Munca: How Vernac Makes Us Cum

Let’s not even lie. “Umthondo omkhulu” grabs one’s attention more than ‘big dick’ or ‘huge cock’ ever could. It’s dominant, it’s present and downright erotic. Earlier this week, I took to the socials to highlight the relevance of dirty talk in one’s mother tongue vs. In English. It could be argued that English is someone else’s mother tongue, but dear readers of mine, I doubt it is ours. Now, one might be right to think that this is just an Anglophobic rant, but in all honesty, it isn’t. All I’m trying to point out is the fact (in my opinion) that Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho and even Afrikaans dirty talk is much more erotic than English trash talk.

Dirty Bits

Talking dirty in bed (or on the kitchen counter, your mama’s bed or the neighbour’s garden) can be exciting. It also could backfire….. Badly. I’ve had instances where I didn’t feel like an object of desire, but like the local whore. For example, I once hooked up with a bloke whose idea of dirty talking was asking me who’s fucking me around Soshanguve and going “bao nnyoba bashimane ba Sosha, ne? *insert moan*”. Needless to say, I never spoke to him ever again. When done right, dirty talking can open up the door to role playing and acting out one’s innermost fantasies. One of my favourite fantasies is being ravaged by a gangster. Now, imagine how this scenario would play out if bae kept going “You like that dick? You want that big dick?”. It just wouldn’t be….. Gangster enough. Now, if he goes “ufuna ngikubhebhe ne sfebe? Uthanda umthondo ne?”, that just gets things hard and liquids flowing. Often, vernacular dirty talk requires one partner to be a shady character, otherwise it won’t work as well. In English, anyone can dirty talk. From the teenager losing his virginity to the disgruntled gardner who’s been teased mercilessly by the boss. But having the pastor “pray” for you in rough vernac dirty talk can be a bit….. disturbing, to say the least. I’ve had fantasies about taxi drivers, gangsters and regular robbers, all of whom have done and (most importantly) said some particularly raunchy things in the heat of the moment.

Uyadinga Ukuzwa Umthondo

Dirty talk in one’s mother tongue can provide limitless scenarios and creativity. Maybe I like it for its straightforwardness. Unlike in English where the plumber would call and ‘check my pipes with his tool’, in vernac, one can expect raw, unbridled commands from the plumber. “Munca umthondo wendonda,” he’d say nonchalantly. Like it ain’t a thing. It’s not to say that native language speakers aren’t courteous to their would be bedfellows, but we sometimes wish they weren’t. Trash talking in vernac also increases the confidence of both partners. I’m sure we’ve all had that awkward ‘who’s your daddy?’ moment in bed, right? This is not to say that “mpitse papa” is any better (some would argue it’s worse) but the vernac trash talker gains some sort of confidence and it sure does translate in his pelvic thrusts. I can’t imagine the boost a Nguni man’s ego gets when he hears one go: “baby ufenda kamnandi.”

Ka Rota…..

The point of this little exercise? Trying to prove that vernacular dirty talking is so much better than English dirty talking. But then, it all boils down to preference. If you’d rather be told that he’s cumming instead of “kao rotela”, it’s fine. To each his own, it’s said. And if you enjoy sucking on a ‘lekker piel’ or ‘4-5’ or ‘Pipi e kgolo’ and being told ukuthi ‘uyisfebe esimnandi’ (it’s called dirty talking for a reason.) then keep having fun in vernac! Ithi ngishay’ indlwabu ngicabanga ngo-bae.


“Pray For Us…..”

I found myself saying that to him tonight. I don’t know why I said it, but it felt right to. Not because of the belief in a higher power or anything, but for the comfort of knowing that I’ll be the last person he thinks of when he goes to sleep. Very selfish, I know, but vanity is what I know best. Self preservation of sorts.

It’s been a while since I wrote. 3 months? I’ve been busy, being in love and stuffing my face. I’ve since turned 24 and I still am my biggest critic.

So I’m up at 23:17, having a bubblegum flavoured lollipop, contemplating life and things. I think I’m facing an existential crisis. I don’t want to be alive for much longer but living is much more fun. I’ve also been very philosophical. Annoyingly so. Just today, I asked whether dinosaurs would be sentient, not realising that I was confusing sentience with sapience (wisdom). I don’t do it on purpose but it annoys the shit outta me. Also, I have got to stop smoking weed! The way I go out of my way to be profound when I’m high. I sound like the people I always judge. You know, the dopeheads with limited intellects and little knowledge of world affairs and pop culture who’ll always try to be profound when high, talking about how this or that artist wrote this or that song while going through whatever.

I joined debate. I’m horrible at it and the coach believes that I’ll get better. I doubt it. It’s not that I can’t speak, but I feel dumb in front of an audience. Like all my points are invalid. Oh, there’s also the 15 minutes allocated to structure your case. Turns out I don’t do so well under pressure. Also, I get shy. I use the word ‘also’ a lot these days. Bad habits picked up on the Twittersphere. I tweet a lot too these days. Nonsense, yes, but I tweet nonetheless.

I think I’ve come to the end of this attempt at blogging. Feels more like a journal entry than a post but I’m going to share anyway because I haven’t written in ages. In fact, I’ve already stopped calling myself a writer. I’m just another typical black gay boy with a blog. Seriously, there are a lot us around. I was almost tempted to say “on these streets”. Anyway, I’m gonna go now. Not sure if I’ll fall asleep (I should probably go brush my teeth. Or maybe not. I don’t when I suck on other things before bed, right?) or just stay up being that annoying kid who thinks he’s clued up on everything. Except maths and politics. And human interaction.

Good night.