What Happens On The HASH… (In Honour Of AH3 18TH ANNIVERSARY)

I just met her.
Beautiful.
Adele – kinda woman. Yes, she sings too.
Quiet. Too quiet actually.
But the eyes behind those spectacles…they spoke volumes to me… Within seconds I knew a lot …
She wrote this story.
I connected with its plot and I will try to give you a wider perspective…

{Beyond Redemption:
http://www.nazalily.blogspot.com

There she lay on her back, her body rocking as the man went in and out of her, sweating and panting as
though he was doing a 10 kilometre run. He was pot-bellied and greying already. He was definitely way older than her friend Susan had told her…

… Disgusted could not explain how she felt at the moment. She was irritated, not just at the man but mostly at her self and maybe life. As if life had not been cruel enough to take her parents away, she had had to drop out of school to fend for her siblings…

… Why had she agreed to this? Why had she come here? She knew it was definitely going to end in this, yet she came. She had had no plans to sleep with this man,,, so what made her leave her house to come see him? …

… She blinked away the tears gathering in her eyes… 

… So why on Earth did she stay back after realising her mistake in coming..? ‘Maybe he’d be the type that just wanted company and not sex…

… The love and tenderness with which he spoke to his daughter. What would this man think of her tomorrow? A prostitute? 
Definitely! Who else would readily sleep with someone old enough to be their father.. Someone they did not even know…

‘… Jane, you’re a prostitute’, she told herself. 
‘A shameless one’…

… She had never felt this rotten in her miserable life. This was not living, was it? She was merely existing…

… There she was in bed naked with a pot-bellied old man grunting on top of her. She had refused to kiss him as much as he tried to force his mouth upon hers. She couldn’t bear the mouth odour touching her lips
This was what she had brought upon herself. And what was all this worth?
Money? 
And to think they never even talked about money before the sex. So she had no idea if he would even give her some cash when they, rather when he was done…

… “Oh God!”, She wept. “How did I fall so below your Grace? How did it get this bad?” 
She remembered when she was eleven singing in the church choir. How amazing it had felt being in God’s presence. Now she couldn’t even remember the last time she had prayed let alone been in a church. 
What had her life become?
Worthless…

… She was drawn out of her thoughts when she felt him jerk and grunt louder..
“Oh thank jeez” The torment was finally over. 
He rolled over and fell asleep immediately his back hit the bed. She stared at his huge stomach and resentment washed over her. 
She wept more… Totally ashamed of herself. She picked her clothes off the floor and slowly dressed up. Trying as much as possible not to wake him up, she quietly snuck out of the bedroom into the sitting room…

… There she crumpled to the floor and wept bitterly, knowing that no matter how much time passed or how many lifetimes she found herself in, this dirt would forever be etched in her mind. She was tainted for all eternity…}

I work hard.
I earn every penny I spend.
City to city. Select destinations around the world. It’s never pleasure. Just business. I know I should relax. Doc says my blood pressure is too high…that he would have me rest…
Well… I will rest when I die.

I prefer to be alone. It’s easier frankly. Women are convoluted… Making money is my mistress.

So I am in Keffi, Nasssarawa state of Nigeria at the moment. I am passing through to Jos, Plateau state.
The fuel scarcity is brutal. My driver drops me off at a lodge called Minki, and then heads of to adorn the long chain of vehicles queuing up for petrol.

The hotel is okay. I sit by the pool and sip on a generous serving of Campari.

I strike up a conversation with a young lady close by. Her name is Susan. She is a student at the University in Keffi. She is about Maya’s age. I have about thirty – five years on the child.

That’s why it was funny when she started flirting with me. She was not my type and I told her so. We drank and talked for a while. The liqueur loosened my tongue and my usually strict code of ethics.

She had a friend I would like, she said. What room was I in?
The friend arrived an hour later. Emboldened and suitably intoxicated I started to undress her.
She would suffice.

Her breasts were rather small.
I was grossed out by the hair under her armpits, only because they smelled stale.
She was unshaved down there too… Hairy legs further down.
Her belly was my worst problem. It was a pot belly. It’s protrusion exceeded the protuberances of her breasts. I hate that in a woman. Especially if you’re not a mother of four kids and above. You belly should be largely flat otherwise!

Her redeeming features were her stunningly beautiful face and large buttocks. Trim waist.

That stomach though! Suck it up!!

Sheesh!!!

She’s quite lacklustre in the sack. She will not kiss me. She is unbelievably naive.
And she starts to weep tight – lipped.
I cannot wait to get this over with. A waste of my time and money.

But I realize that I feel something. I feel like I understand her plight. I can empathize.
She clearly did not want to be here. She was getting no pleasure.

All she probably needed was some money.
All she probably wanted was (maybe) my benevolence. All she probably desired was a functional father /parent.

As I climax I reason that I will invite her to accompany me onwards to Jos. I want to hear her story.

I am rich.

I will help her out, I can afford it a hundred million times over.

If I figure she is a mere hustler, I will simply make it worth her while.

I am a chronic insomniac. But I feign sleep immediately.
My heart breaks as I hear her whimpering beside me.
I feel her leave the bed and the rustle of fabrics let me know she is dressing up. I listen to hear if she would try to steal from my wallet on the table.

Instead I hear her sobbing softly from the other room.

I then decide that I will become her benefactor.

I will take care of her. She is a true victim.

I will marry her.
It has been too long since Hannah died anyway.

Should You Pay For Sex?

And it came to pass that yours truly,  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.

The Proper Way To Sell Your Body

Prostitutes.
Whores.
Courtesans.
Call girls…
whatever name you go by; I love you.

Now that we have sentimentsslashemotions respectfully expressed, let us proceed.

I have had the unique experience of becoming the friend of a prostitute. Two actually.
And no, (idiot!) I slept with neither.
Time and chance simply happened.
We became very fast friends.

I’ve met all sorts (I’m sure you have too. No? Liar!); career prostitutes, short-term prostitutes, crackhead prostitutes, hard up students, hard up foreigners, thrill seekers, greedy ladies…all sorts!

You quickly get to realise that these ladies of easy virtue are actually human. Who would have thunk it? Seriously, because with what they put up with sexually for money, I used to think they were cyborgs.

They are quite interesting.
A few are very intelligent, most of them are quite vacuous mentally, and some are just plain sick.
But they are mostly human nonetheless.

Because of how I was raised, I have taken it upon myself to educate existing and potential prostitutes on the proper way to do things.

I think the risks attached to prostitution are too dire, and grave. I humbly depose that prostitution be a last resort.
The job description is rough.
Perks of the job ridiculous.
Job satisfaction, doubtful.
On-job-promotion…oh please! Retirement benefits, uhmmm …
(see my point yet?)

When it comes to selling your body, these super-profitable strategies present alternatives and distinguish the (working smart) women from the (working hard) girls…

1) Sell your breast milk

Starting with the least profitable (@ $3/ounce), there is apparently a market for breast milk. Note of caution to would-be patrons, random testing of hundreds of breast milk samples have shown presence of contamination and disease causing bacteria. The findings were ruled “Unintentional Contamination.”

2) Sell your blood and plasma

You can make up to $200 a month from various donations of your blood. If you pass the screening that is. Anita, I suggest you lay off marijuana a week before your ‘donation’…#justsaying#

3) Sell your hair

You can make up to $1500 dollars if you have very long and straight hair. Non-dyed. Definitely not grey. And not shorter than ten inches.

4) Sell your body by ‘lab-testing’

Pharmaceutical companies pay up to $5000 to individuals that help them test their new drugs. There are contracts to sign and possibly an irate dad or loved one who may kill you should you survive this extreme venture.

5) Sell your eggs

For your time and energy, some companies will pay from $5000 – $8000 for your eggs. Age is typically 21-35, no smoking, no drugs, no high Body Mass Index. And yeah…, definitely no mental health issues (hehehehe)…

6) Sell your womb ‘space’

Gestational surrogacy can fetch you from $20000 – $35000. Contracts to be signed too. And no (Blondie), you don’t get to keep the baby.

I’m not expecting you to thank me…sigh…its a thankless job, public service!

Just think on these alternatives though, who knows?