So.

It is no secret that I melt over flirts. Turn red, green and blue and all other colours on the map, laugh loud and hard [which for me is the equivalent of giggling coz … eh .. well, I rarely lol. Mostly I just collapse in silent laughter which makes my shoulders wiggle. I will be seen sitting in a chair grasping my tummy, with tears in my ears and my blouse vibrating. My office mate recently warned that I will soon explode. So when I literally lol, just know you have thoroughly hit the spot. No, not that spot.

And to clarify, when I laugh, it is not always because your lines are working. Sometimes, I laugh because I cannot believe you just said what you just said with a straight face. I mean when a boy says ‘I neeed inspiration to finish writing this novel. My wife has done her job faithfully for years, but now I need new muse, and I just know you would be ideal. You came to me in a vision, three days ago, and your name fulfills my destiny. You have a very fortunate name, adding sparkles of crystal to the world. And you see, I am a lover of all things beautiful.”

And he said that without breaking a sweat. How now?

Anyway. It has also come to my attention that I am taken for a flirt. I won’t deny it anymore, just know that in my mind, I am not. So the next task becomes how to deal with said flirts without digging oil wells with my laughter and map-drawing. And thank God for the beautiful boys in my life who give me lessons.

According to the main boy, flirting is a game, and it’s fun. It’s also a challenge, and a chase. So, no, you can’t shoo off a tease by saying ‘Don’t flirt with me.’ That’s about as effective as saying “Down Toro” to a bull while wearing a burgundy bandanna.

The trick is, according to my boy, to anti-tease. Tantalise and quell at the same time. Sample this.

Flirt: You are so sweet…
Reply: Chunga meno, I’m bad for your teeth/ I’m what your dentist warned you about.

Flirt: I will give you a massage…
Reply: Really, can you really outdo the pro…

Flirt: I’m randy but I can’t call my girl because sometimes I need more than sex, I need to have my mind engaged.
Reply: I can call her for you. And baibe all I offer is sex

Flirt: Yes I was asleep but I don’t mind you waking me up babie
Reply: Don’t worry my alarm clock is loud…

Ok that last one fell a little short of context, but you get the idea. How I love this boy. **Grin**

So from now on, no more giggling and lolling and swiftly changing the subject. From now on, this girl is on the offense. **Rubbing hands together** Twende kazi **wink**

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No, I am not too shy to type the word. It’s just that … you know … **grin**

So anyway, this is something I think [and blog] about a lot. A lot more than regular girls do. Or maybe just a lot more than regular girls will admit. But then again, I’m not a very regular girl, and that isn’t always a compliment 🙂

So. Why do we have less sex when we get married? And by married I don’t mean pretty-white-dress-stuffy-warm-suit-flower-girls-page-boys, though that works too. I mean people who are permanently cohabiting and maybe raising kids. That runs the whole gamut [I never liked that word] from customary to come-we-stay to partners. I mean people who are quote-unquote **doing the finger gesture thing** “together”. We blame it on in-laws, kids, snores, smelly feet, anything really. I disagree.

My theory is simple. Once you are together, sex just isn’t a priority anymore. You see each other every day, you get home from work tired, you find other stuff to do, you start to miss your ‘me’ time, sex gets relegated to once a week.

When you were living apart, you’d get home, flip through TV, do your whatever-you-do-after-work, start to miss the other person, call them up, get together, shag.

Plus, the beauty of mental images is that they’re mental images. Think about it. Your beloved is human, right, so they do perform human activities like brushing teeth, scrubbing scaly feet and … using the bathroom. But when you’re sitting in your quiet house thinking about them, the vision you see is not of him reading a newspaper in the little-boy’s-room.

Hence, every time you call them over, the vision you have is one that induces ngingi. Which means that when they come over, ngingi will ensue. But once you live together, and you see more of the unplugging-clogged-sink and scrubbing-greasy-ovens version, they just seem less scintilating somehow. So there you are, love of your life, happy, content, but somehow just not feeling very sexy – at least not about them.

That isn’t to say cohabiters can’t have sizzling sex lives. It’s just that once you’re living together, feeling sexual is a more deliberate effort. You have to actually work at wanting sex. Some people don’t realise this, so they live with the slump and bitch to their pals. Others know it needs work, but just don’t have the psyche to do it. It’s so much easier to cheat with someone who gets your blood boiling.

Hence ladies spend hours getting pretty in the morning for strangers, yet at home they kick back in stockings and old t-shirts. Gents get their shirts ironed, shave their heads and don cologne for work, yet at home they kick back unwashed with nothing but beer and the remote.

Now I know it’s hard work looking that good, and I know you deserve to unwind in your own house. But as one pretty Willie [and where IS that boy] told me, “I am your man, you should look pretty for me, not for a million random nobodies.” Point.

Oh well. One more reason for lazy [read cynic] me to put off the inevitable co-renting; living apart keeps the sex – not necessarily alive – but relatively effortless. Actually, living apart keeps the sex, period.

Along those lines, I was thinking about the wisdom of all engaged couples living together before they get married. Because the fact is you don’t really know someone until you live with them.

In older days people weren’t allowed to walk out of marriages, so when you found out about her sado-masochistic leanings or his poor spending habits, you kept it to yourslef, buckled down, and found coping mechanisms. Or co-spouses. But for us who know we can walk out kukidhooka, it may be a better idea to walk out before rather than after, yeah?

Then again … we’ll just end up with a society of serial engagements. Now that would be funny. The jeweller’s would love it though. Great time to deal in finger-bling, yes?

Parting shot: to all those many many maaaany boys who claim their women don’t give enough, watch yourself, and be careful what you wish for. Coz girls have big mouths, and one of these days you’re going to meet the handful of girls who really do want to hit it left, right and sideways four times a night, and they don’t charge you by the minute to do it.

When the happens, you better step up to the challenge, coz contrary to urban legend, not all ngingi-kitties are bad. Some are really very nice, all harmless frail and innocent-looking. And for the nice ones, nothings riles like false advertising. I’m just saying…

Anecdote:

So I said “So-and-so has a new post up, I saw it on their twitter. It’s in my google reader too. But I’m not sure I want to read it. You know some people’s posts I have to read with caution. **grin**”

So he said “I hope you have included yourself in that list.”

How i love my life **grin**

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