreplay, tie my wrists and do some bad things with me before falling asleep inside his arms but then I’m Cole. I don’t date men whose hotness I realize instantly. It’s not only a risk but a bad omen. I stick to the men whose beauty you realize shortly after seeing them. He’s definitely a trophy boyfriend material (of course with the risk of competition from these horny boys all over the place) but he’ll sure be a good sperm donor for some future babies damn!

He got off at the next bus stop after Adams Arcade just opposite Executive Motors car bazaar of course with a quick but too officious adios. I think he is putting up in one of those beautiful apartments. So the bus ride with number one continued with me still pretending to read (I’d only flipped 5 pages from the CBD) He finally alights at the Impala club. There is a reason I said somewhere in this blog that I don’t date brief men. These men had height, whoa! I gladly took back my window position and remained undistracted until I got home. I was already many eye candy ahead of the zega humanity!

Happy Holidays!

Since I’m probably the second last host on T.S.R for this season, (next week there is someone I’d like you to meet to wrap it all up for us) I do take this opportune moment to say it’s been a prolific year and we ought to be appreciative for the little things life has availed our way. Make sure you spoil yourself this festive season, you merit it! Thank you to bits for taking time off your busy schedules to visit T.S.R. I have my journal to diarize all the juicy escapades I'll undergo for the next season. I’ll be on stand by so kindly feel free to interact with me on our official Facebook page (T.S.R– By Cole Mutahi) By-Cole-Mutahi. On my part (until the premiere on 15^th January, 2013) , a feisty festive season, good health and emotional wellness are my wishes to you. Come closer: Mwaaaaaaaaaah!

It's your kick ass, raunchy (and IEBC registered) Host:

Cole Mutahi.