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Monday 29 November 2010

Kola Boof Rants: Modeling sucks if you’re a hyper-intelligent woman.

" I don't deny that I'm a controversial, provocative public figure. I reject all man-made religions, be it Christianity, Islam, the Jewish faith, Buddhism or any worship that was created by men. I am a womanist and an African mother. I bare my breasts in the river once a month and I believe in the womb. "

I have written about her in this blog. Clickhere here and here for past articles.

But to recap: Egyptian-Sudanese-American novelist and poet Kola Boof has been an agent for Sudan’s SPLA and was the National Chairwoman of the U.S. Branch of the Sudanese Sensitization Peace Project.

She blogs at Kola Boof. com
Modeling sucks if you’re a hyper-intelligent woman. But we’ll go deeper with that in a minute. First—I want to share with you some really funny shit.
I was twenty-four and relatively “dumb” when this happened. You must picture Tel Aviv, Israel circa 1994; seaside resort for the jet set, totally secular—Israel’s young and rich; the happy and the sinful. A forty-something gay male friend (and Sissy Spacek look-alike) who we’ll call “Swan” had rescued me from being an older man’s mistress in Fairfax, Virginia and taken me across the ocean to Israel with the bright idea that me being over six foot tall and slender with an angular face would instantly translate into Naomi Campbell’s millions as a supermodel. Swan knew a Jewish photographer in Israel and both were comfortable in that culture, so off to Israel I went. The photographer indeed trained me, bedded me! (haha), sent me on “go-sees” and got me steady work as a pose model. But my dearly beloved Swan turned out to be a lot more adventurous and dangerous than anyone could have predicted. He almost got the both of us put in prison for life!
Using the money of some rich old Jewish politician, Swan opened an “exotic eatery” called “WHO’S GAME” where we served ultra-expensive delicacy meats such as kangaroo, antelope, elk, boa constrictor, cobra, ostrich, wallaby and crocodile—Swan cooking and me playing the glamorous, charming hostess. I swear on a stack of Bibles…I never knew that we were actually serving chicken thighs, white-dyed chicken thighs and more chicken thighs with egg plant pieces, different sauces and food colorings dribbled over it to make it seem like exotic game meats.
The authorities arrived one day and arrested Swan. Not only was he high on marijuana and face beat (meaning made up a like woman; androgyny) when they busted in the place—but he tried to deny that the highly expensive plates warming over rock-fire grills were nothing more than cheap chicken cuts. He insisted it was real exotic game meat and I had no reason not to defend him, to insist right along with him.
“This is no crocodile and bison!” hollered the police. “The shit tastes like chicken…and it is chicken! Arrest them both!”

Suffice to say, I had to leave Israel. The photographer and other prominent Jewish people who’d gotten to know me spoke on my behalf, insisting that I was innocent, and T-Swan went to jail by himself. Year later, after sending him money in jail, I managed to secure a lawyer and get him out; mainly because I knew his heart and loved him regardless of the scam. But our friendship died the day he got me entangled in that mess and I swiftly departed Israel.
Being the daughter of noted Egyptian archaeologist and activist Harith Bin Farouk (and speaking Egypto Arabic fluently), I returned to my father’s country, Egypt. This too, was illegal, because they don’t allow people to travel freely from Israel to Egypt without special permissions and stacks of paperwork. I basically fucked a Judge in Jerusalem and was sent over with an Arab politician in six days flat for free.
Hired as a model for “Seychelle”, a Greek firm, I immediately became a “paid party girl” at Egypt’s top resort, “Sharm el Sheik” (I got to meet Colin Powell!). A paid party girl is not quite a prostitute. You must realize that in Arab Muslim cultures, the majority of women cannot go with their hair uncovered or any skin showing. So foreign women (models, actresses, singers, dancers) are paid money to come and be “wall candy” for political state balls and government affairs. Our job was to look “western,” glamorous, sexy and anything else from there was up to us. Some girls did prostitution raking in hundreds of thousands in months; some only accepted the check for appearing at the party, and many others, like me, sought what I call “parity”—a mistress position with powerful and wealthy men. Within months I was working as a “hostess” for Egypt’s President Mubarak at both Sharm el Sheik and on his private yachts in the Mediterranean. I never had sex with President Mubarak (frankly, he isn’t sexually attracted to Black women who look Black). But it was while working for him that the world of modeling, acting and being a “kept woman” opened up for me.
Quickly—in case you’re unaware of my bio, I’m Sudanese born but adopted and raised by Black Americans since the age of 8 or 10 (there’s no way to know my age for sure). My Egyptian father and Oromo Charcoal-colored mother were murdered in my presence for Pappuh speaking out against the building of Lake Nuba, slavery and genocide in Sudan. Couple that with me being “raised” by American Blacks in Washington, D.C., and you begin to understand what made me so intriguing and exotic to Arabs, Africans and Jews alike. I was chocolate colored with the long angular Nilotic face, the large forehead and the wispy frame. I could speak Arabic. But I was also very American in appearance and spoke English flawlessly without an accent. I wore weaves, was assertive and bold and I could mimic the slang of an American abeeGoddessa (hot chocolate)—Pam Grier, Vivica Fox, Donna Summer, Diana Ross, Condoleeza Rice, Whitney Houston—the kind of Black women Arab men fettish in those countries, mainly because there are none over there.
Who can forget the pandemonium that broke out in Vienna, Austria in the mid-1990’s when 300 native Austrian men showed up at a Video Rental Shop to purchase a VHS motion picture that featured Vivica Fox. It was crazy and violent fighting over such few copies; but they don’t have women who look like Vivica over there, so to them, she’s an alien dream fantasy.
As much as racism worked against me in Israel and the Arab North African world; it was this exotic status that also benefitted me.
Though I’m definitely not claiming that I’m an exceptionally beautiful woman or even beautiful—what I do know is that I am outrageously tall with a striking face, DD natural breasts, a nice booty and 50-inch legs.

Add in my Sharon Stone attitude and being a great beauty was not important. I appealed wildly to Arab men’s race-specific lust (the belief that black women are insatiable panthers waiting to be ravaged) and their hate.
I was never the type of Black Woman who gave a shit about other races seeing us as “sexual athletes” or hyper-sexualizing us. Frankly, I think that’s where a lot of us go wrong—trying to prove shit; trying to prove that we’re decent and clean; trying to prove our humanity to people who can’t stand the birth of us no matter how docile and respectable we act. It’s also why I hate Men’s religion (Christianity, Judaism, Islam, all of their “woman is impure/needs to be shut away on her period” crap). Since I was a child, there was always a part of me, a huge part of me that believes I’m the best thing in the room; it’s also how I see other Black women—so I’ve never really been able to care what other races of people think about my sexuality. I feel that my sexuality is mine, for me to enjoy, and that’s what I did and do. I live my life.
I modeled and eventually moved to Libya and Morocco where I became “actress Naima Kitar” doing television commercials and over forty Arab B-movie comedies (always cast as the topless African girl prostitute, usually the only Black in the whole film). In one commercial, the punch line was having my wig snatched off by my little boy. Arabs love to see African women demeaned or portrayed as overweight. In the one and only film that I was ever the lead star, “Al Sitar” (The Curtain; made in Morocco), I got to sing wearing beautiful gowns. But I was still naked for most of the movie and had sex with three Arab male characters that I happily called “sayiid mu-allim” (master) before dying in an alley from a venereal disease. It ended with the male love interest announcing my death from “dark demons” and him marrying a nice Arab Muslim girl to cleanse him of my seduction.
I know I’m talking a lot. But what I really want this piece to do is two things. One, show African-Americans how Blacks are treated virtually the same everywhere in the world (the “brown brothers” Camel shit that Black Americans spew claiming anonymous, invisible solidarity with “others” sickens me to no end—the average Black American can’t even relate to Alek Wek, so how on earth are they thinking Arabs, Spaniards and White Latinos are their brothers and sisters beyond “surface affection”?). And two, to tell those of you who are women about one of the moments in my life that I started accepting the fact that I need feminism as a force and protector for myself.
I woke up one day and realized that male models are called “male models.” But that we females were simply called “models.” Women who prostitute are simply called “prostitutes” while men who prostitute are called “male prostitutes.” The wording indicated a lack of expectation for womanhood’s ability that morning. It indicated a long history of women being powerless and oppressed by men’s privilege—men’s right to own our sexuality (own it!) via marriage or dowry. And then demonize it provided a woman chose the ultimate freedom, prostitution (which frees the woman from loving and catering to one man and allows her to make a career out of many men). Granted, I believe most of the world’s prostitution is the result of women being desperate, uneducated, unloved and lost. I don’t think it’s something that most women want or see as a good career choice. But I do think it’s a woman’s right; and a lucrative career choice for smart women who know fully what they’re doing. The wording though—model; prostitute; stripper—and then society adding “male” as a prefix whenever males did it, gnawed at me.
I was born the observant analytical type; the chief components of a good writer (which I hadn’t realized back then); so the more I modeled, the more disturbed I began to feel about how I was allowing my body to be used. For us Black models working in North Africa or Spain, there weren’t any hair care products or makeup that flawlessly matched our tones. In fact, unlike the lighter-skinned girls, we had to do our own hair and makeup. Black American girlfriends in Anacostia Park, Lanham, Hampton University, Harlem and Brooklyn sent me Crème of Nature, Ultra Sheen and bottles of foundation I mixed until I got near the Chocolate Gold coloring of my face. Less care went into photographing us. Hours could be spent on lighting and photographing the White, Arab, Spanish and occasionally Asian model. But African girls were just thrown against a wall or posed across a table. They often put us in animal prints and gave us a spear. The clothing that the White and Tan models didn’t want to wear went to us; lesser time and detail went into us. And we were paid less money. Some under aged African beauties were photographed, raped and not paid at all.
I was naturally skinny black then, so I never had to starve myself. But this is how the White and Tan models suffered, too. At times one of them (almost always a blond) would come up missing and be found weeks later dead. They did starvation diets and myriad drugs to stay thin. Everything was about being ultra-skinny, tall and boy-like. Several African girls “skin bleached” and took the Michael Jackson Pill to try and attain a lighter complexion and they felt no shame about it. In fact, they considered me stupid for cherishing my color and wanting to look like Angela Bassett in my photos. One of the blond girls had her vagina infibulated and circumcised like us African girls to be “closer” to us (dumb bitch). She was suicidal about it, and to this day lives in agony, but she ended up making literally millions off the men, because of course, in Arabic Africa, that’s what the men prefer above all us—a properly cut and permanently tightened vagina. And then always, the men booking, choosing and photographing us made it clear that we were to use our beauty as a punishment against other women—our skeletal glamorexic images invoking a reminder that for not looking like us or trying to look like us, they deserved whatever was dished out by the men in their lives. Quite literally, the men talked openly about how they wouldn’t “smile at no ugly girl” and didn’t have to be polite women who they found unattractive. A few even boasted about how they’d made some ugly girl’s day by gang-raping her. They saw it as charity.
It was nice with most of the British and French photographers, though. What I despised was working with the Arabs or the ones from Barcelona, Sicily or Portugal. And if you were an African girl modeling on that rare occasion for a Black Western male or auditioning for something that a Black Male had a vote in, it was typically your worst nightmare, because they, our own seed, hated us the most.
Black men in the industry, unless they were homosexual, always made it clear for reasons I’ve never understood that Black women should be invisible; should be unloved; should be grateful to live in the shadow of everyone else. They were horrible to us but couldn’t kiss the asses of White and Tan girls enough. Unlike other races of men, African males judged us almost solely on how dark or light we were. Having African hair (ie. Nappy) absolutely revolted them. The lighter and more European you looked, the more Black men could see you as a human being or admit out loud that you were pretty. So along with the Arabs, they were the rock bottom worst.
But overall, the whole modeling endeavour sucked.
I was too much of a critical thinker not to laugh at how absurd and demeaning my job was. Each day, I felt dumber and dumber standing posed in grass in high heels and a leopard sheath pussy-cover (what I call mini-skirts) with Prince Charles painted over my bare tits and a wig made of long dog-smelling hair cascading down my back.
“Stop thinking so much, Naima—it’s showing in the camera. Stop thinking! We don’t need you to think! You’re supposed to give us a fantasy—not a real person! If the sun is too hot and mosquitoes are biting you—do what Naomi Campbell would do—make love to it! You’re supposed to be the ultimate goddess in these shots. You want every man to worship you don’t you? ”
I just really wanted the money back then. Nearly twenty years later, I realize that I’ve never once missed modeling, and on occasion, even denied that I ever used to do it.
I never felt like a woman when I was modeling.
What say you? God bless !!




How was your weekend? Good? Bad? so so? Mine was terrible :(, firstly the boiler packed up (in freezing temperatures, I should add) affecting my central heating, which in addition caused water to run from my overhead tank..ALL WEEKEND LONG!

Note that my chief and chieftess are visiting and of course will be cold and upset (more on them when you click here )
All in all I had no heating all weekend and very angry guests PLUS will have a huge water and electricity bill to look forward to next period.. Methinks its time to bite the bullet and buy own house!!!

Anyway enough about it and the kind of torture I have been panning for my estate agent *deep breaths Mena* I have a couple of blogs I will be sharing in the next few days which I hope you can some time to peek at :)).

The first one is a lighthearted take on Nigerian men. All stererotypes but still hilarious. The second is another article on the womanist called Kola Boof. There is a number of articles on her here here and here so far, which, I should add, have had a lot of hits from visitors to this blog but the visitors are sharing their thoughts? Perhaps they find it a voyeuristic delight???

Swiftly moving on...
apart from those blogs mentioned, I have some more blogs still in draft phase, which I hope you will enjoy!

Before I forget, gigantic HI to newbies! Thanks for following me and for posting links to my blogs in your website..I sincerely appreciate that and will like to reciprocate, so please place a comment in here with a link to your website or more recent blog so I can go and interact with you as well as follow you! Thanks again oxo

So am off to publish the first blog then! Note that even as I sign off from here the water is still gushing out and there is still no heating! Oh well, have a great week!!!

Saturday 27 November 2010

IS 'DIRTY SECRETS' = soft porn or not?

So I was visiting blogsville when I noticed the buzz about a movie in Nollywood. “Dirty Secret”is the title and the preview on youtube is right here.
(Dont know how to embed videos yet, sowwy)

The movie apparently caused so much uproar that porn is not part of the AFrican culture, the erotic scenes depicted by the actors and actresses reflected their own morals or lack of. Infact the story had so many hits that one of the actresses (allegedly?!) tweeted at critics to mind their own business as she is only doing her job. (OK it was a very rude update but I managed to summarise it :P)

Now I dont know anything about the actress, Tonto Dike nor her reputation as I had left Nigeria before she gained popularity/notoriety.

But one significant thing that happened was a rejoinder to the initial article which stated that once the video was released, it was sold out with people asking for more copies

It was at tha point that Mena was kicked out of her semi asleep mood and put on her thinking cap.

I came up with a few questions:

1. Is it valid to describe that video as 'porn'

2. Does the fact that an actor/actress interpretes a role given to him to the best of his/her ability have any connection to his/her moral standards (if any?)

3. Is sexual immorality 'foreign' to the Nigerian culture?

4. And if art mirrors real life, can it be argued that writers of that movie created it from actions displayed within the Nigerian society?

5. Who bought the copies of the movies that was allegedly 'sold out' then??

6. WHat are your independent thoughts(if any)Is it reactive, defensive, indifferent?

I realise that am adding 'free buzz' as someone put it, to the hype surrounding the movies and am fine with that. Dont say I dont support Nigerian based art/artistes oh :P


p.s: Note that I have not seen the movie and will not be seeing it as firstly I prefer movies that challenge my mind (say like se7en, sixth sense, the usual suspects etc) and in addition I personally find the preview tacky.

P.P.S: I know I said nothing about the content of the movie, this is because I am more interested in the 'moral outrage' as displayed by its intended market

Friday 26 November 2010



Took a stroll around brent cross shopping centre last weekend in search of a good suit for my graduation. I noticed a few couples locked in embrace...

Ever wondered what she or he was thinking while smooching? yes???? What a frigging coincidence, me too!! :P

SO lady and man are locked in a snog, what could be going through their heads? At a guess, the lady is thinking, "he smells nice" "such fit and muscular body" "fresh breath" "such big and strong hands, hope its a reflection of his thingy".....etc.


But those are their thoughts, what they actually say is

Lady: " This feels good, could stay here forever "
Man: "I want to show you someone that is eager to meet you....."

indeed, he decides to show her. The man unzips his trousers, whips his thingy out and shoves it in her hand.

She says, 'Thanks, but I don't smoke.'



p.s: A great big welcome to newbies! Please leave a comment palcing a link to your latest blog and Mena is on it, like a $%£ on @$@~! :)))

Wednesday 24 November 2010

Mena is very Grateful*...


Mena is Grateful

Mena is very Grateful...

Mena is very Grateful....To

Mena is very Grateful....To God*

Mena is very Grateful....To God and

Mena is very Grateful....To God and she will look to psalms!

Shall I ever be able to praise you:
God give me wings to get to the heart of it?

I will praise you, LORD, with all my heart;
before the “gods” I will sing your praise.

I want to learn more of your wonders:
there are so many things to know and to enjoy.

I will bow down toward your holy temple
and will praise your name
for your unfailing love and your faithfulness

For you are present in wind and fire:
in the atom and the microchip your glory flames out,

My world is charged with your grandeur:
your sparks too brilliant for human eyes.

I begin to feel your rhythm and hear your music:
the trouble is in myself!

Help me to glorify you also in my failures:
to praise you in spite of sinfulness in our inhuman world.

Because when I called, you answered me;
you greatly emboldened me.

I cannot yet thank you for everything there is:
but I can give praise to you in everything I know.

Though the LORD is exalted, he looks kindly on the lowly;
though lofty, he sees them from afar.

Your goodness is beyond my meagre understanding:
your eternity transcends the span of our lifetimes.

Though I walk in the midst of trouble,
you preserve my life.

You stretch out your hand against the anger of my foes;
with your right hand you save me

When can I have courage to be happy and learn to praise you?:
you're with me now yourself to voice my praise

your love, LORD, endures forever—
you do not abandon the works of your hands.

*I attended my (belated) graduation ceremony and am now officially educated.Have a nice day & God bless !! :))

Saturday 20 November 2010

Men cheat. Get used to it. Case closed.question is, WHY?

Eva and Tony's break up is sad, and as forTony's cheating via sexting; 100 texts in a month, dude needs a psychiatrists oh!
'Mena you too talk! If you can just remove your eyeballs from the hunk of a man that is Tony Parker and listen to me. Learn this as a famous guy you meet a lot of beautiful women. You feel attracted to them, they feel attracted to you, and you end up in bed. It's not more complicated than that and there's no way to stop it.' Men cheat. Get used to it. Case closed.

Such shallow drivel has been the level of discourse ever since the story broke that Woods may have had enough mistresses to staff a female softball team. Firstly, if there is no way to guarantee male faithfulness, why are we all scandalized by Woods's behavior? And second, a whole parade of powerful men - Eliot Spitzer, John Ensign, Mark Sanford, John Edwards - are destroying themselves and their families with acts of infidelity. And we can't come with any cause other than powerful men have a sense of entitlement?

What impedes any deep understanding of infidelity is the public's natural assumption that husbands have affairs for sex. In fact, the vast majority of husbands' affairs have no physical component. They are cyber affairs that take place over the internet. They are conducted over the phone and are never consummated. And even when they do get physical it is often very bad and unsatisfying sex, as Monica Lewinsky shared in the Starr Report and as a multitude of JFK's mistresses alleged as well.

IN TRUTH, men have affairs not for physical reasons but for emotional ones. They cheat not out of a sense of confidence but out of a state of brokenness. Not out of a sense of how desirable they are but out of a sense of what failures they are. And this is especially true of men like Tiger Woods and Bill Clinton who live in a hyper-competitive environments where they realize that they are only special to the extent that they keep on winning. Men like these are particularly broken, living as they do just one failure away from obscurity. They know that their value as human beings rests entirely in other people's hands. And they live in permanent and painful insecurity. They constantly question their self-worth and they turn to women both to feel desirable and to comfort them from their pain.

Yes, I know. Men like Tiger Woods appear to the public as cool-as-a-cucumber. But beneath the calm veneer is a man who has been trained to believe that his value as a human being rests entirely on a never-ending game of human one-upmanship. Those who have made their names in sports and politics live with unimaginable insecurity. And rather than deal with these insecurities in a healthy way by having deep emotional conversations with their wives about their fears, it is easier to simply paper them over by turning to strangers who make them feel special.

The attention of other women brings a momentary silencing of the inner demons who constantly taunt them with whispers of their own insignificance. And the more prized the woman is by other men, the greater the validation these men feel.

Coupled with this is the intuitive gravitation by men to the healing powers of the feminine. Men who are in pain use the caress and the care of a woman as a salve to sooth their broken egos. Having a woman care for you and make herself available to you - not to mention tell you how wonderful you are - becomes a like a drug that makes you feel instantly better. Of course, the healing is ephemeral and unfulfilling based as it is on a highly artificial sense of intimacy.

The obvious question, now, is this. If a man who feels deeply insecure looks to a woman to make him feel special, why doesn't he turn to his own wife? Because any man who suspects deep down that he is a loser is going to look at the woman dumb enough to marry him as a loser squared. She has allied herself with failure and is part of the same loser package. And if she has no value, how can she confer it on someone else?

THE PUBLIC makes the mistake of assuming that powerful, successful men are the most confident, that elite sport stars like Tiger Woods are unflappable. Precisely the opposite is true. Everyone who seeks the spotlight, whether in sports, television or politics, does so to compensate for some inner feeling of inadequacy, as Aristotle made clear more than two millennia ago. Every 'successful' man is inwardly broken in some way. If not, why would they spend their lives seeking a place in the public's heart?

Many will argue with me. Adultery is about sex. It's about powerful men behaving arrogantly. But then why is the most common refrain of the adulterous husband to his mistress the very infamous, 'My wife doesn't understand me,' meaning, My wife can't take away my pain, but maybe you can. My wife can't make me feel good about myself. Even in my marriage I still feel so insignificant. But being with you makes me feel special.

I was not at all surprised to hear Woods's alleged mistresses saying that he told them he loved them and was unhappy with his wife. Cheating husbands always say things like this. And at the time, they mean it. Monica Lewinsky said that Bill Clinton told her he would leave Hillary and marry her, which again is common with the unfaithful spouse. They're expressing their inner misery and blaming their wives for their unhappiness when really they are solely responsible for their low self-esteem which will carry over into every relationship until he finally decides to fix himself.

This is why we see philandering husbands so often having many, as opposed to just one mistress. No woman can make a broken man feel good about himself. So he becomes a wanderer, obsessively traveling from woman to woman hoping that at least one will provide the magical salve he seeks.

Many have said that husbands like Tiger Woods are sex addicts. But then why aren't they addicted to sex with their wives? Why does it have to come from another woman?

FROM UNDERSTANDING the cause we can create a solution. Men who learn to talk to their wives about their deepest fears slowly become immune to an affair. Infidelity, it turns out, often provides a starting point for couples to address the void in their relationship which usually consists of the lack of truly intimate communication about life's anxieties and apprehensions. A man's deepest fear is of failure. And the person he most masks this from is his own wife because she is the person whose opinion matters most.

I know husbands who have been laid off from their jobs in this recession who still put on a suit every day and leave the house so that their wives never find out. So-called 'successful' men harbor the same fears. And rather than destructively address the fear by becoming a stud to other women, he can purge from himself a dependency on strangers by learning to confide fully in his wife.

The number one complaint of wives in marriage is that their husbands don't talk to them about their feelings. When a philandering husband is trying to win his wife back after cheating on her, what better way than to finally open up to her about the reasons for his unfaithfulness. It was never a rejection of her. It did not happen because she did not give him enough sex, or that she didn't go to the gym, or wasn't emotionally available.

Those are the excuses of a coward. A boy blames others for his failures. A man takes responsibility for his actions. Rather, it was because he falsely thought that someone other than his wife could make him feel good about himself. And now he has learned that those feelings of self-confidence are the preserve of only one woman.

Source: The Jerusalem Post
my thoughts: Good points in there but most importantly Tony Parker is a fyyyne looking man. LOL :P

Friday 19 November 2010

The qualities he is looking for in a woman

“The small of a woman’s back is sexy,” he said. “There is a tenderness a woman has that could make a man fall to his knees and a strength that will tell him to be the greatest of all.

“For a woman to be able to dominate and also be feminine and soft, that’s a talent. “And it’s not all about appearance. A woman who is intelligent, has a brain, who is street-smart and book-smart — that woman is very, very sexy to me.”

Usher Raymond, — who has two sons, Usher V, two, and 23-month-old Naviyd, with ex-wife Tameka Foster — also spoke of the importance of communication in making a relationship work. “Women see things that men don’t,” he said. “I guess it’s more important for a man to hear a woman, not just listen. “The perfect relationship is one where both parties try to understand what their mate is not just saying, but feeling too.”

Usher sounds really deep, especially with his comments placing less emphasis on looks, more on character, BUT, I cant tell if he is just being media savvy, lets face it, his target market are the ladies

I guess his search for Miss Right continues?


Thursday 18 November 2010

Cure for common cold! (Disclaimer: Very adult content part 2)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Cure for common cold! (Disclaimer: Very adult content part 1)

(Preface:He kisses your tummy, tiny bites…
Then pulls off your trousers and panties in one go.....)


Took a look at the live traffic feed for most of my free time today and I noticed that readers in here prefer the blogs with graphic sexual contents? Ah well no one does sexual content than Afrobabe and Nutty Jay. (muahaha)

The following medical advice was given by Afrobabe as the cure to common cold.

Picture this…you’ve got a nasty cough, it’s so bad you are practically panting.

He holds you to comfort you. He starts rubbing your neck, then your tummy.

His hands come up to your boobs, he squeezes the nipples…You are burning up and know it’s got nothing to do with the fever. You kiss his neck, run your hands through his hairy chest, squeeze his nipples…Squeezing is not enough for you, you want to taste him. You feel his turgid member (wonder who came up with that name…member? He must have been some fool). You feel his turgid dick (love this one…can I free your dick from the trousers sounds better than "Can I free your member....don't you think so??) pressing into your thigh…he is rock hard…there is a little wetness on the tip…it makes you salivate…

He pulls off your shirt like he is in a rush and needs to get somewhere real fast. The bra comes off… A wet tongue on your nipples…Licking…licking…licking…you are so wet you just want to grab the dick but he wont let you…you are dying of anticipation…you want pressure on your nipples…you wish he would suck…suck hard…you push closer, filling his mouth with the boobs…he knows…there is a slight smile on his face…he suddenly sucks it hard…the breath escapes from you…you hold his head..You know you are loosing it…Now you need to feel him inside you real bad…

You pull his head from your boobs with force and kiss him deeply…he pulls away from the kiss and squeezes the nipple, he is looking at you…you are at that point where your makeup could cost a million bucks but you don’t care…you have on a face you didn’t practice in the mirror…

He kisses your tummy, tiny bites…

Then pulls off your trousers and panties in one go…slides his fingers inside you….with the wetness he puts pressure on your clit…you don’t want this foreplay anymore…you cant stand it…you are gasping and panting…you want to feel him deep inside you…you want to fuck!!!

You yank off his trousers and pull out the dick…so what if you are an African girl and mama brought you up better than that…you hold it and feel the strength in it…you feel the blood coursing through…you feel the wetness on the tip…

He turns to the drawer to pull out a condom and you slip your fingers inside your self…under the sheets because you are a good girl and are not supposed to know those things…

He lies back and starts putting on the condom…you sit up impatiently waiting…as soon as it's on, you sit on him…not moving…just let him fill you up…its in so deep you are trying not to scream…you want to scream…you need to scream…it’s the only way the pressure will leave your skin…the Goosebumps…he sits up with you on top and grabs your boobs…you scream…. At this point you could be an Afghanistan for all you care…mummy’s little girl is bad and loving it…

He turns you onto the bed so you are backing him and enters from behind…forcefully…you scream "Jesus, My God, Oh Father"…you are blaspheming so you try to keep quiet but then he rams in deeply and you almost add Jeremiah to the litany…he is all the way in…you feel your toes curling up…you feel a rush…its coming…you are coming….you yell out to him to fuck you…At that moment you will give anything for him to stop but then you would give doubly anything to make him go on....His hand's in your hair.... he fucks real hard because he is coming as well…you lie down with him on top of you….fully spent…he kisses your neck…tiny little kisses that now tickle…you giggle…he pulls out of you…5 minutes later you are brought back to reality... rudely…coughing and panting…

You had forgotten the cough hadn’t you???

Guess Marvin Gaye knew what he was talking about.

My thoughts: The above piece, titled 'Sexual Healing??' was written by today's featured author Afrobabe


Wednesday 17 November 2010

I started typing out this blog ..

..when the men in white coats broke open my door.They had been knocking for a while but my laptop was still rebooting, so I ignored them.

Soon enough the door was smashed open and they called out my name, mena mena, my mouth is sealed, but the sounds of typing gave away my hideout

I kicked out at the men when they tried to grab me. I clutched my bible to my chest and prayed they would go away.

My family had been summoned to a room at the back of our house and were confined to secrecy over what was happening. No good byes or kisses, but a slap in the face as I tried to reason with the men in white coats.At least they let me take this lap out

I was leg cuffed and bundled in to the back of their van, they freed my hand to keep typing, perhaps thinking that the more I typed, the less violent actions I would be able to display. They forgot about my mouth.

I hurled spittle at the man opposite me whilst chomping down on the woman's throat sat next me. She gave a weak yelp, while the man got some tape to seal my lips.

They still let me type this blog and still allowed my bible.

When the van stopped I was transferred into a three storey building.

I was shoved into the elevator as the injured woman pressed the shiny button with a 2 inscripted on it. She refused to stand anywhere near me.

I was puzzled as surely my lips were gagged?

On the second floor I saw other people looking dazed, some strapped to beds, others allowed to move.

I wasn't surprised just disgusted and almost gagging from the salty taste of the woman's skin on my mouth.

They stripped of my clothes and gave me brown overalls three sizes to big. I. HATE. THAT COLOUR so asked if they had it in purple, received a patronising stare in return.

Not knowing anyone I kept myself to myself and my laptop and my bible.

I was not told to why I'm here, and what I did to warrant such treatment.

Maybe one day all will become clear?

The medication that they force down my throat keeps me light and floaty and making me see things. There is a pink unicorn guarding my bedside, bugsbunny under my bed. Keanu Reeves lying next to me (he hogs the duvet) and Allen Payne, like clock work, constantly show up when I turn on my laptop, leaning to read along while I type my words.

Indeed the typing never stopped but I cant comprehend my present state, The best I can do is blog my past happenings and start to explain what it has been like since arriving here though I seem to forget ..........That is how I feel.

In closing all I can say to you, poor readers, is you for delving into this existence with me.

I just wish they rotated Allen Payne with a few others. (Allen I know you are reading, so Djimon, Will Smith, Julian McMahon and Josh Hartnett immediately springs to mind, so get on it pronto!

For now, thank you for reading and good night. x 

p.s: Sometimes I wake up from this dream!

Saturday 13 November 2010

A lil sumthing about me

I apologise to have been missing in action so many things came up recently. Will blog about the more interesting events in the future.

Right now I am in my 'lady of leisure' mode, on the sofa, sipping on chianti and really tired so am keeping it light and will just say a bit about myself and I also want to know a little about you as well, that is if you do not mind :-)

Okay me first...

first of all, my fashion style is a as you can see from the picture above...:P but I digress

Who am I? Me'mena
What do I love to do? I love to write

Personality: could be a tad psycho a mix of Sanguine Melancholic but Choleric when I have deadlines

Level of insanity: High,very very high

Likes: Intelligence

Greatest wish: For all men and women to have goodwill for one another

Abilities: I can make YOU happy. Its uncanny but trust me!

Weaknesses: Injustice

Strengths: Loyalty

Peculiarity:I see beauty,humour, tragedy, love,passion in almost every single thing!

Will continue some other time, please help yourself to some sangria
there is enough right here..
and tell me a lil bit about you

See you soon :)