There is at least one sex-related act that many of the girls on the street promise themselves not to do with their clients. Not that such an act is gross or extreme; it could be something as subtle as a threesome. But the reason we don’t want to do such a thing is because we want to remain with something of our own. Like I mentioned in an answer to one of the questions, it’s about keeping some treasure for oneself. I don’t want to feel like I have given all my body (and shame) to men. I want the pride that comes with knowing I still own part of my body. For me, the treasure has always been anal sex. As much as I knew very many girls here have done it, I promised myself not to do it, at least not with a client. Anal sex would be one of the things I would have put on the negotiation table in different circumstances.
But about two months ago I succumbed. I had anal sex with a client. There is nothing I can use to explain my decision. The man was not ‘hot’ or one of those I feel something for. He was just plain and wasn’t even paying extra. Whether I enjoyed it or not is another thing all together. That was a silly case of shit happening, almost literally. So what am I left with now? I don’t know, but I will soon find out.
Yet this is not the first time that shit has happened. In the last few months, I have had several shitty moments. I know I previously said that only I had unprotected sex; that time I did it with the man who was allergic to rubber (Episode 26), but in early June I did it again. I was with an Asian man in a budget hotel along Ngong Road. The first time we had sex at night, he used protection. But in the morning we fondled, and the next thing I knew, he was inside me raw. I knew it, but somehow let him go all the way to his climax. Only when we were doing the dirty sex thing of wiping ourselves using tissue paper did I ask what I had just done to myself. I was not the least worried about an unwanted pregnancy; there is always an easy way around that. I was more disturbed about disease. In addition to the obvious STDs, there is HIV, the disease many expect every girl in my line of work to eventually acquire. Of course HIV is very manageable nowadays, and there are infected girls still practicing, but the shock of being discharged from the street without honour was an issue. I would not have the guts to continue working if positive.
There are many housewives tales here on the street on what to do in such a circumstance. There is talk of washing your inside with strong alcoholic spirits. And here I mean the ones in plastic containers. Think Kane Extra (or perhaps the deadly Yokuzuna). But I didn’t have any alcoholic drinks within reach. The other often talked-about option is to wash the insides with urine. That’s what I did. There was no basin in the room, so I urinated in a cup and washed myself. I know how silly and perhaps disgusting it sounds, but then that was my knee-jerk reaction. My Asian client was so much at ease, enjoying my state of panic until he irritated me. If last month’s tests are anything to go by, I survived either by urine or grace. Yeah, shit happens!
And it happened again, or so I think. About four times I have been picked by men carrying firearms. I know it when we get to the room and the man places the pistol carefully on the bedside table or under the mattress on his side of the bed. Three of the men have been very careful with their firearms. They have tended to act as if it’s no big deal, irrespective of how much I eye their arms. They also treated me with obvious suspicion, like I would steal the weapon. I have learnt not to ask unnecessary questions. Personal curiosity though makes me wonder whether the guns are legal or not, but such are questions I keep to myself.
However, the fourth man who picked in the first week of August was different. When we were in the room in a hotel opposite Jeevanjee Gardens, he removed the pistol that was tucked in his trousers and pointed it at me. Guns scare me, and so I was. But immediately he started laughing. Have you ever touched one of these? he asked, handing the pistol to me. It felt powerful to hold a pistol. The man showed me how to load bullets and fire. It was fun. We had a great session, and only in the morning did I notice something odd. The man didn’t pick the pistol from the table using his bare hands; rather, he used a handkerchief. When I asked why, he said that’s how to handle a gun or something of the sort. I felt there was something fishy about it. Or maybe I am just being too eccentric. I can only wait.
