Pussy whipped!

The title is self-explanatory. I am not referring to the lovable feline companion that graces many a spinster’s home. Symptoms of being pussy whipped vary from man to man depending on age and size but it is an affliction that does not discriminate against race or ethnicity. Yes, I referred to it as a disease. It is a form of addiction when you think about it. Once you get hooked you are in it for life. Emphasis on in. Pun intended. I guess in that sense we can say that the whipper that is la pussy (see what I did there) is an equal opportunity employer. A man who has been pussy whipped is a pitiful sight to rest your eyes upon. Sure, he has a spring in his step and an unshakeable smirk plastered on his face. He bears the look of a man with the world at his feet. Least be known to him he has made a deal with the devil. Sold his freedom and now his mind is mush. He probably spends most of his time consuming and being consumed by things that hardly ever see the light of day. The signs of this often-incurable ailment include but are not limited to;

  1. Missing boy’s night out. In the early stages, it will be brushed off as mere coincidence. The lovely lady that has mastered the art of love making will make herself available only when you are about to engage in some juvenile behavior with your boys. You know what they say about Jack and work. Initially, it will manifest as convenient booty calls just as you are about to order the first pint of lager at the local pub with your mates preparing to watch Arsenal get thrashed. As they so often do. The man in you will make due with substituting one form of play for another and off you go, leaving your boys high and dry because you know you are going to get off.
  2. Over powering jealous fits upon witnessing the owner of the whip that is used to tame the lion in you with another man/ boy. There is a difference between men and boys. In that same light, I should mention that my friends and I are men. Women excluded. It such a primal feeling. Jealousy. One that can only be explained by complex biology involving hormone secretion and neuron responses that I would rather not get into right now. There isn’t enough time and I have not the energy. Gentlemen, if you find yourself feeling very possessive of what is yours (bearing in mind it’s not) and view everything else as a threat to your territory then I am afraid to say, but, you have been whipped.
  3. That ‘I’m in love’ feeling. Remember Jim? My go to guy. My compadre. My brother from another mother. He has been a victim -I can’t say that with a straight face. We don’t talk often these days, work and all, but bros will always be bros. He found himself a little thing that rocked his world into a tail spin. Jim calls me, he is drunk, and asks me what love feels like and I explain it to him- with great difficulty. He does not subscribe to that line of thought. Then he tells me he is in love. I laugh out loud because I know him and I also know that it’s not possible, not after a month at least. I ask how she is in the sack and he goes into this long rant about her doing things he had never even imagined -his imagination is wild. Being a good doctor, I issued an accurate diagnosis. He had been pussy whipped. The effects thankfully did not last too long. I should also point out that it takes a strong man to escape the clutches of this affliction. Every time you try to pull out it sucks you back in. Pun intended.

There was this guy called Peter who was a regular at a pub I used to tend bar in. That bar had a few characters. Peter is a tall lanky lad with a baby face. Bald. His scalp matched his face. A consistent brown complexion. He came in every night at about 8 pm and sat at the far end of the counter, next to the wall. He ordered the same drink each night. A cocktail I made for him the first time he came in. Three tots of Viceroy with a twist of mint and lemon. I called it Medusa. Don’t ask me why. He would go through four or five before he left at 11.30pm. I could tell what time it was judging by the number of drinks he had downed. We were friends in a way. He often told me stories of his children in a soft-spoken tone. James, who is turning six sometime in December and Collet, a math genius, who took after her mother. I knew of the issues he had with his wife, Doris. I knew of the miscarriage they had. Allegedly, Doris induced it. I felt like I knew him. I gave him advice every now and then because I am wise and he would offer to buy me a drink in return. I would remind him I don’t drink – he never quite understood that -and the cycle continued. He was in the transport business. Owning a respectable fleet of lorries and trailers.

My father once told me ages ago to stay clear of women from the Kamba community. I asked why and he said they were dangerous and I was not ready for them. I know I am digressing but bear with me, there is a point. This sparked my curiosity of course. There was a belief in my being that I was ready for anything the world could throw at me but I consciously steered clear. Until I was man enough. I don’t really know what that phrase means to be honest. Is there a gauge or metric standard that measures the mettle of a man?

Anyway. I met this girl and yes, she was Kamba. A mix between Kao and something, a hybrid of sorts, but her last name was Kamba and that is what she claimed to be. Long story short. My father was right, as he often is. I was not ready. I don’t think I ever will be judging by her standards. Yes. They are dangerous. This girl did things to me that the Kamasutra should have -I checked, the things she did are not in there. It’s safe to say that I was whipped for good period. She would say jump and I wouldn’t ask how high. I would climb a building. It was that good. She was a horny thing too. Let’s say I have never been more fit in my entire life. Peter met a Kao mama. He saved her as ‘Mwende wa makaa.’

I know this because he told me. The things people will tell you once they have a bit of liquid courage. He met Mwende when he was shipping a load of charcoal into town. She worked as a road side trader of the goods. He spoke fondly of her. She was an escape from his unhappy marriage. A temporary one. I saw pictures of Mwende on his phone. Rather he showed them to me. Men like flaunting what they have, I don’t know whether it is an ego thing or pride. She was sexy though. I cannot tell a lie. Scouts promise. She looked like a girl you could take home to your mother. One that could bear you children. In other words, she had a nice set of melons and those child bearing hips that are so popular in Africa. He kept their relationship friendly for as long as he could but once he tasted sweet nectar nothing was ever the same again. No. He did not tell me that he had sampled the cow’s milk but I could tell. Peter was not the same man. He spoke of his children less and completely stopped mentioning his wife and their problems. I guess he did not want to poison the image of Mwende with such trivialities. He spent most of his time at the far end of the counter, by the wall, smiling at the screen of his Samsung galaxy s6. Whispering sweet nothings via finger tips. He was at the beck and call of Mwende, literally. She would call him and he would leave, even mid drink. It takes a special type of woman with a certain set of skills (Liam Neeson) to get between a man and his favorite drink. He was whipped. The worst case I have witnessed to date.

Mwende had poor helpless Peter exactly where she wanted him. His wife, Doris, came looking for him once or twice. I don’t know how she found out that he was a patron. I am of the opinion that every woman is a part time detective. A real-life Sherlock homes. There is nothing you can hide from them for long. Their Spidey senses always tingle when something is off. He was never around when she passed by. Lucky guy. His wife had the look of a rhino about to charge. He hadn’t been home. He was neglecting his family. That’s what Doris said anyway. I did not know him to be that type of man but then again stranger things have happened. Peter’s whereabouts were known though. You can take a guess. He was either with or in Mwende, which is essentially the same thing I guess. Mwende was a spider weaving her intricate web beautifully. Trapping Peter within until he could no longer move. I found out afterward. Got it from the horse’s mouth. Apparently, Peter was so smitten that he had opened a joint account in their name. It had a little over a million it before she withdrew all the contents and moved to God knows where. She had done well for herself. Roadside charcoal seller to millionaire in just over 6 months. This is the stuff church testimonies are made off. Peter was surprised. I can’t say that I was. He was blinded by the moves she put on him. He insisted it was juju. People are quick to pass blame in attempt to vindicate themselves. It is better to accept fault. He got back together with his wife. Well not back together, they never broke up. Things went back to what they were before the black widow made a guest appearance in his life. 8 pm he walked in. 11.30pm he walked out. I reminded him that clouded judgment often shrouds even the greatest of minds.

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