Wednesday, 28 May 2014

My friends, the Ugandans and the things they do

I spent the whole of last week in Kampala, Uganda and banange, I must admit Ugandans are a very interesting lot. They love their matoke (banana) to death. They love their women with wide hips, big behinds and generous cleavages.  With almost unrivaled patriotism, Ugandans love their alcohol, raunchy local music, and did I mention they love their matoke to bits. Granted, even though they wouldn’t outwardly admit it, a good number of Ugandans would certainly steal, abuse and even kill for matoke.

Five things caught my attention during my stay in Kampala.

First, Kampala is about to steal the crown, glory and reputation from Nairobi of having the ability to stage the mother of all traffic jams in East, Central and Southern Africa. Unlike Nairobi though, Kampala’s traffic jam doesn’t have a planned rush hour or off peak schedule. Traffic here is constant and pretty messy. Motorbikes in Kampala outnumber the number of motorists, and with everyone competing for the precious space on the road, organized chaos is a daily occurrence.

Ronnie, my 27 year old taxi man who proudly confesses of laying a Kenyan lady in some dingy motel in downtown Kampala for the price of ‘guided tour of Kampala’ during the Easter holidays, kept trying all the tricks of ‘beating’ traffic jam but in vain. He tried overlapping, ignoring traffic lights,
showing the traffic policeman ‘the finger’, hurling insults to pedestrians, cyclists and fellow motorists. Hell yeah, he even tried to ‘fly’ his juggernaut that was literally held together by paint and rust over a railway line. But all this didn’t amount to anything. We hardly moved for 100 meters in 2 hours. By the way, if you plan to catch your flight from Entebbe International Airport, better leave for the airport at least three hours in advance.

Secondly, the number of nightclubs in Kampala seems to multiply by the minute. I swear, very soon the number of bars will outnumber the population of Kampala. Nightclubs are pretty dotted everywhere. It's only in Kampala where a parking lot during the day will somehow transform into a nightclub complete with neon lights, dancing troupes, skimpily dressed waitresses, and equally skimpily dressed prostitutes in their thousands you will be mistaken to think they are auditioning to go to hell. Nightclubs in Kampala are found anywhere and everywhere. They are nightclubs next to schools, churches, police stations, railway lines, parliament, hospitals, name it.

Thirdly, for entrepreneurs you may consider investing in, first, a pharmacy. Every corner of Kampala has a pharmacy. Pharmacies here outnumber kiosks, schools and churches put together. And from what I witnessed in clubs, I am sure morning after pills or condoms are what keeps this pharmacies going. 

Secondly, you may consider investing in pirated movies and television series. Oh! And make sure your movies and series come fully loaded with irritatingly loud Luganda translation or mismatched sub-titles. By the way, while you at it, remember also to throw in a few raunchy Ugandan-bred music videos, some unedited Jamaican dancehall music videos as well as some hardcore porn. This sh*t is a big business in this part of the world. Trust me, you will be a millionaire even before you blink. 

Thirdly, invest in a crazy club full of neon lights, extremely skimpy dressed waitress, annoyingly loud music, a humongous LCD projector screen and an equally loud irritating disc jockey. Don’t also forget to encourage prostitutes to roam inside the club as well as hang at the entrance of your club – and oh! Boy! Before you know it, you will be smiling all the way to the bank.

Fourthly, if you ever want to enjoy a sumptuous, well-prepared fish, make sure you visit Beverly Hills,
a club and restaurant located in Kansanga next to Wonder World. I swear I almost had an orgasm as I enjoyed the delicious fish. And while you are at Beverly Hills, ensure to be served by a freshly minted, authentic Ugandan damsel called Sarah. Except her non-sexual weave that looked miserably perched on her head like a nest of bird, she is a sweet lovely waitress who is not in short supply of a generous blow job smile and a ‘willing intention’, if you know what I mean.

Lastly, during my stay, I, interesting noticed that Ugandans have very strong opinions on anything Kenyan. They have opinions on Kenyan politics, women, weather, food, economy, security, education and pretty much anything Kenyan. Hearing a Ugandan talk, you easily get the sense that they love and hate Kenya and Kenyans in equal measure. But then again, I am not surprised, I am sure a little brotherly cross-border competition is healthy.  So, if you are Kenyan and you find yourself in Uganda, don’t waste your energy arguing or get easily offended when someone make a scathing and almost demeaning remark about Kenya or anything Kenyan. Like me, just slap the person with a sarcastic smile as you relish in the 'attention' from the gorgeous Ugandan women. 

Monday, 26 May 2014

Let's talk about money: Postponement of my interview on CapitalFM

Hey peeps, due to unavoidable circumstances my interview tomorrow on 98.4 CapitalFM has been postponed till next week. I will keep you updated on the details. For more about my talk on Personal Financial Management, be sure to watch the video by clicking on this link:

Let's talk about money: I will be on 98.4 CapitalFM

I will be on 98.4 CapitalFM tomorrow morning, Tuesday, May 27, 2014 from 7am talking about Personal Financial Management & Wealth Creation. Do tune in. It will be worth your while. For more about my talk on Personal Financial Management, be sure to watch the video by clicking on this link:

Friday, 23 May 2014

Where The Devil Lives

They say people go to heaven because of the weather, and to hell because of the company. In Kampala, Uganda’s capital city I presume people will go to hell because the devil lives right in their midst in suburb Kabalagala. My visit to Kampala as you may presume is never complete without a visit to where the devil lives.

Located about 6 kilometres southeast of Kampala's central business district, Kabalagala is a vibrant business hub and a fast growing neighbourhood famous for its many restaurants, bars and nightclubs as well as banks, supermarkets, fuel stations and a university. It is a major entertainment centre with many of the establishments open 24/7. The streets of Kabalagala are dotted with numerous ‘outside catering’ food joints and vibrant nightclubs, that somewhat looked like a sneak preview of how hell would be like. Simply put, Kabalagala is literally the heartbeat of Kampala in all perspectives.

To sound as diplomatic as I can get, I would describe Kabalagala as a place characterized by skimpily dressed women, the majority who are out to oil the appendage of probably a rich European expatriate, or a confused Ugandan man who never got a memo about personal financial management or HIV/AIDS. Or better still a menopausal foreigner who crossed the border in search of sin, love or sexual transmitted disease. Interestingly, most of the skimpily dressed women found in Kabalagala are willing to sell their lady parts for a night’s fee equivalent to buying a toothbrush in downtown Nairobi.

Majority of men who frequented Kabalagala looked like frustrated men avoiding an encounter with their nagging wives and demanding mistresses. Some looked like they were out to enjoy the toil of their miserable life. They wore flashy shirts and carried cheap Smartphones that had loud irritating ringtones. Some of these men loved dangling their car keys and spoke at the top of their voices like egoistic fellows desperate to assert their worth and self-importance.

A fortnight ago, I silently sneaked into Ozone pub located in the heart of Kabalagala. I was in the company of Ronnie, a long time friend. I have known Ronnie for close to a decade, and frankly speaking, I am yet to figure out what he did for a living. When he is sober, he claims he owns a freight company that specializes in importing side-mirrors for BMW cars from Japan. However, when he is drunk he claims working for an international NGO.

Curiously, Ronnie who failed his college Diploma exams because his lecturer couldn’t read his handwriting was a resourceful asset as far as nightlife in Kabalagala was concerned. Ronnie knew his Kampala nightlife (read he knew where to get cheap hookers and equally simple, low-cost dingy one-night stand lodges).

To indulge in the Kampala atmosphere, we sat at the balcony of the pub with a breathtaking angle that gave us a great view of Kabalagala, and that’s precisely how I came face to face with the devil.

She was wickedly voluptuous, fearless sexy and diabolical sensual. Her smile was friendly. Her face pretty. Her big heart (read boobs) was arresting. To top it up, she had soulful eyes, and the endowment of a natural Ugandan woman. She was simple without being simplistic. She looked playfully wicked and had a freakish side about her that seemed highly undiscovered and un-buttered (read I suspected she was a virgin).  

They say a dress is like a barbed fence, it protects the compound without restricting the view. The sizzling damsel was elegantly accessorized wearing a naughty little black dress and boy, did she look hot! To cap it all, she had a great future behind her (read big ass) that gave her the appearance of someone whose bread hadn’t been buttered (read virgin). Just like a fresh-minted ripe coconut waiting to succulently be devoured, she was at the peak of her beauty, wickedly voluptuous and diabolically sensual. Her smile was contagious. Her face was hypnotic, and her laughter horny-ish.

She momentarily looked at me as if I had died in a grisly road accident decades ago, and she has never moved on. I was left with no choice but to gently invite her to our table.  As she nervously sat down exposing her light skin and flowery long nice legs, I quickly noticed that she was not wearing anything underneath her little black dress. Thanks to the many Stand Up comedy I had watched on the Internet while pretending to work for my former boss, I had intelligently recycled most of the jokes that really kept her entertained and glued to me.                          

An hour later and with a bottle of red wine added to my bill, this is pretty much what I was able to dig from her. Her story sounded like a script from the Old Testament. She was born in rural Northern Ugandan. Her parents were killed during the 1980s civil war. She was brought up on donor-funded scholarship and was currently working as a news editor in one of the leading media houses. Her talk was disciplined and her confidence disarming. I loved her immediately.

I woke up three hours later with a serious migraine. My head was aching so badly, I swear I suspected a grenade had exploded inside it. It was around 3 in the morning, and the club waiters, bouncers and the pub manager were surrounding me, while curiously starring at me as if I had just resurrected from death. Across the table, my friend Ronnie had blackout, for a moment I was so sure he was dead. It took me 22 minutes to recollect my thoughts. Apparently, the lovely damsel had spiked our drinks and had disappeared with our money, phones, watches, and shoes.

Turns out she was one of those classy, stylish and elegant high-end prostitutes who targeted mostly foreigners. Two days later, my head is still spinning as if a suicide bomber exploded inside it. My two-cent advice: if she looks like the devil, laughs like the devil, smiles like the devil and dresses like the devil, then she most certainly is the devil. 

Wednesday, 21 May 2014


A woman in Kampala demonstrating
against the mini-skirt ban. Photo By 

Amy Fallon for the Guardian.
I arrived in Kampala, Uganda a few days ago for a one-week stay. As it always happens with my trip to this part of Africa, I was undoubtedly full of unbridled expectations. I like Uganda, Kampala to be specific. Despite its crazy traffic jams and boda boda madness, Kampala has a seductive sense about it that always appeals to my erotic and freaky side. It’s not called the Pearl of Africa for nothing. 

I like the free spirit and carefree attitude of the Ugandan people. I like the food, to be specific I like the roasted banana dipped into arrowroot sauce, and served with a damsel with an overexposed cleavage and a generous blowjob smile. I like the alcohol, you know the freshly brewed Warigi Gin served with lemon accompanied with an authentic smiley, pretty thing who doesn’t mind going beyond the call of duty to make the customer happy. Last but not least, I like the culture, and more importantly I like Ugandan women.

Speaking of Ugandan women, I love their humility, and perhaps more importantly their amazing endowment. Ugandan women, in case you didn’t get the memo, are truly constructed.  They walk proudly with their womanliness behind them, without any apologies. They have no reservations showing off gladly their big mouth-watering cleavages and sizzling oily thighs. They exhibit their inner beauty by the way they confidently carry themselves around. I am yet to meet many Ugandan women suffering from low self-esteem. Most Ugandan women are confident in their skin, and comfortable with their appearance. In fact, I wouldn’t hesitate going as far as describing them as a pearl of African beauty.

I like their loudness in bars, as well as their humility and respect outside the bars. I like their love for life. More importantly, I like their experience, knowledge and skills in matters bedroom affairs. No one knows how to rock a man’s boat like a Ugandan woman, so I hear. The Ugandan women take a great sense and pride in not only their inner appearance but outward as well. They always dress as if it’s their last day on earth, hence they have to look their Sunday best. Speaking of dressing, no one in Africa knows how to dress like a Ugandan woman.  Some call it dressing skimpily, I call it dressing elegantly. They know how to rock their mini-skirt, short dresses, pint-sized jeans and anything that will make a man turn his head, salivate with fantasy and spent all his salary in one night.

You can therefore imagine my utter amazement when I arrived in Kampala, and I was struggling to identify the Uganda women. Within just a few months, the Uganda women have undergone quite a dramatic change. Walking on the streets of Kampala is pretty boring, to say the least. Gone are the beautifully dressed women who defined the Ugandan ‘hospitality’. Gone are the cleavages, the juicy thighs and the completely irresistible sexually charged, body hugging and lovely orchestrated holy grail bodies.

Thanks to the powers that be, wearing mini-skirts in Uganda is now illegal. It officially happened in February this year when President Yoweri Museveni formally signed into law the Anti-Pornography Act 2014. Out of curiosity I took time to read the Act and interestingly it broadly defines pornography as “any representation of the sexual parts of a person for primarily sexual excitement”. Curiously, the Anti-Pornography Act does not mention the word mini-skirt but bans women from revealing their thighs, breasts and buttocks and from dressing indecently in a manner to sexually excite.

What is more baffling is the enthusiasm that the police, and some men have taken up in implementing the law. The Ugandan media is filled with stories of women who have been harassed and assaulted and even been forced to remove their mini-skirts in public. The banning of the mini-skirt in addition to the ridiculous ‘enforcement of the law’ by the police and the general public has in my humble opinion affected the tourism sector in Uganda. Tourists who used to visit Uganda, specifically for purposes of ogling at skimpily dressed women are now looking elsewhere. This is the reason why I think we should start a campaign of #BringBackTheMini-Skirt.

Coming up: Daggiefresh explores Kampala’s night life, and visits the famous Kabalagala, where the devil lives. 

Friday, 16 May 2014

7 Things I Was Taught By a Prostitute

Be ready to judge me, not that it matters, anyway. I have a close friend who is a prostitute. Yes, she makes a living by selling her 'lady parts' to the highest bidder on the street, and she has no apologies for it.

I probably understand why you would cringe to know that I am a friend to a prostitute. I get it. This is because, on the social scene, prostitutes are ranked lowly; somewhere near the proverbial alley cat which can't tell who fathered its kitten. Well, whatever opinions you have of prostitutes, is perhaps the least of my friend's worries. Let him who has no sin cast the first stone, she likes quoting Jesus's words whenever anyone becomes judgmental to her profession.

I have known her for a while. Our meeting was more of a chance than design. She hit my car at a traffic stop, and like they say, the rest is history. For the record, while she is a very beautiful and attractive pretty thing, I have no plan of oiling her cleavage. To me, she is simply an object of admiration and not desire. Admittedly, I enjoy our friendship and wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks to her many years of experience meeting the erotic needs of men, she has an in depth understanding of the sexual, psychological, emotional, social and spiritual needs of men, perhaps more than anyone else I know. In retrospect, she can actually make a great counselor to many women on how to 'handle their men.' The following are some of the things I have learned over the years from her:
  1. Life is about the choices you make. No one becomes a victim of circumstance without their choice or consent. The choices you make today will affect your life tomorrow. Every choice has either a reward or a consequence. 
  2. The world doesn't owe you a favour. No one owes you a favour in life. Not your loved ones, and certainly not the government or your employer. It's your life. You are the driver of your life, and its upon you to decide the destination, speed limit and driving style. Don't sit around waiting for people to do favours for you, they too have their own lives, and sure enough you are the least of their priorities. 
  3. All that glitters isn't gold. They say life will give you lemons, it's up to you to make lemonade. Nothing in life comes easy. You have to work hard and work smart. Life is not a series of flashy lifestyles and partying non-stop. Glitz and glamour are only found in movies. In real life, people sweat and work their butt off. One more thing: Not everyone that purports to be your friend is indeed your friend. Life is full of backbiters, gossipers and a bunch of jealous people who will be more than willing to bring you back. Lesson - watch your back buddy, know who to trust.
  4. Don't judge a book by its cover, but you can certainly judge it by its last chapter. Don't be a rush in making conclusions. Don't be in a rush in dismissing people or opportunities. Take time to understand your circumstances, your partner, your family and friends. Not everyone in life will subscribe to your ideologies and expectations. Judge a book by its content rather than its cover. Judge people by their actions and behaviours and not their race, religion, gender, tribe, education or material things. 
  5. The grass is not greener on the other side. Take time to make your own grass greener. Invest your time and energy in things that matter to you, whether it's your relationship, education or career. Stop hopping from left to right looking for the perfect partner, the perfect job, the perfect whatever. Make what you have work. Bottom line: If you don't know how to maintain the grass, even when you get to the greener one it will eventually wither. 
  6. Mind your own business. We spend so much time and energy meddling in other people's lives that we end up always frustrated and disappointed. If it doesn't affect you directly or indirectly, mind your own business. You can't fix everyone's life, and neither can you please everyone. You don't have to have an opinion about everything or everyone. Don't try to control everyone around you. Live your life, mind your own business. 
  7. Open communication is the secret to a successful relationship. My friend has this to say: It's amazing how a man will open up to a prostitute about his marriage or relationship. You know, what he wished his partner would do better and all that. Interestingly, very few of them will actually face up to their wives/partners and tell them exactly how they feel or what they want. Instead of talking to their partners, their end up cheating on them with a loose justification of why they do what they do. Don't assume your partner knows what you want, communicate with them. Speak your mind. Cultivate a free and open communication environment in your relationship, and you will see how exciting it will start getting. 
Well, there you have it. 

Monday, 12 May 2014

The Day I Laid my Landlady

I'm just going to say it - I have a hot landlady. Despite her being slightly over 45 years, she is yet to lose her youthfulness. She still has an exotic look and is appetizingly sexy just like a freshly minted campus damsel. I also admired how her sassy and sexy cute curvilinear dress sinfully exposed her Mary Magdalene juicy figure, while allowing her to exhibit just enough cleavage to fuel my curiosity, inspire my imagination and appeal to my raging African hormones.

From the day I moved into one of the many apartments she owns, I could tell that she had a thing for young men. The way she slapped me with little pornographic smiles that were seductively complimented by her sinful laughter, I could tell she was dying to lick my night stick. Well, it didn't take long before something gave. It began hardly a week after I had moved into my new humble abode. She would call almost on a weekly basis to check on me. You know, whether I had settled in well, and how I was keeping up. Of course, being a guy who could use all the love in the world, I didn't mind her intrusion. 

After a month of phone calls, sextexting, and flirtings, perhaps unable to control her testosterone, she had finally asked me out. Though she was quick to insist that it wasn't a date, everything about it screamed otherwise. 

She wore her skirt seven inches above her knees, so that it cropped up her thighs when she sat down. (My mama used to say that big-legged women were going to kill me). And here I was flirting with my sexy landlady, and not because she was single and rich, but because she was simply irresistible and ravishingly hot. Do you normally flirt like these with older women, she had asked girly. Certainly not, except with a good cause that concerns my livelihood. I had replied with an air of audacity that only a circumcised village elder could master. With that, the die was cast, her boat burnt and my unprecedented fairy-tale date with my new landlady formally flagged off.

She was scary smart and crazy beautiful. My first impression of her was those egocentric, control-freak, corporate career women who had no time for sex, masturbation, children or men. She had this exclusively stately ambiance of sophistication, elegance and classiness. Her hair was pricey done and fell on her shoulders perfectly.

She spoke hopeless Swahili, but spoke ‘proper’ English with a twang and sparkling of richness. She was of medium height, though her short skirt and high heels gave her the impression of added height. To perhaps cap her status and desire for the finer things in life, she had reserved a table for two in one of the Sarova Hotels in the City. As I pulled a seat for her, she generously slapped me with a blowjob smile. I must confess sheepishly that I was a bit nervous, and not because the Hotel was way beyond my league. But because she was dressed in a flimsy skirt and a seductive lavender-coloured bra that seemed helpless to hold her boobs that were threatening to literally spill off, while exposing her juicy cleavage that were mercifully begging to be oiled.

My attempts to understand the vastness of her investment portfolio, particularly in real estate were met with dodgy, un-coordinated answers. Like a wise village rabbit, she was cautious in her conversation, flamboyant in her attitude and generous with her smile. I tell you, it’s easier to squeeze a loan out of any bank in the world than to squeeze information out of this pretty thing.

I swear with the poorly coordinated hairs growing on my dry chest, I was smitten by her. For the most part, she had caught me literally staring at her as if she was the source of the air I was breathing. She was wickedly voluptuous. Her smile was contagious. Her face magnetic. She diplomatically ate Mexican steak and French fries with her mouth closed. She drank sweet red-wine, caressing the glass delicately to avoid spilling on her sexy dress. She was simple without being simplistic. Her talk was methodical and her confidence disarming.

As we wined and dined on the finest cuisine, I couldn’t help but notice that she kept implying now with increasing frequency about how her cleavage hadn’t been oiled for sometime. Known to be a gentleman with necessary bad boy attributes, I had tried not to comment, though if you ask me, I swear my heart was literally dancing on my tongue. My father used to say that you need three things in life: a good doctor, a clever lawyer and a forgiving priest. The first two, I have never had a need for. In fact, if you ask me, I think a man needs only two things in life: a forgiving priest and an intelligent, rich, sexy and single landlady.

By now as the expensive wine was flowing presciently, she was busy singing along with Mbilia Bel’s hit Nadina. Feeling slightly intoxicated, I clearly couldn't control my raging hormones anymore. Mastering the confidence of a village witch doctor, I had stealthily slipped my right hand under the table right into her warm thighs. They say if opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door. Caught unaware, she had taken a moment to catch her breath. Capitalizing on her reluctance to push my hand away, I decided to extra-judiciously execute her nervousness by gently leaning forward and planting a large, soft, wet, and passionate kiss on her succulent strawberry lips.

It’s at this moment that I realized the magnitude of what she kept insinuating about her cleavage not been oiled for ages. After the kiss, she was now magically oozing with sexual appeal, while her body language began to change. On the other hand, her breath was heavy, and she smiled with salubrious eyes and lusty look.

Your place or my place? She had suddenly asked. Your place, I answered tactfully, yet with the boldness of my Bantu people. As we made our way out of the Hotel, the security guard outside had slapped me with that disgusted look strippers reserve for broke clients perhaps to register his disapproval. Not to be cowed, I had slapped him back with a sarcastic smile pastors reserve for church members who never tithe.

She lived in leafy Muthaiga. Her house, a homely and charming address in a leafy suburb estate in Nairobi, oozed a rustic and artsy vibe that reveals wealth characterization. Her house had a solely stately ambience with an authentic African touch. After causal chit chats downstairs where I learned that as the only child she inherited her parent's vast business empire after they were killed in a road accident, we had made our way upstairs. 

Her bedroom was impeccably arranged and looked pretty much wealthily related. Her king-sized bed was enchanting and absorbing. As I scanned across the room with my heart dancing seductively in my testicles, she had looked at me with an unbearable longing, as she slipped her flimsy skirt right down her big legs, exposing her expensive lingerie. As I stood there all the while genuinely flabbergasted like an uncircumcised villager who has never seen a naked woman, she suddenly threw herself into my arms, her slight weight crashing onto my chest. Then she zealously rained my face with needy kisses that had me insistently gasping for air.

We kissed hungrily, straining to devour each other’s lips, mouths open to receive plunging and twirling tongues, our breaths mingling, our life force pounding through our arteries. Inhaling her mouth-watering scent, I dropped my head to nip her neck repeatedly, pulling the skin away from the curve with my teeth, nibbling at the soft flesh before letting it snap back. Meanwhile, while I continued my heated journey down to her shoulder blades and back, where the straps of her seductive lavender-coloured thong displeased me with its imprisonment of her translucent curves from my hungry gaze.

Meticulously applying the skills I gathered over the years from watching uncensored backstreet Uzbekistani adult movies, I tore her thong’s delicate lace, causing it to slither down at her feet. And like an arrogant Zebu bull, I then leaned back to let my scorching eyes move over her pleasing form. Then I placed my palms on her waist and let them travel to chest level to pull her for my waiting holmberry lips, simulating the pleasuring of her breasts as she threw back her head in ecstasy.

I couldn’t resist her eyes, and I subtly groaned as I caved in to her beseeching requests. Mumbling off some foreign dialect, perhaps to register her ecstasy, she had clawed my shoulders hungrily with her manicured nails, causing me to pull her closer to my hardening structure, and letting her feel my burgeoning desire. My physical response had only served to encourage her as she opened her legs to grip my waist, tightly pressing herself against me, intensifying me further.

And just like a well oiled newly imported second-hand Japanese juggernaut, she had then begun to move her hips urgently against my firm night stick, making me howl at her daring to undemocratically take advantage to satisfy herself. But, as I was the only tree in her forest, so I let her gratify her pulsing slit with my straining night stick, even putting my hands on her hips to aid her movements as continuous little moans trembled from her succulent lips.

She had then gently bowed her body, possibly to savour the moment. Consequently, pressing her charged body more insistently against my arm. The nipples of her breasts strained to push away their covers so that they could scrape naked against my skin, while the fleshy curve of her bottom rubbed insistently against my groin. Fearing that she was almost going to consume herself, I had clamped my other arm across her thrashing hips, my fingers clenching her tender flesh, while my lips strived to control her urgent intense twisting. I had then slowly and carefully, lowered myself so her legs could bestride my hips. I swear, she tasted like sugar cane dipped in Scotch-blended vanilla ice cream. 

As she gripped my forearm and turned her head to the side to sink her teeth into my chest, I knew she had reached her summit, and the slight pain from her bite made me reach out to the left side of the headboard, my grip wresting out the weakened wood. As she shuddered in orgasm, I quickly planted a large Anglo-leasing kiss on her juicy lips, as she struggled to put her legs together, evidently to hide the flow of pleasure that was physically exhibiting itself. It took her exactly seven minutes to regain her consciousness. And when she did, we kissed tenderly in the aftermath of our breathtaking pseudo encounter, as she confessed to feeling ten years younger. You can tell a ripe corn by it's look, goes an African proverb.