We were flying together. The gyration that was rocking the whole place had increased in momentum, and I thought it will never- should never- subside when she suddenly straightened up, her entire body stiffening like a frozen cadaver,with her head thrown back like she’d been hit by a high-calibre bullet.

Lips had been locked- mine to hers- tongues had been tangled- worming and squirming around each other- Teeths had been clashing in a sensuous bout of fencing- bosom had been heaving from the pounding of two hearts that had become one- hips had continuously heaved- to and fro- all the while- is the way we were going till she come. She come, I tell you.

She started to quiver in small convulsions. I feared she was having a feat of epilepsy.

A sharp screech that rang out from deep within her throat assuaged my fear- a new fear replaced that, and I feared that my prick had punctured something within her core after all.

If I don chook something burst inside her belle, that go be her fault o- sebi she dey tea-bag me too hard and too fast; like say she get death-wish to impale herself on my blunt-tipped spike.

She muttered a string of incoherence, all in an unknown tongue, very similar to the ecstatic glossolalia pentecostal church people speak in when they are moved by the spirit.

She seemed to be deflated all at once, and collapsed limply on top of me.

She was still breathing; breathing balmy hot air, hard, upon my neck, and her heart was still beating; pounding hard like a Monday Hammer against mine. That was the sure sign of life that reassured me that all was well with us, otherwise I had another fear that she might have passed out, the thing in her core having given way to my hard poking.

She had come twice previously, but not like this- this was earth-chattering. The two previous coming had felt warm; just warm like pee is warm. Those times, she hadn’t reacted with this much drama, neither had she stopped tea-bagging me- shagging the living fuck out of me. But this is quite some come, such come that could take over your entire senses and make your body quake so feverishly.

I have not felt or seen any jeez, just the tightening of the core- constricting my shaft as she touched down and coast to stillness.

Even though she remained still, after the landing, she kept quivering intermittently, I still wasn’t done- because I wasn’t quite come yet. So I kept driving.

I soon hit and rode over a bump. My whole body-frame galvanized with a shock. I jerked like I had touched the main of a naked live-wire.

I kind of lost control, I also lost my centre of gravity, veering off into some thick gold-and-silver clouds. I went somersaulting, tumbling- everything spinning round in a sprinkling of brilliant stardusts. Suddenly, with a “boomsshh!” I landed back on earth in an explosion of rainbow and tingling, sweet sensations

If this was not it for me- the greatest sex never had- I don’t know which one is.



There has been very little feminism this century. Venus now has all she ever wanted from Mars- A Baritone of Her Own.

Isn’t that scary, that the placards that used to scream “give us, us free” now proclaims “we want back rub!”… we want foot massage!” “we want… ehmm… What A Man Can Do!”

It got me thinking too, that the whole hullabaloo about “Women’s Rights” “Gender Equality” and stuff, has been all about boxing The Man in that corner where he would always play doorman and chef.

While playing the doorman isn’t a bad thing or a big deal, per se- afteral Doorman is a Man, and men make the better chefs- but having to box the man in that corner is to turn the table of gender inequality around, edging him hard against a wall. Don’t be surprise when you shall soon see Martians take to the streets, screaming, in soprano, “Bring Back The Days When We Used To Be The Last to Lay down, And The First To Rise up”

As a Martian, it has been my growing up dream to get to be the first to get back from work, change the baby’s diaper, make dinner, and give that back rub and foot-massage to the wife when she gets home from work. That dream now seems a delusion, because the Venetians have gained liberation from the Martian Masters.

As it is, a today’s woman would rather get served by a male chef at that restaurant or bukka, get her nails and hair done by a male stylist and Manicurist at that salon, and get her back rubbed and foot massaged by a male masseur, than be ministered by to a husband.

Now, should I still go ahead and hitched up to that Sistah, and probably, play a dummy good only for easing off the itch when the itch comes upon her? Should I not rather seek solace elsewhere, and realise my full potentials, coupled-up with another Martian who understands my needs like I want them understood?

The way things are going in this century, many a Man will lose their “Natural Affection.” and if this iniquity abounds into the next century, don’t blame a Brotha if his love waxed cold. I am catching a chill already myself.

So, biko, Nne, you give us us free- the liberty to be your Husbandman- chef, masseur, manicurist, and soul provider, especially for the massaging, biko!