For the love of men; thigh monger edition.

To hunt or be hunted…


If you are having an emotional day… read no further.

You all know the type, or are the type. That man who stops time. He oozes so much machismo and can only be likened to a tall drink of sexy! And you will almost always meet him at the most unlikely places, making you all awkward and bothered…damn these hormones!

Stella walks into an interview… and claps her eyes on him. Instantly, the motto and objectives of the company she’s been cramming all morning have vanished. His presence is loud, the rest of the panel feels like little ants around a cube of sugar. He stares at her; she breaks a sweat despite the AC causing a riot with her sinuses. He asks no questions, she wishes he would… does he sound like Barry White?

You can ask us questions if you have any.

Ever the intelligent one, Stella asks a question.

“Should I get hired, will I be reporting to him?” pointing at the reincarnation of Zeus.

Stella didn’t get the job, or his number.

Anisa’s  wardrobe is missing something… she’s not sure what. She wonders around aimlessly, from store to store looking for that item to spice up her collection. And there he is. Looking like the answer to all her payers wrapped up in Kenya’s version of Idris Elba. Her car allowance can pay for his existence, but that does not stop Anisa from carrying on like a milk maid in heat. It is El-Nino season, but she wants to try on a pair of sandals… she needs help taking off her boots. She ends up selecting  items she will never wear, he graciously waits on her, carrying them to the till. He takes over from the cashier, because he has good customer service.

Anisa can only thank him, she cannot tip him. So she swipes her gold card, the one with all her three names. He takes note, calls her by your maiden name… sounds heavenly on his lips. She reaches into her wallet, pulls out a card, holds his gaze meaningfully and sashays off.

“Excuse me Nyaboke, you’ve dropped Elijahs card… you may need it.”

Wishing for the earth to swallow her has never been a fervent prayer until then.

What is with the traffic? Does the rain shrink the roads? Aaaaaaargh!

Monica lives alone, so there is no emergency in reaching home quickly.  She takes a detour, a quick drink and light dinner will do her some good. Anyway, she works far too hard not to reward herself when need be.  She pulls up to Pots and Palms, runs as fast as your Manolo Blaniks will let her,  makes an entry looking like a willing contestant to a wet T-shirt contest. And there he seats, long legged creature straight off the cover of a Mills and Boon! Why does everything else look like a wintery sky, while he has a shiny halo all around him? Monica completely disregards Beyoncé’s look alike , with her 20 inch Brazilian, and skin so clear of blemish she could puke…the bitch! Monica plants herself directly opposite him, swallowing eyefuls of his magnificence. He sees her, a gentle nod of acknowledgement. The universe gets tired of her pleas, the horse wearer gets up, lands a wet one on his lips, and departs. Like the alpha female that she is, Monica pounces on him, equipped with a freshly powdered face, red “come hither” lips, and a shirt still clinging to her generous chest. He smiles, she basks in her boldness… The waiter promptly brings her drink, behind him comes the soft padding of heels.

“Clifford darling, it’s pouring too heavily for me to access the car. Oh! Who’s your friend?”

This is what Lot’s wife must have felt like turning into a pillar of Salt.

Question remains …to hunt or to be hunted?

Author: spicewithlelo

I will tell it...brace yourself!

4 thoughts on “For the love of men; thigh monger edition.”

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