Slippery and Wet, Big And Long.

Warning: The title is really just misleading. There isn’t any action here.

My goodness, I need cock. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since my break up. I might have acted on the urge once or twice since then, but I’m insatiable. I’m told that I’m dropping innuendos unintentionally. When referring to the floor of an establishment I frequented over the weekend, I was (allegedly) heard saying suggestively that it was, and I quote, “slippery and wet.” This was the truth though! Anyway, this hypersexual Tshego is fun. I can’t remember the last time I felt this…. Liberated, I believe is the word?

A friend recently gave me a stash of condoms and lubes. The type they give out at LGBTIA organisations. But this stash is different. It’s filled with the most amazing condoms and lubes, amongst them glow in the dark condoms and vanilla flavoured lubricants. The excitement! One just needs a volunteer or four (I’m in the last few months of my early twenties. I’m allowed to be as…. Adventurous as I like) to test out these new ‘toys’, if you will. Oh, and this isn’t an invitation to anyone or a solicitation effort. I’ll consult my (extensive) black book.

This post is not meant to be profound or educate. This is just one of those instances where I want to share my (illicit) thoughts. I won’t claim to understand where all these urges come from. I will however confess to wanting to act on them. Which has found me in hilarious situations. Hilarious but fun. In more ways than one.

Anyway, I need to have sex. And that’s all I say about the situation. Maybe I’ll write about actually getting the D.


Another Meaningless Post At 3AM (On The Break Up )

Before I begin this, I’d like to offer my most sincerest gratitude to Motlatsi, Kholo, Sipho, Fortune, Mbali, Lopang, Fortunate, Mmabatho, Jabu (even though you make me uneasy), Kea, Nthabi, Liz Gilbert, Fifi and finally, the three gentlemen. Without you guys, I’d probably feel more horrible than I do now. Love and Light.

A month ago, my boyfriend and I broke up. As a break from normal Tshego tradition, I did not immediately take to the socials to broadcast my heartbreak to all and sundry. Instead, I kept quiet, a decision which seemed to be working for me until now. For the past two weeks, I’ve had this insatiable urge to just write it out of my system. To write him out of my system. And against the (obviously) better judgement of close friends, here I am, writing about how I again failed at another relationship in 2014.

For personal reasons, I will not mention the reasons my relationship with him deteriorated, but I will say that we both tried very hard for a very long to save it. But alas, love alone is never enough and we did what was best for the both of us.

Oh, but this year has been one of terrible losses on my part. Friends, former lovers and now him. I also realise now that this is the first time where I touch on Gunduza’s death in writing. He was everything, that indie loving Zulu taxi driver (inside joke) of mine. The fact that I couldn’t lay him to rest will forever haunt me.

It’s amazing I’m still standing. I’m not drinking as much as I would when faced with previous heartbreaks. I do, however, find myself eating all the time. I’ve even started calling myself a foodie to justify the endless eating. Something about this new heartbreak is different. I can’t talk to him because I end up fighting him. But I miss him all the time and I’ve unfortunately found myself begging him to take me back more than once since it (the break up) happened. Feel free to call me pathetic because that is how I’d feel after every attempt.

So why do I feel the need to get rid of him at 3am? Because during the day (Wednesday the 22nd), I deleted some of the pictures we took together. I had been holding on to these thinking that maybe, just maybe, they’ll create some sort of miracle. Funny. The atheist lad wanted a miracle. I’m also at a point where I’m beginning to take stock of my year and other than him and joining debate, I haven’t really done much with my year. Half the year was spent being angry at people who don’t care (still not ready to make nice), the other half at degrading myself (“I’m a terrible debater”, I’d say to whoever who would be within an earshot) and in between those times, I was almost always in tears for whatever reason. I can’t remember a single happy sober moment this year. I’m sure they were there but on this, the dark night of my soul (not really, I’ve had worse nights and it’s a metaphor), I can’t seem to remember any.

Am I heartbroken? I don’t know. All I remember is that one Tuesday evening a while ago, I sobbed uncontrollably at the realisation that our time in the sun was over and that there was nothing that I could do. I am grateful though that ours was an amicable (for what it’s worth) split and that mutual friends do not have to suffer. Oh, but him and have always been so grown up with our shit. I credit him for being my very first sane partner (see? Even the terminology was different!).

I wish I knew what was next. The focus now is on writing these shitty exams, salvage whatever friendships I have left, debate, learn how to be a proper feminist, have lots of sex and write, I suppose. I am not here for these meaningless “find yourself before moving on” exercises. That’s not to say, however, that I’m looking for a new partner (I’m going to call all of them that now!). I just mean that the people shall have fun. I deserve it.