Should You Pay For Sex?

And it came to pass that yours truly,Β  in compliance with his job description, was posted out to one of the many states in Nigeria.
Forgive the ambiguity. Security reasons.

As the job (unofficially) demands, the powers that be by the powers vested in them by their offices, desired female entertainment.
The onus thereupon fell upon my righteous soul, to cater within the confines of morality, and the existing legislature of the land to accommodate and make possible the said female entertainment.

I liaised.
I conferred.
I reconnected.
I negotiated.
Then I delivered. Yet not I alone!
No my friend, I am not trying to pass blame or share it. A million times no! Here’s why I say we were and not that I was…

When I got back to the opulent lobby of my suite, they were all seated. And there were new faces with them.

Time check, 10:46 pm.

Free facts; a vast array of liquor and a wide assortment of delicacies.

Yes Tommy there was roasted chicken. And yes Tommy, it was peppery. Yes Tommy, just like you like it.

Forgive me friends, my family is ‘complicated’.

The new faces were all beautiful. They were all seductively dressed. They all smelled like an amalgamation of pilfered and then poorly packed perfumes.
It was a lovely and pleasant-smelling atmosphere.

The lush sofas were arranged to circle a low and long tempered glass center table. Ornate, beautiful furniture. Obviously imported from Asia. I do not know how I know this exactly, I just do.

And I knew immediately that I had been set up.

She was built just like I like my women.
And coincidentally the sofa she was sitting in had the only free space left… Hehehe… I lowered my tired self beside her. Smiled broadly and introduced myself.

Her name is Timi. (no Einstein, it is not her real name! From her to me; or from me to you!!)

Introductions were mildly shouted over the cacophony of MTV Base, phone calls, conversion, laughter, et al.

And so I poured myself a bit of bottled water on the rocks (the “no Einstein…” premise as interjected above still obtains here…) and settled down to commence small talk with this ‘unholy set-up’.

Her eyes were jaded.
Don’t get me wrong, they looked alright. But I’ve been here and there, I know torment and a homo sapien absent a soul when I see one.

In fact upon closer inspection I saw that I had been hasty with my accolades. She was what I call ‘F. F. F’…
Fine. From. Far.
Up close and personal, nah…

“I can show you a good time” she quoted by rote.
I smiled thinly in reply.

“But you have to take care of your girl, yes?”

Of course. It’s my sole purpose of existence.

“How much? ” I hate beating about the bush. (Except when I care about you that is.)

“You are a chairman na, I’m just a poor student… You tell me”. She quipped ‘sultrily’.

You may be poor, but definitely greedy I remember thinking. And since I didn’t want to ultimately waste my time leading her on, I diplomatically informed her that I don’t pay for sex.

With a look of disdain she informed me that I was just a stingy man, the sort adept at using love to get sex for free.

My water on the rocks was starting to taste like water.

She then began to cast aspersions on the length and the health of my phallus. Basing her half – baked hypothesis on my 240-pound (muscular) frame.

“Everybody knows that big guys have small dicks!” This lady of easy virtue was a piranhaslashbarracuda!

Suitably tongue – lashed and unjustly emasculated, I quietly arose, picked up a bottle of my favorite water (yes water! What?!) and stepped out onto the porch. I gently pushed the sliding door shut.

I was pondering on why the Taj Mahal had no history of spectres and ghouls when I heard the door slide open, music, noise and her cheap fragrances assailed my senses banishing all my international musings.

“I’m sorry sir. I didn’t mean what I said.”

I turned to face her. Shrugged and tried to dial my thoughts again.

“Peace offering?”

Smoked lion meat! Woman, please leave me alone!!

“I don’t smoke.” I replied instead.

“But it’s ‘S.K’!”

” I don’t smoke weed either Timi, thanks for offering though.”

“Why are you now making me feel like a sinner? You don’t pay, you don’t smoke, and now you don’t smoke S.K!”

(And I drink only water… Wink…)

I am no Saint. Truth be told, I don’t pay for sex because I truly believe that I should be the one getting paid for sex.

For starters I am good.

I court, woo and serenade you.

Then toil in wanton abandon till you reach your zeniths.

Then neglect to traumatize you by not explaining every time that “every male ejaculation, equals seven days nutrition’.

Then in post – coital bliss cuddle, snuggle and whisper sweet words of truth in your neck as I experience them right there. Reinforcing your sense of worth and belonging, lowering your anxieties and stress.

You whore…most likely never trafficked; not a victim of cruel injustice, blackmail, coercion, kidnap, sold or pimped out by your boyfriend, husband, family or parents… or irreversibly addicted to drugs … You are simply a victim of your greed, necessitated by wanting to live and achieve beyond your means overnight.

As long as you trade sex for cash or any other advantageous incentive… Then we are all prostitutes.

So, pray tell, why should I not place a premium on my sexual favors also? Why do you ascribe financial value to yours alone?

But I decided to be economical with my truths, and allow Proverbs 26:4 illuminate my path.

“Chic, I’m no saint” is all I said instead.

Dan Ochu-Baiye

Large. Curious. Reads a lot. Wild. Loves lions and tigers. Music. Gym. Hiking. Loud music.

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