Nairobi Nights: These are the true thoughts and experiences of Sue, the Nairobi prostitute building a brand

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Episode 1: I Can't Feel Your Thing Men in there in their twenties and thirties are a weird lot. They are most likely to swindle a prostitute for no good reason other than thinking its macho to do so. They are also with lots of ego problems. They want a girl to scream, moan and cry in bed; it makes them feel on top of the world. When a girl is indifferent they feel lesser men; and that’s their Achilles’ heel. A man picked me up yesterday, near Kengeles, around one in the morning. We agreed on a figure of two thousand shillings, only to get to his house and say he only had half the amount. At that hour of the night, in an isolated Kabete neighborhood there wasn’t much I could do. I wasn’t sure whether he was lying but by virtue of his age, he looked early thirties, probably he was. So I didn’t fake an orgasm, like I usually do. I just stared blankly at the man as he panted, thrusting on top of me. Not a sound left my mouth, my body didn’t twitch and I didn’t smile. It was my way of getting back at him for shortchanging me. I was clapping inside, looking at him getting frustrated on realizing he was not having any effect on me. Not that men tickle me much. Like they say, it’s all in the brain. When you are like me; having sex everyday, with different men, without the slightest of passion then sex loses its flavor. Of course on one or two occasions I get lost into the act and have fun, but those are rare moments. But I have to make good men feel great. I fake the pleasure; I wiggle, get into fits and cry out their name. Do that to a man and he won’t feel a pinch when you ask for more cash. He is also more likely to be a regular. From about two years of practice I have noted men react in two ways when a girl is indifferent. First and most likely; the man will dislike the girl and never want to see her again. They dare not bruise their egos again. Second the man might seek to redeem himself and his ego by sleeping with the girl again, hoping and praying that the girl responds positively. I didn’t want to see the man I was with yesterday ever again. I hated him, so I decided to hit where it hurts. At 5 in the morning after our last round of sex and ready to leave I said to him “That your thing disappears inside me, I can’t feel it at all.”

Episode 2: Why Should I Not Open My Legs? Every girl at some point has dreams of a happy marriage and kids. We are not exceptional; we had those dreams and somehow still nurture them. But then one of the side effects of prostitution is that it makes it almost impossible to trust the institution of marriage. How are you going to believe your man is not cheating when you have slept with countless married men? Some even without protection? And then that’s only a small part of it. A key pillar of marriage is how the married view sex; as the special thing that should be shared only by your partner. Once a prostitute you lose respect for sex. It becomes just another resource. So having a husband and kid in the house is no excuse not to sleep with the neighbor, if you can get something out of it. You can’t go hungry or leave below your dreams in the name of faithfulness. It doesn’t matter if you are married to a rich honey and are self sustaining; there will be always that something that you want, and when the opportunity to part your legs in exchange for it comes you will seize it. A large number of girls here have kids. And an equally large number have boyfriends. Most don't know what their girls do. Some of the clients here get carried away by the girls they sleep with and decide to keep them in the house as wives. The assumption is if they provide for the girl or open a business for her she will keep her legs together. But it never works. Seems it the curse of the trade. A few of the girls here are also married and hearing what they say you pity the husbands at home. Ironically most of us want to get married. We have to try it out, if it works well and good, if it doesn’t too bad. The dream of course is to land a white man because of the prestige and the money associated with it. But the white men in this city are too clever to fall for a prostitute unless of course if they want some sort of sex slave in the house. The foolish ones are at the coast. I am not interested in marriage. I know very well I can’t remain faithful or locked up in the house the whole night. But I want a kid. Yeah, a kid. And the father will certainly be a client with the right genes. Ironically too a man with the right genes will be the last to have unprotected sex with a prostitute. And that’s a challenge, at the right time; I will have to trick the right man to his seed inside me.

Episode 3: Anything At The Right Price There is a general notion that at the right price a prostitute will do anything. Thus there are many men who pick prostitutes hoping to fulfill all their sexual fantasies. That may be right or wrong. An easy justification while joining prostitution is that it’s about pleasure and money. Pleasure in the default way of love making. A few days in to the business and one realizes it’s more about the money than the pleasure. That’s usually the breaking point; when one decides to what bodily extremes one can go to for the

money. But doing out of the ordinary things doesn’t mean one is dehumanizing herself; it comes with some sort of justification, however lame. For instance if you decide to sell both the front and back side you may tell yourself after over using the front side it has lost its fun, and the back side provides more sensation and you will enjoy it more. And sure you have a right to sweet things too. The fantasies of men, even respected men, are weird and varied. Do you remember the would be US senator who loved to have his toe sucked? But that is as soft as it gets. Anal sex is a fantasy of many men here; actually it’s quite an obsession. The girls here are almost divided equally. There are girls who specialize in it .Others will never do it no matter the money. We girls too have some weird principles, and personal code of ethics. Like few of my girlfriends would agree to be filmed in the act with their clients. “I feel used" they say. I know I know its sounds ironical but its one of those complex personal ethics things one can never understand. Yesterday a man picked me some minutes to midnight and took me to a nearby hotel. He looked in his late thirties. We agreed on a price of two thousand for a one hour or so romp. There is usually no fixed price in these things and it comes down to your negotiations skills and the generosity of the man. Anyway there I was naked, and according to his wish on my fours. I love the style especially if a man's face is not the best to look at. He fore worked on me proper. But rather than penetrate my P, I felt him try push his way through my asshole. I jumped, facing him. “I can’t do that!" I said. "Come on. You girls always do it. That’s why I am paying you 2k" “I don’t do it" "How much do you want?" “It’s not about the money. And hey if you don’t want my P then I better get out of here" We ended up having a hurried normal sex. I took the money and went back to the street. Of course when I narrated the story I was the laughing stock of some girls. “You don’t know what you missed” Mueni told me. Whether she meant money, pain or pleasure I didn’t know.

Episode 4: Survival of The Species Prostitutes are said to be carefree. The reasoning being that if they can have sex with all these men in these days of HIV then they care less. But the truth is we do care. What would be the point of us making money if we wish to die? I remember reading some interesting statistics about the probability of dying in various circumstances. So for instance the probability of dying on the road was higher than that of dying of plane

crush. I would say the probability of a prostitute acquiring HIV is the same or equal to that of any person in marriage or come we stay. As long as you have unprotected sex I would say the odds are similar. Having slept with enough married men, I know better than to say men respect their marriages. And I know of many married women to know they are not saints either. Getting infected with HIV is a career hazard, same way a policeman may die of a thug's bullet Actually nature's adaptation may make the odds of acquiring HIV for a prostitute lower. There was if I remember well this Darwinian Theory about the survival of the species in which there was something about an organism developing traits to help it survive or adapt to its environment. And maybe it has already happened here in Kenya. Certainly you must have heard of the HIV resistant prostitutes of Majengo. But there is more than that. Many of us have a special instinct. Something more than the sixth sense which tells us whether to sleep with a man or not and what caution to take. However we don’t always get it right. Men enjoy raw sex more. But you know raw sex comes with its risks. Yet some men, even married ones, are willing to put the pleasure first, take or ignore the risks and have unprotected sex with us, prostitutes. Raw sex pays more, much more. And here the instinct comes in very handy. You can tell nothing by the look of the man but you can feel it, second doubts and it’s a no. As for the men I don’t know how they tell a prostitute is clean but I bet they have no clue; it’s the foolishness of the moment. When a man picks a girl from the street they won’t say they are going to have raw sex with her. Only when the have finished the foreplay and its time for the real thing that the girl realize his plans. If one says no some men will be apologetic and say they had been carried away then proceed to wear a condom, while others will say they want unprotected sex and they are ready to pay for it. That’s where the special instinct comes in. A man picked me last night and we headed to a hotel in Milimani. He worked on me smoothly with his tongue and I really enjoyed. The expectations are that knowing what people think of prostitutes a man by default will want to have protection. But it’s not always the case. The man in this case proceeded to try penetrating me raw. I pushed him away slowly. “Wear a CD" I said. “Can’t we do it like this?" “No. Just wear a CD" “Just tell me how much you want" Everything about us is reduced to money. I didn’t give in. I had bad feeling about it. The wisest thing would have been to scatter and not do it even with a condom. Anyway I

ended up fucking him using protection. But I still have this uneasy feeling about it and can’t wait for my monthly test. Episode 5: Let The Pee Flow On the social scale prostitutes are ranked lowly; somewhere near the proverbial alley cat which can’t tell who fathered its kittens. But if prostitutes be the alley cats then the city council askari are the alley mice. We feel the askari are the scum of humanity representing the worst of mankind. It’s a feeling encouraged by the dismissive and youare-not-human beings way the askari treat us. It is often, and appropriately so, a cat and mouse game between us and them. Unfortunately for now they have more ways of getting back at us than we have of them. But In spite of them having the handcuffs, whips, guns, cells and when necessary the law, once in a while we will have some clever way to hit them. By default we are always on the lookout for the council askari and when we see them or hear rumors of their coming we disappear to the shadows or clubs, but as it maybe occasionally they get the better of us. Last night they arrested nine of us who they squeezed in the back of their van. Every one of us knows the drill; the city council arrests you and at the least you have to fork out 500 shillings to be let free. It’s lesser than the three thousand the judge will fine you if charged with prostitution. But the askari will start by asking for a thousand shillings and they expect you to beg them to reduce the amount to 500 shillings. We hate begging the askari, so meanwhile as we decide whether to eat the humble pie or not they pack us in their old van and take us round and round the city arresting more girls. Few girls carry such an amount in their pockets. This is purely for safety reasons; you never know who meet in the night and what they will do to you, so the lesser amount you carry the better. You can’t even trust your clients not to steal from you. If a girl makes money during the night she gives it to a watchman, the bouncers, street guys, anyone trustworthy to keep for her and collects when okay. Yesterday the city council came a little early, at 10, when few of us had made any money. So we made the necessary calls and were waited for rescue. It’s very rare for a girl to fuck a council askari for freedom. A girl would rather spend the nights in the cell than have an askari inside her. However there will be an odd one who lays an askari but the result is contempt and ostracization by the other girls until she is pushed out of the street. Cheupe came up with the idea of urinating in the council vehicle. We were parked next to the high court gate and all the askari were out receiving a bribe from a man who had come to the rescue one of the girls. Cheupe is an odd one. Though we are all loud, she is the loudest and seems to care the least. She even has a slogan; Cheupe kuja nikupe. “You know what we are going to do" she said, her loud voice a little lowered " We are going to urinate in this van" . We laughed; we took it as a joke. . “Its no joke, we are

going to do it, every one of us" she said. She then opened her legs and let out urine. Cheupe doesn’t wear pants, which I find to be less sexy than actually wearing one. Guess men want to fantasize, and when a man is passing and you r display your ass, well bet the fantasy is gone and he will offer you less. Anyway after Cheupe had done it, we all did. It was so much pleasure and we laughed as we did it. The two young girls we also forced to lower their pants and empty their bladders too. The van was filled with the smell of urine; a mixture of beer, cheap spirits and bodily fluids. We clapped in joy. I was released around 4 am .My benefactor was some bouncer at city club. I paid half the amount in kind in the club's gents and the rest I will give him in cash. Cheupe was locked in. Episode 7: We All Have P Boys in our school used to say K is constant and what matters are the variables affecting K. It didn’t make sense then but now when I think competition it does. No one loves competition, though out of politeness people say they do. Competition is especially undesirable if you are peddling the same product and the way to differentiate it is by natural factors beyond your control. Like us, we all peddle P, every man knows that, and so they are looking for other things that come with the P; Beauty, ass, flexibility, age, intelligence and whatever else. So what to do if, for instance one got P but is not good looking and appealing? The logical thing is to accept one's true position, and then to make the best use of it to fit the male psyche. Like they say in business; look for the edge. It’s fruitless to believe such crap as beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. In the normal world, where a man chases the woman, the latter has all the time to show all the P accompaniments. But not in our trade along the street; we only got five minutes or less to pitch. A man stops his car, we crowd it. He knows we all have P, and so it’s upon us in those few minutes to show him the delicacies with which we will serve it with. The skimpy dresses are not necessarily to arouse but to show in the least time possible what we posses beyond the obvious. The lewd language to hint at our wilderness, and what we are capable of. The mother tongue to appeal to the roots. And the little jig to focus attention on the hips. Yet we cannot prevent competition. There will be girls coming to the street every week or so. A girl cannot come from anywhere and start practicing along "our” street. She has to be introduced by another girl; a veteran, and then buy in cash or kind the goodwill of the real guardians of the street'; the watchmen, the area thugs bouncers and so on. One such girl is Chiki. She came to the street about six weeks ago, and in that short period she has done us enough damage. Physically she is not exceptional: she is pretty, with a gorgeous figure just like many others here. However there is something about her that appeals to men. Only numbered men have turned her down. Her trademark style has been when we all other girls crowd a man's car windows she stands at the front, in some funky pose which few men are able to resist. My hubby included.

Let me explain. There are men who come only for particular girls and if the girl is not available dare not touch anyone else. Such a girl will call the man "husband". The other girls will respect the "marriage" so that when the man comes, and the girl is present they back off and let the husband take the "wife" away. Yesterday one of my husbands came. We crowded the windows of his Toyota Camry but when he asked for me and the other girls noted it was my hubby they let go. But Chiki stuck. I was on the driver’s side while she was on the passenger side, smiling at the man, who stared at her seemingly having forgotten my presence. I couldn’t control myself. "This is my husband .Leave him alone!" I shouted at Chiki. "Let him pick" she said calmly, smiling even more lasciviously. I walked to her side and shoved her. Noting signs of a possible confrontation the man zoomed away perhaps never to come back again. What do you think you were doing? I confronted Chiki after I had looked at the car disappear down the street. "I was working, same as you” she said. I slapped her. Then I felt remorseful. The fact of the matter is that neither of us owns the men we sleep with. Neither their wives, nor their girlfriends. They belong to us all with P. Episode 8: In Five Years A cliché question the reporters in those glossy women magazine ask when interviewing 'an achiever' is "Where do you see yourself in five years?”. And the cliché answer for the career women being interviewed is “I want to be living my dreams, running my own business". Well that is the right PR answer, masking the real one which could have elements of fear, greed and adultery. Such women think it would show a lack of ambition and character to say they would still like to be working for the same company, in the same position or a slightly higher one. But despite what the women say there would be nothing wrong in working for the same company for five years; indeed in the formal companies the longer you stay the higher you rise, and the more your pay. In our trade on the streets; the opposite happens; your value decreases as your experience increases. Quoting five years experience is a turn off. Many a girl gets to prostitution telling themselves they won’t do it for more than a few months, maybe six, save some money, start a business, hit it big in some way or get a 'proper' job. But a year goes and another still on the street. The optimal experience is about a year; when one is no longer surprised by the antics of men and all the inhibitions are gone. After a year there is a plateau and then the downward curve starts.

And this is not tied to age. If a girl hit the streets at the age of 18, in two years she will be 20 but streetwise she will be older than the girl who started at 23, and has been at it for five months. Somehow men are able to tell the difference, and the more you stay on the street the fewer men pick you. Eventually you fade away, drop out of the street or change tactic. The obvious way to do the latter is to go downtown, to cheap brothels and bars; where you charge a tenth of your fees uptown. But it’s not a free ride down there; Duruma road and Latema are over flowing with fresh girls every day. Good Hope along River Road still offers some hope but there is something really boring about sitting on your chair, in a minis skirt, legs wide open waiting for a man to wink at you. Of course there are girls who have been here for the five years. As to why they have been in the business that long they don't talk but something is usually miss with them, a thing I cant really explain. However one thing is absolutely clear; their view of men is on the lowest side. To them, men are pigs, as some writer said. In my opinion such girls sound so disillusioned because they are not able to justify the long time they have been on the street. To keep your head up in this business you need to justify, to yourself, all your 'awkward ' actions. So where will I be in five years; going by the magazine cliché answers I should be a pimp. But the truth is I actually don't know. I might still be here; if that happens I will say “I think sex is over rated. I have been trying to search for the real pleasure in sex". Certainly a holy grail more elusive than the actual Holy Grail. Episode 9: When Sex Is No Longer Sin I have been fascinated by the idea of the Devil & Hell. Not because I will end up in the hot arms of the Devil. But, because I am intrigued by the philosophy of sin. The definition of sin and the factors that make one kind of sin to have more weight than another. Why is lying to your son about where children come from a lesser sin than say prostitution or stealing? I have read quite some literature exploring the concept and consequences of sin. There is Dante's Inferno, Robert Louis Stevenson's Markheim and certainly the Bible. I love Jesus' view of sin; an outlook so detached from even the most faithful of his followers. And no, I am not saying this because He had a soft spot for prostitutes; but rather because he was real. Anyway sometime last year I read on some blog a story trying to give at modern look at Hell. The story defined Hell as the place "Where doing wrong is right, and doing right is wrong.” After the protagonist had sex in Hell for the first time, he says something like. “This was my first sexual experience in hell. It was flat .There was nothing exciting about it. Perhaps not because sex was readily available but due to the fact that the naughty element of sex that makes it the mischievous act it is on earth was lacking. " This brings me to my point. Among the major contributors to the so called pleasure of sex is the fact that sex is ‘sin’, the 'wrong' thing. When the sin element of sex is

removed it becomes another biological exercise like eating. In marriage the sin factor is contributed by trying to hide it from children and house help. But after sometime that fails to provide the adrenaline rush to spark the excitement in sex; that is when people start to cheat. Sleeping with a prostitute when married is 'wrong' but to most men it offers plenty of pleasure. Simply because it’s not right. When you earn a living having sex, like I do, it’s no longer sin. There is nothing to cause the adrenaline rush. Sex is work & work is never particularly interesting. But once in a while you will get a man who comes with an out of the ordinary idea that stimulates your pleasure glands. The other day a man in a new Jeep picked me around 10 pm. He told me to sit at the back. “I want to report my wife" he said as we drove to the Central Police Station. The police are not our best friends and wherever possible we keep our distance. But here he was taking me, almost naked and with prostitute written all over me, to a police station. I didn't feel so good. He drove straight to the compound, and parked near a bus whose passengers some two policemen were frisking. We had sex there. It didn't last ten minutes, but it was the sweetest and most exciting sex I have had in a long time. Episode 10: The Spiritual Role Of A Prostitute A female teacher in the mixed boarding school that I attended used to compare us girls to a tin of cocoa; you remember the one which had a foil inside. "The first time you let a man touch your breasts or private parts, then you have opened the lid. The moment you lose your virginity, the foil is gone. After that, every time you have sex, the cocoa gets depleted. If you are not careful the rightful owner will find there is nothing left for him". At the face of it, it was a polite way to dissuade us from adolescence sex, but a little deeper it implied we girls didn't really belong to ourselves but to some man somewhere, who was supposed to have all the cocoa. Our role in society it seemed was to prepare for this man. Certainly it was a simplistic and traditional way to illustrate our purpose in society. But, now, many years later when I think of it, I wonder what my role in society is? Or to hide in the safety of numbers, what is the role of us, prostitutes, in society? I read in college about theories which tried to say that everybody has a role in society. You know the 'I am because we are' kind of theories. That the other person functions because I function or something of the sort. Removing one person disorganizes society. Would our society then be disrupted if prostitutes were removed? The same way it would go hay wire if the police were taken away? A quick answer would be no, apparently because we contribute nothing of value to society. And in our odd country here, we even don't pay taxes. All we do, as some

would say, is steal, spread diseases and separate families. But that would be ignoring our spiritual role. Yes, I know how it sounds for a prostitute to talk about spirituality, but I actually mean. We are priests of our own kind, ministering to our flock; the men. Ignoring all the hullabaloo, the role of priests is to provide emotional stability to those who congregate. A role we have played, in a more practical way, to many a man we have slept with. Men come to us because they want to get something out of themselves. And not the product of their balls, for if that was the case, they would fare better saving time and money playing with themselves. It’s something intangible, what the priests here call pepo, some sort of 'demon'. Men come to us possessed by stress, frustrations, mid life crisis, career stagnation, work challenges and we exorcise them in a more pleasurable way, which doesn't involve sitting on a pew for hours listening to a man or woman blaming your spiritual afflictions on your refusal to give tithe. But why a prostitute? Unfortunately it’s because a prostitute is considered to be close to the dark of the earth; a somehow a priest of darkness. But more formal and effective than witchdoctors. Men sex prostitute with some roughness, haste, urgency and complexity not shown anywhere else. I see the difference always when sleeping with a man who doesn't know I am a prostitute and one who knows. The face of a man after a session with a prostitute, is that of relieve and freshness, something which I can bet my money making organ can’t be noted after a time with the kept woman. FYI a prostitute, mark you, is very different from the side girlfriend. The latter is the woman snatcher, and who in reality is in competition with the wife while providing nothing more than sexual pleasure. However that's a story for another day. It might be a little hard to get all this, but like with all matters spiritual only those who honestly practice a faith, understand it. Remove prostitutes and the productivity of the country would be affected; families would break up, and more people would end up in asylums. The call for the government to legalize our trade, should not because we are to pay taxes, but because we contribute to the well being of the nation, same as churches.

Episode 11: Of Coming Out Of The Closet I will digress a little today and write about a thing or two that has happened since I started this blog about two weeks ago. I have received quite a number of emails from people who want to meet me both for personal, business and activism purposes. And other mail from people who wish to know whether I am for real. I find them all funny and interesting. Well the reason some people doubt my existence on the streets is supposedly because I express myself in 'proper' English and show some sense of 'intelligence'. Quite some basis for the doubts. A prostitute is assumed to be a little daft. Just like the thief, she is the loser who opts to go for the shortcut rather than confront life's challenges head on,

like decent people do. To some extent there is truth in this, the same way there is some hypocrisy in it, but that is a story for some other day. Of course there are some of us who are quite slow; those who even shrub their own names; Calo instead of Carol. But there are others too, as those of you have interacted with us know, who will speak the 'proper' English, with even a twang and sparkling of French. From my interaction most of us are educated at least up to form two. Then there are those who have reached form four but not gone to college. Then there are a few, by street standards, who are educated to college and perhaps university level. Unfortunately or fortunately on the streets the education level doesn't matter much; it’s your body that is key. Somehow we are all the same; those with primary certificates or degree certificates. Those who didn't clear their primary schools are not looked down upon by those who have been to campus. And vice versa. I mean irrespective of our education we are all doing the same thing. Ability to show use 'proper' English and show some 'intelligence' is not a good authentic measure. And so is possession of 'deep thinking'. Most of us, educated or not, have developed some personal philosophy; a view of the world unique only to our personal selves. Even for those of us who can’t express ourselves in 'proper' English they can do so in their mother tongue, and since their thoughts are real and none conforming they would be said to be 'deep'. And yes we are tech savvy. We talk about Facebook and are addicted to Love Find Me. I have toyed with the idea of coming out in the open. I actually want to meet some of those who have asked to see me and I will. Other than for the girls I work with, and my clients, only one or two other people know what I actually do. My parents, who luckily moved to the village, have no idea and so do any of our family members. I use some alibis. I even have some business cards, with my name, from the company at the airport where I work. I have been lucky none of my relatives have ever picked me from the streets, like it has happened to some. I feel it will be a little awkward to come out in the open. Meeting someone from the 'decent' world and start talking about what I do. The sympathy, the hatred, the patronizing, being put on the defense and all other things that might come up. And what will I gain out of it? Perhaps more customers you know. I am waiting for that psychological leap to help me do it, and sure to get it will happen very soon. I also fear when I become brave enough to say to the decent people I am a prostitute, I will find myself telling my parents the truth. A truth that will imprison rather set me free

Episode 12: Too Tight For Men Nowadays there are the independent women; those who will wave their index finger, shake the head and say they don't give a damn about what society says or thinks about them. "It's my life, you know" they will say. That is usually a lie. Think about it; isn’t

society's approval and disapproval that adds flavor to life? There is no one who doesn't totally give a damn about society, even men. Few women, if any, can honestly say they care not about what men think of them. The claim to be indifferent seems an escapist, masturbatory exercise. Some time ago, before I started trading in pleasure on the streets, I used to spend hours wondering what pants to wear. Yet those were the days when I could go for weeks without being laid. (Yes, there were such days). I would say, I am taking time to pick a pant because I want to choose one that will make me feel good about myself. But the reality is, I was timid in my thinking. I hadn't developed a capacity for fearless thought. Honestly I was worried about what people might think if by whatever chance they got a glimpse of the pants. I had a feeling that they were looking through, judging me by what I wore outside and inside. There is a thin line between doing things to feel good about yourself and doing things to make society feel good about you. Alot has come to pass since then. I am now brave enough to admit I dress, and do many other things with men in my mind. I see the modern woman sneer; because I am one of those pulling the women cause behind & should open my eyes: Independence from men is a mark of progressiveness. I believe I am progressive, so I qualify my statement by saying I do it, because I earn a living from men. In the streets there is no room for lukewarm behavior; you are either out please a man or not. And girls do many things to please and win men. Sometimes us on the streets tend to think we have men figured out; But men are complicated, their actions unpredictable and not always very rational. For example take their idea of beauty. It's said beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. But this is one of those feel-good society moral statements. Everyone knows there is what is considered a standard definition of beauty. Every girl knows whether she is beautiful or not despite what parents, teachers or motivational speakers say. The beautiful girls on the street expect to have an upper hand over the beauty challenged. But men pull surprises. Like with Pretty, a girl who reminds me of a woman in one of those cheesy Eddie Murphy films, I can't remember which, where a husband calls his beauty and character deficient wife 'my drop of chocolate'. Anyway Pretty, for a mysterious reason, is very popular with five or so men, the kind of men who, by the way they drive and talk, ooze of character; the kind of men girls here love to go out with. Of course us the ‘beautiful’ ones don't accept Pretty's 'luck' lying down. We say Pretty 'anatumia dawa'; an euphemism for witchcraft. That is debatable. But no girl sits around and hopes she will be as lucky as Pretty. And there are opportunists who know this very well. There are women and men who come here at night peddling all kinds of concoctions supposed to improve a girl's image. Cheupe, who has a problem with the size of her ass, bought one supposedly to make it balloon. A few days later, in her flamboyant way of narrating, she told a group of us “Those tablets almost killed me. I filled a bucket with diarrhea, and my buttocks are still the same, they even seem to have grown smaller. " Nimo too had a story. She bought tablets to erase her love handles and tires. “I became very wet and ended up using pads, it was worse than having periods".

The tires were still visible. And so a few days ago, in what in retrospect was a moment of foolishness, I bought some cream supposed to make my P tighter. I have never had any problem with my elasticity, but now when I think of it, the woman was super in selling; with words she took me to a fantasy world, where every man in the city would be looking for me. I still can't explain my folly. So, according to instructions, I applied the cream an hour or so before I came to town. By the time I got to the street I was feeling some itchiness and dryness. Must be the medicine working, I told myself. An hour later, I couldn't or imagined not to feel the pulsate down there. I touched myself, and felt some weird dryness around the whole area. A little later a vehicle came, we rushed and the man picked me. Though a little anxious, I thought I was out to get my first return on the Ksh. 200 investment in the medicine. We went to a hotel. He was one of those who get straight to the business. He tried to penetrate me, but he couldn't. Every time he tried, it felt so painful. It was as if I had super glued my lips. “Are you a virgin?" he asked. In normal circumstances it would have sounded sarcastic and funny. But now it hurt. "Just forget it" I said and left. I am back to normal elasticity. Episode 13: We Don't Break Up Families Some few weeks ago, the ladies of our extended family met supposedly to save one of my aunts. According to those of the women in the know, the husband had allegedly forsaken her family for prostitutes. The saving involved us contributing some money to a kitty to help the aunt and her two children leave the husband and start life afresh. But before we got to the actual contributions, the meeting, which I had attended, turned to one long prostitute bashing conversation. For a moment it was as if the husband was innocent and all the blame was on the prostitutes. “What are those?" an aunt asked, in reference to prostitutes. I clicked, shook my head, and murmured just like everyone else in the room, to whom prostitutes were what and not who. In the circumstances I had no option but to trait my comrades and join in the chorus calling us 'those things'. That said I wouldn’t be surprised if I come to know all the women there cheated on their husbands. If I had been more courageous I would have told the women; prostitutes don't break up families. Of course I know how self serving the statement sounds, but its something I believe having seen how we relate with our male clients. The reason a man will stop

caring for or about his wife is because he no longer has any sentimental attachment to her; he has diverted to someone or something else. Could be his work, beer, another woman or even a man. If a woman, she can never be a prostitute. Men still regard us prostitutes as the free for all women; we belong to everyone and anyone willing to pay. There is nothing about our work, and what we become because of what we do to make a man wish to invest his emotions in us. Starting with the basics; men don't trust us, and as much we act like we need them the bright ones know its business. It’s a universally acknowledged truth that a man won't invest their emotions in a woman who doesn't genuinely need him. Who then is the culprit? It’s the mistress or side girlfriend. The relationship between a man and his mistress is quasi business. There is, spelled out in bold letter, the I love you part and the I need to pay my rent part. The end of a marriage starts when the I love you part takes over. I know no woman wants his man sleeping with someone else more so a prostitute. The hatred towards prostitutes is more economic than emotional. It makes so much sense in the present days where only pretenders talk of for better or worse. However the breaking point, if you are keen, is mostly when the man's emotions are diverted. I have slept with married men. I know they are married because some tell me. I hear others lie to their wives they are in traffic or in some meeting at 1.AM.Others have taken me to their homes, when the wife is away and I see the family photo next to the bed. The obvious question is whether I feel guilty about it? Certainly not. One, because I know my actions wont logically break the family, and two because I discovered quite early that to succeed in this world you need to kill your conscience. Just look around you and see, the so called successful people; in whatever way they camouflage it they are insensitive and without conscience. After reading one or two motivation books, many which claim to have the formula for success, I realized all the authors try to do is to get a person to kill their conscience and all other guilty feelings softly; yes, without feeling guilty about it. Well there are still women who believe we are responsible for their marriages breaking apart. One of them actually drove to the streets some night and started insulting us. She must have been in so much pain to gather the courage to confront a group of prostitutes. Unfortunately most of us have developed, for our own survival, a very keen sense of verbal abuse. Still none of us is a match for Cheupe. She approached the woman and said something like “Sex with a prostitute is of the lowest quality. If your man enjoys it then ask what is wrong with you." A false statement, (or perhaps true to Cheupe), but strong enough to make the woman leave shedding tears and us laugh.

Episode 14 (Part 1): Why I Chose The Street

At some point, early in my career, I was naive enough to think a good education would give one an edge in the trade. I was partly thinking of myself and of a lady I had met at the Sabina Joy; where I practiced for a short time (no pun intended). For those not in the know the Sabina, also known as Karumaindo, is perhaps the oldest and well known bar cum brothel in the country; it is a rough, amorous place; something vividly captured by a writer. ....To those not accustomed the SJ is a source of mental, and to men even physical shock, what with the casual display of flesh, inner wear, lewd signs and vulgar language .There might be a lady with big lips, bleached face, thick fingers, smoking a cigarette, a beer on the table in front of her, and a man caressing her wide thighs exposed by her short skirt. There might be another one, looking not more than twenty, dark skinned, slender, smiling showing her dimples and playing with a young man’s zip, pretending as if to open it while asking him to buy her a drink. This scenario is enough to make men of a weaker will fall into the temptation of venturing inside pulling a seat and ordering for a beer so as “to absorb the shock”. And as they sop up the initial bolt of shock, they see and hear more, and they become even more stunned to an extent one beer is not enough to help suck up the shock, thus they ask for another beer, and another and another till that point, late in the night or day when the shock is gone, the pleasure in and they resign themselves to the fate of the SJ. To others the sight, which is like that of the first few seconds of a low budget blue movie, is just pleasure, fodder for fantasy: for that is what the SJ offers to those with shallow pockets, enough material to make their erotic fantasies as close to the reality as possible. ...Unlike in clubs to the east and north of Moi Avenue, where to achieve the right feel for some cozy naughty behavior, the disc jockey pumps fast music supposedly to charge the patrons, then dims the light to create a dreamy air, before playing a soft song say Lionel Ritchie’s Endless Love, at the SJ the mood is always appropriate for love making. Whether nine in the morning, three in the afternoon or eleven at night, the mood is right. Whether playing Awilo Longomba or turbulent Turbulence the mood is always right. There in the air you sense it, but not the gentle, smooth love making that happens after watching a cheesy movie say Titanic; but something rough, with a touch of urgency, where panties may torn and nail marks left all over the body. It was at the SJ where I first went after shedding all the pretense of becoming a prostitute. When I decided to do away with camouflage prostitution; where I would sit at a bar sipping a drink, looking decent and hoping a man would pick me. The Sabina had the advantage of having few barriers to entry. The watchman was the only gatekeeper. The other girls would try to intimidate you but if you were stern it was easy to brush them away. For a girl getting into prostitution proper, the SJ offers a relatively soft orientation; one which wears off inhibitions slowly. Though exposing your body is a plus at the SJ, it’s not as a competitive edge as on the streets. You can still be in that long kinky skirt and jeans and get lots of clients. Then there is no experimentation in sex; mostly because of the socialization of the men who go there, and also due to the fact most of the sex

sessions at the SJ are short times. Time and the aura of the short time rooms dissuade most people from doing anything other than the traditional. The rooms have dirty tattered mattresses, with used condoms and toilet paper lying all over the floor. It always amazed me how men could get it up in such circumstances. The SJ was a risky place for me, it being very popular with college students spending their fees, pocket money and loans. There was a likelihood I could meet someone I knew. For this reason I chose a Tuesday mid morning for my first foray. I thought the chances of meeting someone who knew me on a Tuesday were minimal. At that hour of the day there was no big deal at the Sabina. I just walked in and sat down. Of course there were the weird glances from other girls. One of them being this girl who could recite Yeat's The Second Coming, a poem I came to love and find relevant to the circumstances: Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity...... To be continued....

Episode 14 (Part 2): Why I Chose The Street So where was I? Yes this girl reciting Yeat's second coming. She was sitting among a group of men, who seemed more than awed. The men bought beer and she recited more poems. I knew the Yeats poem very well. My father recited it occasionally and so did my English teacher who did it with so much enthusiasm. But well, ironic as it maybe, I wondered what the hell, with her seemingly good education, she was doing at the SJ? She was not exceptionally beautiful, her short hair was dull and clothes very plain. Then I noted the men only bought her beer, and didn't seem to have any intention of sleeping with her. To the men she was an object of admiration and not desire. Same way people are amazed by a ten year old genius who can do complex sums. For a second our eyes met. I smiled. “Why are you looking at me? She asked in a loud voice. I just turned and looked in a different direction, as the men giggled. Men who drunk (and maybe still drink) at the SJ during the day looked like junior corrupt civil servants skipping work. Or coming to enjoy the toil of their corruption. They wore cheap suits and carried a newspaper or some envelope. During the day there was so much talk of 'helping you get a passport' and such stuff. Those not civil servants looked like the men about town. The city's hustlers and brokers. And as usual at the SJ there is

bound to be some student drowning his fees and the many other men who come from the furthest corner of the city supposedly to empty their bladders. Looking at the men that first day at the SJ I was a little heart broken. It’s not exactly what I had expected. I had hoped for some more class, some feel of sophistication and aura of money, but there was none of it in its stead a sense of hopelessness and confused lives... To make it worse and hurt my ego, for more than half an hour none of the colorless men at the SJ had talked to me or gave me more than a passing glance. I had some money and could have bought myself a beer or soda but I had quickly learned " Buy me a soda or beer" was the ice breaking statement used by girls .So I decided to get up from the hidden corner, where I sat, and take a walk around, so that perhaps even if men didn't like my face, they could see what else I possessed. I was dressed, even by SJ standards, in a very conservative manner. In my naivety I thought men in a place like SJ would think me special, so it didn't matter how I dressed. I somehow thought once I walked inside the SJ, all men would troop to me. It turned out to be wrong. Looks and not swag seemed to carry the day. The new young girls of the SJ tend to hang out along the corridor next to the urinal. Walking along that corridor I saw the aggressive young girls confronting men " Twende shortie" .Lets go for a short time. Some of the men, who work on themselves in the urinal, agreed. I passed a man and he touched my ass. I went red with anger, and almost insulted him. Then I remembered what I had come to do. Quickly I smiled and looked at him. He just went away. Later I realized men who touch women asses are without cash to pay for them. Outside the short time rooms, at the end of the corridor, were men and girls waiting, knocking on the doors to urge those already inside to hurry up. It looked comical. Nowadays when I think of the first day at the SJ, I realize how silly and street dumb I was, though at the time I believed was a girl of the street, and not literally. Though I was the new kid on the block, my aloofness was not helping my freshness translate to money. There were girls who seemed to have lived at the SJ their entire adult lives. It’s very easy to tell; they look tired and lacking a female shine. These could have slept with 4500 men in five years at a rate of 3 men per day for 300 days. Only newbies to the SJ sleep with such. Men want something new, what other men haven't had a look or taste of. I was new, but no one wanted me. Anyway I went back and sat down, a little exposed and now very near the poetic girl. I wanted to talk to her but she was very drunk. So I tried to smile and put some droopy eyes, lusty look like the other girls did. Slowly I started becoming like them. My walk around seemed to have helped. A man approached me. “Short time how much?" he asked. It was such a direct question. I had spent so much time wondering what to charge. I regarded my self so highly, forgetting what mattered to men in such a setting was my performance in bed. I was thinking of a figure based on the fact that for some stupid reason I was more special than all the girls there. Before that, I had done some other veiled prostitution, you know the kind when in college and out in a club, a man picks you and in the morning it’s obvious he should pay for 'taxi' and 'lunch'. That

was always easy, though I didn't always get as much as I wanted. “How much will you pay?" I asked the man who was waiting. “The usual" he said. “How much?" “200" I felt light in the head. I was mad. It looked like an insult. “I am not that cheap" I said. “Alright" the man shrugged and walked away smiling. Something was wrong.

To be continued. One last part.....

Episode 14 (Final Part): Why I Chose The Street The true value of a prostitute is based on male perceptions. Such manifest themselves in different ways. In true essence there is no much difference between a girl in a downtown brothel and one up market. The downtown girl may even offer better service. Yet because of the roughness of the section, there is some cheapness, dirtiness and dumbness associated with the downtown girls. This is one of the things that makes men in the lower part of the city believe they should pay the girls there little. The girls downtown are seen as practicing prostitution proper; the poor desperate girl with no other means; the uneducated village or slum girl, and the ambitious house help. In view of the circumstances the girls are seen as with no option but to accept the lowest reasonable offer. Then again most of those who patronize the low class brothels are without enough income to include entertainment in their budget. The money they spend on prostitutes eats on rent, transport, food or even school fees. They will want to pay the least possible. These things were not obvious when telling the man 200 was cheap. I felt I should charge what I was worth; a figure I was finding impossible to determine. I was blinded by my ego to think that my fee should correspond to my obvious swag and nothing else. A better approach would have been to charge a premium based on the base amount the girls charged. Yet to charge a premium people must first appreciate that which makes them pay an extra amount. Here no one appreciated my looks, swag or anything. In one way or another all girls seemed equal.

To cut the chase, two or three men approached me, and I repeated 200 was on the lower side. Then some drunk pinned me down and asked how much I wanted. I said a thousand. It was enough to make the man howl and repeat the amount loud enough for all to hear. People laughed and sneered. “Is yours golden? Even if it was I wouldn't pay that amount". I felt crushed. I felt nasty being valued so low. For the first time I felt like a real prostitute. The Yeats' girl now a little sober came to my defense. She sat where I was and had a chat that really opened my eyes to the kind of place I was. The long and short of it I ended up taking the 200 , going to the dingy short time rooms and having the most detached of my thousand plus sexual experiences. The hardest past was lowering my pants, and lying on the filthy mattress. But soon I got used to the dirt. It was a rite of passage that changed me forever. In the short time I practiced at the SJ, I lost any sense of morality, my mind opened to view the world in a way I hadn't done. I slept with countless men every single day without guilt. And whenever opportune I stole from the drunk. At 200 there were many men now willing to sleep with me. The flip side was I started losing value of myself. It didn't matter who I slept with; dirty, clean old or young. I still cared about how I looked, but well it wasn't a must thing to do... What I became is something I can't really explain in words. Yet I still felt angry charging or rather being given 200. I wanted someone to pay me a thousand or more; that would make me feel I was getting the best value for my body and personality. Thus when I got the chance to go to the street, where the pay per session is more, and most of the men there relatively respectable. (Or wishing to look so), I chose that option. The exact logistics of joining the street and the obvious shortcomings as compared to the SJ, and why I decided to go into this business, is a story for another day. For now I am on the street where though I know I am a prostitute, I don't feel like one.

Of A Bucket, A Brand & A Kid On Valentine's day I wanted to sleep with a married man. I was sure one would pick me on his way home to deliver roses and gifts to his beloved wife. I fantasized of the moment when having sex I would imagine the flowers and wine on the backseat were meant for me. That, for me, would have been the perfect welcome back to the street after an absence of about a week. I had been out due to a cold and a bruise I suffered after a silly fight the other weekend. Well, it happened, but the man was one of those who don't believe in the hullabaloo about Valentine so he didn't have any flowers for the wife. He actually thought he was doing me a favor by sleeping with me on Valentine's Day, and wanted to enjoy my services free of charge. Enough of him. Now I wish to say a thing or two about some of the comments on the blog. I know this is not the way to do it, but they have accumulated and I don't spend

enough time online to respond to them as they come. A persistent theme in quite a number of comments has been about my identity and genuineness. There is nothing much to say about that. But truth, by its nature cannot, be contained for long; it always has a way of getting out. And perhaps other than inviting someone to enjoy my sex services; there is no foolproof way to prove I am Sue. That's possible. I have actually received countless offers from readers of this blog who wish to buy my services. But one of the ironies of this blog is that I am somehow afraid of sleeping with my readers. Seeing that they know so much about me, and my personal philosophy, I always imagine it would be an awkward nasty experience. I met one man who contacted me through the blog and we had a rather uncomfortable time. Then again it makes nonsense of my aim to build a brand. What use is a brand if it does not translate to economic gain? The street is becoming more and more competitive each and every day. The reason I had to go back to the streets on Valentine's Day, though I was not fully recovered. The more I stayed away, the more I lost touch with men, girls & trends. Hence the less competitive I became. A brand is supposed to give me an edge, to at least bring in more customers. The customers are coming but I am turning them down. The brand, if any, as of now is of no value; at least in terms of my core business. Maybe I diversify to something else of which I have no idea at the moment. (Selling my customers t-shirts reading; I went to Sue and all I got was this lousy t-shirt, pleasure & no disease). Perhaps when hit hard by competition I will have no option but to pitch myself to those who read this. Well I almost digress but I meant to say there might be no way to prove myself in the present circumstance. And am I obliged to do so? I have learned to acknowledge the diversity of human beings. No human being really surprises me anymore. Not even this comment on Episode 1: I can't Feel Your Thing where there was this man I told “That your thing disappears inside me; I can’t feel it at all.” Anonymous said... I would have told you to get your overused bucket out of my house with punches and slaps you whore, at 2.00am, and unleashed watchmen to you who wudda torn your punany apart. January 26, 2011 4:43 PM Why would one treat us in such a dismissive manner? It boils down to the view that prostitutes have lost dignity of themselves. So why treat them with dignity? The truth, as impossible as it seems, is we still value ourselves. What we have done is define dignity in our own ways. We view and value sex differently. Sex is deemed to be a sacred special act. But we are seen as cheapening sex, doing away with its sanctity. I'd say almost everybody who has casual sex does it. We might be better of because we actually attach a monetary value to the act. In the same vein verbal abuse has no effect on us or particularly me. When in practice I am rather sure of myself and ego, so even if someone told me I had a bucket, I would

smile and wave goodbye, shaking my small finger. And don't be fooled by girls; we don’t forget or accept such acts. Personally you may humiliate me, if that’s the word, at that particular time of the night, but I will make sure I get back on you; however long it takes; you will have to pay for it. Then there was this other interesting chap; Anonymous on January 27, 2011 6:53 AM, What business has a whore got to do not pleasuring me yet I will pay her....Kwanza me, I never pay them. I just pick you, munch you like 15 raos and throw you out, like the tissue you are. I don’t even let you shower, I make you go with a stinky punany all the way home...There is one I met at f2, imagine she asked me 4 7k a the way i bought viagra and staffed her 20 raos,then i chapaad her the next morning she left with a swollen face!!!Why charge for a punany that God gave you for free????*puts on an evil smile* Well let me ignore the obvious untruths like "staffed her 20 raos" and look at "Why charge for a punany that God gave you for free????" . I charge, because the punany belongs to me. Nature gives us things to help us survive, nature does not charge us, but that does not mean we should not charge. People charge for their good brains and talent which is natural. All-the-way sex is also a talent; just like painting . Not every woman can do it. I have a right to charge In response to the above comment someone said: Anonymous January 31, 2011 2:19 PM.. This is the most shameless man alive. Who in 2011 talks like this???: "Kwanza me, I never pay them" take your broke ass to shags "There is one I met at f2,imagine she asked me 4 7k a night." yeah 7k. It's her biashara if you can't afford it go to Luthuli u shady ass..."Why charge for a punany that God gave you for free?" dude ur buying sex.. oops your stealing sex.. no chick out of the 17 million in Kenya can give u ass?? then your the sorriest asshole alive nkt!! get some manners. Need I say more? I would have loved to, but it doesn't stop there. In the same thread the interesting Anonymous continues.. Anonymous said... I am the anon @ 9.32am, and in my life I have bedded well over 2000 chicas...Thing is ,all pussies are the same, there is no sweeter one.I usually deceive campus gals with my flossy lifestyle, then when they follow me I chapa them like 15 raos(whole

night)...then i wake them up after the last one and tell them, my wife is coming you gotta go.And i dont give them a shilling...Then go to this upcoming career women,esp bankers..esp the ones in sales.I pretend i want a loan,show them my payslip and its a key to my house where the inevitable happens..So by the time i am reaching a ho who wants 10k a night, its usually an afrodisiac coz WHY,WHY are you chargin me for what God gave you 4 free.As i am writing now, am from throwing one out 2nite @ 3.00 for refusing me an oral.Why are you peddling yourself if you cannot give me something as easy as 1,2,3. Just a minute is there any difference between me and that man who has slept with more girls than men I have had sex with? Feminists would say it’s because we are women. I am tempted to say so, but that would make me a feminist of sorts; and I am not. Let's play who is the prostitute now? In Episode 2: Why Should I Not Open My Legs? I talked of my wish to have a kid. A thing which, from some of the comments didn't make sense to quite a number of people. Anonymous said... Why do you want a kid? January 21, 2011 12:12 AM Anonymous said... Interesting want to nurture an empire of prostitutes or what? Dont bother getting a kid. No, I don't want to nurture an empire of prostitutes. My kid will have the freedom to determine his or her destiny. I dot believe it’s entirely impossible for me to become a good mother. I think I would even become a better mother than most in decent jobs, after all mothers get three months, or less, maternity leave, spend the days in the office and only see their children at 7pm, if there is no traffic jam. I would be spending the whole day with my kid. My work doesn't begin until around 10pm or 11pm, and then most of the days I am home by 6am. And aren't there mothers who work night shift? Perhaps those who doubt, think by being a prostitute I am a less caring human being. That's not true. Having seen what human beings are capable of, I would be more than caring to my kid. Well, not to sound impolite but partially I agree with this comment; only partially; Enigma said... Hey Sue, go ahead and get that kid. Don't let some hypocrites dissuade you. After all, do they know for sure what their mothers were doing before they were born?? January 22, 2011 9:55 AM

But if I get the kid, there might be some awkward moments for me as suggested by Eazy; Eazy said... "So mom, how did you and dad meet?" January 24, 2011 12:11 AM We met at work. Other concerns had to do with my ability to support the kid Anonymous said... Dont you think your child will be affected by your "career" you r also not going to remain forever young so this prostitution wont sustain you for long unless u have some sorta Retirement Benefits going on.. January 25, 2011 5:37 PM True, I wont remain a prostitute forever. Actually at the rate things are going I might fade out sooner than later. I have no pension scheme, but I am already working on a plan B. Perhaps when I become uncompetitive on the streets, I should look for some sort of formal job, but how to phrase my experience on the street as a plus to the employer would be quite a deal; I have experience selling fast moving consumer goods to men? In Episode 3: Anything At The Right Price I said I declined to have anal sex with some man. And someone commented:

Icon said... putting principles and prostitute together? seriously? you better consult a dictionary, the two can never go together .February 14, 2011 8:05 PM As unimaginable as it may seem, prostitution is also based on some principles; both personal and industry principles. Prostitution does not delete the human part of us, that which makes us beings with a choice; to do A or B. That's why I declined, even if the price was right. The same way some people would decline to kill even if they were paid their twenty's salary in advance. Just remembered some other anecdote related to prostitution and principles. Will write about it soon. To Episode 4: Survival of The Species, where I wrote about the risks of us or me getting infected with HIV. And there was this question: Anonymous said... What would u do if you ever get HIV? January 21, 2011 12:21 AM Well, I wouldn't want to get infected with HIV, but in the worst of circumstances I will just

live positively. Many people do. It’s an open secret that some girls here on the street still practice when positive. But like I previously said I would stop working if I became positive. Not for fear of being locked up, as the minister proposed, but one of those principle things. I know how 'foolish' it is to have unprotected sex, but the few times I have done so, my instincts have served me right. There are some people, from some VCT, who make the rounds here at least once a week, and those of us willing get tested. I test every week, and so far so good, I am not losing my guard though. It’s been ages since I had raw sex. Then there was this piece of advice; Anonymous said... Start using the women CD... February 4, 2011 9:51 AM I once tried and the female condoms are rather clumsy and uncomfortable. And they won’t make me more appealing to my clients.

Episode 15: Things I Carry In My Handbag The last few days I had been, anonymously, attending a workshop where all the women participants had this urban, suave and sophisticated talk as if they were all living the good times. Something about the way they carried themselves didn't look real or perhaps because I haven't socialized with their kind for long I felt that way. Anyway on the first day of the workshop in what I took to be an ice breaking exercise the facilitator asked; “What is it you carry in your handbag and can't leave home without?" The women looked like they were trying to out do each other and the answers included credit cards, sunscreens, a photo of my family, organizer, gym card, yoga book, perfume, motivational book and such. When it came to my turn I hesitated a little, then in the spirit of the workshop which was sort of to strategize against men I said “My pepper spray. I dress in what makes me comfortable, but makes some men uncomfortable". I lied. I don't carry pepper spray, but then in the circumstances I couldn't mention the actual things that I always have in my handbag, unless I wanted to be thrown out. I love medium size clutch bags. When I have to carry clothes to work, then I use a larger bag, which after changing I leave with some watchman or other of the street gatekeepers, but I never put my clutch bag down. So here are the must have items in my small bag: 1. Pen Knife It’s actually a cheap but very sharp blade which I can open with a single flick. Sure it’s a weapon, and I feel much better when I have it. I have never used the blade but since I

never know in whose car I hop into, it does no harm to have some defense tool stand by. If my instincts send alarm signals, I will have my bag with me until we embark on the sex, and then it will be within reach. I can only use the blade in the extreme of circumstances. A man not paying me is not extreme. A man verbally abusing me is not extreme. A man hitting twice me is extreme. Can I kill? I would hesitate before committing murder, but if that’s the only option to save my life then I would do it without guilt. 2. Lubricant As someone correctly pointed out there are many times when a client doesn't arouse me, hence make me wet. It doesn't matter the foreplay. And quite a number of men are hesitant to lick a prostitute down there. So I have the gel to ease the friction. But it’s not something I will apply in the presence of the client. That is unprofessional; enough to turn off some men, though it might stimulate others. If I need to use the lubricant I will, at the opportune time, excuse myself, pop into the toilet and come back 'wet'. But of course once in a while, I will meet a man who I 'feel' and who in turn makes me wet. Also, high risks, like the police station incident I mentioned in one of the episodes, excite me to the extent of making it unnecessary to use the lubricant. When I used to work at SJ I never used lubricant, instead I just applied saliva. Even though using a lubricant would have been for my own good, I didn't feel the men downtown were worth investing in KY. 3. Condoms Yes, I carry a pack of Rough Rider condoms. You see there are men who will want to have unprotected sex on the pretense of having forgotten to buy condoms. But viola I always has a pack ready. Others will have genuinely forgotten to buy some, and will only remember when my clothes are on the floor. At such times the emancipation to go raw is at the highest, but then too bad or too good, I have pack ready. Then of course there are men who buy or get for free, cheap, thick, low quality condoms which feel so uncomfortable inside me. It’s always a pleasure to introduce them to the world of premium, ultra thin condoms. This reminds me how at the SJ some girls used to insist on their clients wearing two of those free government condoms. Double protection at half the pleasure. Huh Pleasure is inversely proportional to Protection. 4. Sedative The spiking agent, the mchele that can black a man out giving me the opportunity to unload everything from his pockets or some valuables from his house. I have it both in powder and gum form. As impossible as it may be there are men who will actually believe that chewing a gum given by a prostitute will make them last forever. I don't intend to steal from men, but the drugs add to my feeling of security, knowing if need be, I can knock off a man for hours easily. And then again as Cheupe, she of urinating

in the city council van, told me in my first week on the streets "With men you never know when opportunity may strike" and "Whether you steal or not, everybody thinks you are a thief". I have to admit in my two years or so of practice on the street I have spiked only once, the victim being a drunk diplomat. That's another of the stories I am going to write about soon. 5. Book I always have a light book in my handbag. At the moment I have Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, a small book which I bought for Ksh. 70 on the streets. I am yet to start reading it. Before that I was carrying Tale of Kasaya by Eva Kasaya, and released by Kwani or some other Kenyan publisher. I picked the book from a client's house with his permission. It’s a true, interesting story of adventures of a former house girl until she got 'emancipated'. It’s a story I loved, and though I can not exactly relate with it, I know many of my colleagues can. There were times I used to have James Hadley Chase paper backs in the bag, Reading them a second tome after high school. Almost all had a prostitute or some prostitute kind of girl featured in the story. My favorite being ' But Just A Short Time To Live". I read on my way to work. Sometimes when bored at home I go to town early, and kill time reading at the Jeevanjee gardens or the seats outside Steers. I read the bigger, involving and more abstract books at home. 6. Lesso and extra pant If I leave home with my uniform, then I will make sure I have a pant and lesso, or kikoy tucked somewhere in the clutch bag. What would happen if I am busted by a client's wife or girlfriend when stark naked in action? Whatever would happen, including leaving my clothes behind, I wouldn't leave my handbag. At least then I will have something to cover my nakedness. The other items are what every girl has; some Vaseline, perfume, lip bum, tissue, wipes and the rest. I also carry a lighter, cigarettes, my ID, 'job' and business cards.

Episode 16: Why I Became A Prostitute - An Attempt Often I am asked by readers of this blog why I chose to become a prostitute. And quite a number of times I have set out to write my reasons for choosing to engage in this particular kind of pleasure business. In all the occasions I have stopped after the first few sentences; and this time too I might be in for another futile attempt. The question as to why I am a prostitute arises mainly from the fact that I have admitted to having a relatively good education, which according to many could be put to better use in the loop; some formal 8 to 5 till 55 employment cycle, rather than in an illegal trade where the advantage of having read many books is hard to pin down. If like a number of my colleagues I had talked of having not more than seven years of education, a high school pregnancy or other such tale of woe and poverty no one would be asking why. However

that is not the case. With me. Many times when writing I am in a soul scratching state; and when writing about why I became a prostitute I find myself not able to relate to tales of misfortune and a poor background. It’s not surprising then, a few sentences later I realize I have no explanation that is ‘acceptable’ or 'good'. Yet society requires the choice of prostitution as a way of earning a living to be justified, and not just by anything that comes out of the mouth, but by some very specific reasons. This is unlike in other careers, for instance accounting, where a generality like," This is something I always wanted to do" sounds rich enough to explain professional choice . In prostitution such would hold no water, what with sex work being a 'crazy' high risk and 'dehumanizing' career. So what led me to prostitution? The easiest thing for me to say is that after college I couldn't get a job and with bills to pay I had no option but to sell my body. But that, to a large extent, is a lie. True, after college I didn't immediately get a job, but so did many of my classmates, yet they did not jump to prostitution instead opting to survive and persevere until they got ‘proper’ employment. I also know I didn't look for decent work hard enough. I only made some few applications and didn't wait for all the responses from the employers before I hobnobbed to the SJ where I got hooked, literally. Courtesy of my ego and the reality of the work, I would be hesitant to say I was destined to be a prostitute or worse still admit that I choose prostitution because I was lazy, wanted freedom and having it easy. The same way I wouldn’t say, as some readers have suggested, I am in it because of a sex addiction; as interesting as it is, sex does not stimulate my mind enough to an extent of getting addicted. Seeing that, for now, I don't have a simple, clear reason which can qualify as 'acceptable', and because for once I want to try conform and satisfy society a little bit, I will assume there is a complex reason somewhere which can explain my participating in the flesh trade. Complexity, in this case, being a virtue. And so I start the search for the complex reason by looking at my Sexuality; from the time I was around eight years and used to sexually harass the boy sitting next to me in class, to the now, when I am harassed by men in hotel rooms. Episode 17: The Man In The Jalopy There are those contradictory sayings about first impressions and judging people. For instance there is the saying first impressions are lasting impressions, and don't judge a book by its cover. Perhaps it’s the realization that there can’t be a universal way to judge a person that we have all these sayings. The environment and particular circumstances are key in determining whether to judge a person by the cover or not. How will a prostitute on the streets for example know whether a man is loaded or not? At the heart of it, it doesn't matter. As long as a man can pay my fee it matters not to me whether he is spending on me what he makes in an hour or a whole month. Sometimes it’s obvious a man is spending the last of his shilling on me, but well that's his choice. As some other people would say generosity is not a function of how much one has, but the

enormity of the heart; or stupidity. Wordily logic, however, has it that the more one has; the more one is likely to give. From an economic view point, I tend to think everyone spends a similar proportion of their income on leisure; something like 20%. Certainly a fifth of a hundred thousand is more than a fifth of ten thousand. So a girl will wish to go with a man with more money; hoping the man will pay him extra. Of course it doesn't always happen that way. In the streets the way to judge how loaded a man is by what he drives. I can’t tell apart many models of cars but I can know an expensive car. Well there are girls who are experts. A seemingly expensive car will drive past and a girl will say “That’s Japan not showroom." Japan is cheaper. How they tell is beyond reason. But the car a man drives is not an absolute gauge of his well being. The car may not be his. This is somehow easy to know by the way the car is driven and the confidence of the driver. High worth individuals, driving the fuel guzzlers, are able to make decision fast. They wont dilly dally picking a girl. It’s as if their minds are already set. Such a man will stop a car, and as we crowd it, he moves his eyes from end to end then settles on a girl. A decisiveness which perhaps explains their wealth. Or perhaps they don't want to be seen on the streets talking to prostitutes. Those in the average cars will take hours to pick the girl. They have some misplaced excitement or perhaps are confused. They will stop a car, let the girls gather around, and like a king, Swazi king, take their time to make their choice. Some will be lost in laughter as the girls sell themselves. They are problematic men. Some months ago a rickety old car, which no one could tell what make it was, drove slowly along the street. When it stopped the girls thought it was due to a mechanical problem and no one seemed bothered, until the man removed his hand and waved, beckoning a girl. I went. The man just opened the door. I got in and we drove to some hotel along Ngong road. To be on the safe side he was the kind of man I had to insist he pays me upfront. He gave me a $50 note for a one hour session and paid for my taxi back to town. I have neither seen the rickety car again, nor its owner; a man not to be judged by the cover.

Episode 18: Sylvester Every profession has an eleventh commandment. The one thing not in the rule book but which should be adhered to. The eleventh commandment though is not sacrilegious; it can be broken, but with heavy consequences. In our trade on the streets the eleventh commandment is never to fall in love with a client. When one falls in love with a customer so many things can be compromised, affecting the main reason for being in prostitution; making money. You can not for example steal from a man you love. Not that we are out to steal, no, but sometimes, like when dealing with a mean man, it

maybe necessary. You can't also negotiate steadfastly with a man you love. You are most likely to take the lowest offer or, as impossible as it may seem, give yourself up for free; after all that's what people in love do. People break the eleventh commandment in a moment of foolishness. But for us we might break the commandment not in a moment of folly but simply because we are human beings responding to a biological urge to be loved. When a man picks me from a group of girls, it means he appreciates me. Crudely you may call it lust, but the lust is generated by an appreciation of something I have. But it ends there. Only a rare man will love a prostitute. We are seen like public institutions; open to all, to be (mis) used until we run down. We know this and so we never go out with a man expecting him to love us. However we may fall in love with a man. After seeing the best, worst and real of so many men, many of us believe we are experts in male psychology. Thus before a girl falls in love, much analysis has taken place in her head. Nevertheless like anyone else we make mistakes. Sometime ago I met a man called Sylvester. It says a lot if I knew his name, for many men are hesitant to give prostitutes their name, and if they do, they pick a common place name like John or Peter. Anyway Sylvester picked me one night around 11pm. He looked in his early thirties. The first thing he asked when I got inside his Subaru was whether I was feeling cold so that he could heat the car. Then he asked whether I felt hungry. Simple obvious questions but they meant a lot. As we drove towards Westlands, where he lived in an apartment, he volunteered more information about himself. He worked as an engineer with a local mobile phone company, he had broken up with his girlfriend and he eventually planned to relocate from the country. Again obvious things, but how many men volunteer such information to us? When we got to his house rather than hurry me to the bed with his hands all over me, he let me sit on the couch, brought some whisky, put some music and cracked jokes, about himself, his work and us. And when we made love it was sensual. Him concerned about how I felt. And so Sylvester picked me several times and treated me the same way. Naturally I became very fond of me, like falling in love. We never negotiated the fee he was to pay me; he paid what he wanted which was always slightly above the market rates. Perhaps even if he had decided not to pay me, I would have been okay. I actually thought he was falling for me too. Occasionally he called me during the day or night just to know how I was doing. One morning, two months or so after meeting him, we were in his house and he couldn't locate his wallet so as to pay me. He searched for it everywhere, but still couldn't get it. Then he grabbed me abruptly, his face with an expression I had never seen before. “You prostitute! Give me my wallet or I kill you." I was surprised. I didn't have the wallet. He then slapped and insulted me. He searched my small handbag, made me undress;

put his fingers inside me but still no wallet. Eventually he kicked me out. I cried. Not because he had hit me or refused to pay, but because I was in love with him. I had thought him different only to discover he was like all the rest.

Episode 20: My Fee Men pay for sex with a prostitute as if paying for a commodity. But my ideal situation would be if they paid for the service the same way one pays for a work of art. Not necessarily a Dali or Wanyu Brush but an obscure artist whose abstract painting pierces the soul of the buyer. If that was the case I would have the same basis as great artists to charge high prices; not for the aesthetics of the art but for the inexplicable effect a work has on the soul. But the ideal is only a fantasy I dream of, as I live through a very different reality. Pricing of commodities is a function of many factors but the key is the cost of production. Someone argued in one of the comments here that in my kind of work the commodity is naturally occurring and I should not price it. That however is a little simplistic. To start with it ignores the equivalent of the cost of mining; compensation for the psychological leap that is practicing prostitution. Then there are the obvious maintenance and packaging costs; buying clothes, making the hair, gynecologist charges and the likes, not forgetting the cost of transporting the commodity from the factory to the consumer. Perhaps I should state, hoping not to sound like Coca-Cola, I don't sell my body, but happiness. When I moved from the SJ to the street I set myself the standard fee to charge; Ksh.1, 500 per session. Though a somehow arbitrarily amount I calculated it was enough to cover my costs and a fair price for what I was giving in return. However I soon did away with it. It was limiting. There were men who wanted to pay slightly less and I was shutting them out. And the others who wanted to pay more but were caged by my price. Still naive, I then started charging on the basis of the car a man drove. But as I pointed out earlier the car a man drives is a very poor indicator of what he may pay a girl. Some of those who seem to have bought sleek cars through a formal career or clever business are a little full of themselves, like they are running the world. They feel they have nothing to prove, and are actually doing me a favor. They pay what is a complimentary amount for the bother. But there are those with the expensive cars who seem to have made money the easy way; perhaps through deals, corruption or some other backdoor manner. These are generous with their cash and pay much more than what I ask for. Those driving the lower Toyota, Nissan, Volkswagen and second hand BMWs (The latter are indeed very interesting) are quite unpredictable. Some are on low budgets and can’t pay a lot as much as they would like to. Others have this constant fear that they are being persecuted or exploited by the government and everyone else, so they are

just tough with their cash. The second hand BMW types seem in doubt of their wealth, or more appropriately whether people recognize them as wealthy. They will pay relatively more and with some flamboyance, just to prove they are loaded. Nowadays I gauge each customer differently. This is the best strategy. I use some simple indicators to know what to charge. For instance men who ask what my price is immediately I enter their car are not ready to pay much, so I quote a figure a little bit low. Those who talk much will definitely negotiate, so I quote a higher price to create room for negotiations. A customer asking when I would like my payment; before or after the session is a hint to charge more. Why a man is sleeping with me is an important consideration too. Those who sleep with me for the spirituality will have no problem paying more, as compared to those in it for the physical satisfaction. At one time I thought men appreciate girls who charge more because things classy come at a premium price, but then I realized many men want a prostitute for who they think she is; a lowly girl without social or moral inhibitions.

Episode 21: Role Playing Most human beings have one form or another of eccentricities. However because we get to hear only of the oddities of the famous we think ourselves perfectly normal. Yet there are many things we do which may be considered as peculiarities. But we don't think of them as such because to us they are normal. It’s debatable whether the word normal loses meaning when defined by an individual as opposed to the larger society. I have never thought any of my actions as freaky until some few days ago when someone suggested some of the things I do are strange. Like everyone in college I had dreams of a good job. I used to very specific which particular companies I wanted to work for. The first was Zimele Asset Management where I was to be analyst. The second was Safaricom where I imagined working in product development. Then there was Y & R where I figured I could be a copywriter. And there was the World Bank; there I was not sure what I wanted to do. By the time I got to my fourth year I had stopped dreaming. My dreams hadn't been quashed but I had started developing some, let me call it open minded, philosophy. With the open minded thinking I felt, correctly or not, I had life by the balls. A few weeks on the streets I started wondering, not in regret or remorse, what would have happened if I had ended up working in those companies. I became a little obsessed with the thoughts. The result is that nowadays (& for the last two years), at least twice a month, I pretend or actually believe and as act as if I am not a prostitute. Such evenings I dress in what I think a female analyst at Zimele Asset Management dresses in. Then I go to the bars where I think she would have a drink. I sit there imagining how my day in the office was, analyzing the money market and securities. When it’s Y & R I create and recreate advertisements in my head.

The days I pick to play these roles are random and on such I don't step on the street. Rather after a few drinks I go home to 'prepare' for the next working day. It’s a rather costly exercise for me. The drinks the successful young working women take are expensive. The bars they visit classy, serene and comfortable places. (My favorite being off Waiyaki Way). I am blind to these costs and willingly spend. When the urge to become a product developer at Safaricom comes and I have no money I get into a state of frustration, I lose my concentration and become a little edgy. I am not able to summon the energy to go to the street until the urge disappears. I know the role playing may sound futile and outlandish, but in the short list of things that make my life full it ranks highly. The first person I told about it was my gynecologist during my regular monthly check up last week. I mentioned it as a by-the-way. I was surprised by how shocked she was. She even suggested I should be seen by a psychiatrist friend of hers. I laughed. I have no mental problems. I know what I am doing & at no one time have I ever imagined it as bizarre. Yet beyond the feeling of satisfaction I have no logical explanation for my acting. But this could be one of the things that beat logic. I am okay with the way I live presently. I don't really aspire to live the lives I act. It's not a fantasy but simply I am happy to experience the career life in my own way. That said there are some complications with my role playing. Normally when I go to the classy places I sit alone smoking, taking some white wine or better still shots of Jack Daniels. Of course as a copy writer I am thinking of the customer's brief requiring an advertisement that resonates with men but doesn't feature gorgeous women. But generally I want to avoid conversation. I am confident and knowledgeable enough to hold small talk about any topic but what if someone asks where I work and I mention a company where he or she works. That however is a small matter, an awkward moment which I can get away with using some charm. The bigger risk is that under the influence of strong drink one says things they should not. And the more I drink the more my prostitution instincts become sharpened as much as I may wish to tame them in such situations....

Episode 24: My Vagina Says Something (The Vagina Monologues happen this week. I bet then this a good time to reply to some comments posted here about my Vagina. As usual with me, no hard feelings about any of the comments. I first recorded this piece as part of the podcasts I am creating…I was a little charged thus the slightly different style...) Someone says the nerves of my Vagina are dead. He is wrong. They are alive and sensitive. I feel each and every penis that penetrates me. And though I may not react ecstatically with every thrust I know of the conversation that goes down there. My Vagina tells the arrogant looking Penis: "You know you are not the first here."

"I know, I can feel it". Says the Penis "You have been to many others. Right? " My Vagina says "Yes, the same way many have visited you. " "And how would you compare the others to me?" My Vagina says. "I think you are gorgeous". The Penis says. "Thanks. Will you come again?" "You know it depends on my master" "I bet you can nag him enough to bring you back to me. " My Vagina says. "I will try, but promise not to allow others to visit you." "That I can’t promise..." Someone says my Vagina smells. He is wrong. I value and take care very good of it. How could I ignore the organ that keeps the rest of me alive by generating income to stop me from starving? I clean it thoroughly and visit a gynecologist every month to have it checked for any impurities. I also give it a break. At times when alone in the house I stay naked so as to give it a breath of fresh air. And it’s because I value it that I stopped peeing anywhere like some of us girls on the street do. My Vagina was not happy with exposure to elements. It was for the same reason that I stopped drinking at the bar not far from my house because the toilets were filthy. My Vagina must have had a chat with the mouth. "Can’t you stop mistress from drinking? I almost suffocate every time she is emptying the bladder" My Vagina asked "I have no control over it, Mistress loves her drink and furthermore I love the taste of beer.” The Mouth replied. "Then ask stomach to do something" "No way, the last time I asked stomach to help he reacted by pushing everything out through me." "Well something must be done, otherwise I will commit suicide" My Vagina seems to have a life and brain of its own. I don’t use it to think but it

influences my thinking. I vomited every time I visited the loo until I stopped going to the particular bar. Someone says my Vagina is loose and the size of a bucket. He is wrong. I exercise and keep it fit. I was given a hint about vaginal exercises. Now I squeeze and release my muscles when the man or my finger is in. Occasionally I hold my urine a little longer than necessary, the muscle stress helps in keeping me tight and natural. At times it also gives me pleasure. If my vagina was loose and wide some men won’t be moaning in pleasure when with me. And they won’t be coming back. If someone says my Vagina is as wide as a bucket then his penis is short and narrow. Someone says I can never enjoy the fun of sex for as long as I lease my Vagina. He believes, as the old adage says, that business and pleasure can never mix. True, I may not experience as many instances of pleasure as other women, but I occasionally have some fun. I meet a man I like and enjoy every moment of it. And hey these days you don't necessarily need a man to have some good sex. The fact that I have commercialized my Vagina does not mean I have lost my dignity or don’t respect it anymore. More than ever before, I feel my vagina defines me. Whatever I am presently and in a long time to come is a result of my Vagina... Thanks princess. I am sure you are proud of me as I'm proud of you. Episode 23: Are You Satisfied? At the face of all I need from a client is money. The cash lifts my spirits, but leaves me with some sort of emptiness when not coupled with a sense of satisfaction. The contentment I speak of is both sexual and psychological. I am used to living without the sexual pleasure. Sometimes despite giving my all sex feels like any usual physical exercise say walking. There is no thrill or a hint of pleasure. Initially the sex frustration used to disturb me. I remember in my earlier days on the street how I almost got depressed after sleeping with several men and not getting tickled the way I expected. With time I overcame the feeling. I realized in the process of making the psychological leap to prostitution, I had lost something, that which previously used to make me passionate and crazy about sex. Still this does not mean there are no moments when I enjoy sex. There are ecstatic and orgasmic instants. However I seem to have lost control of when and how I experience sexual bliss. My P seems to have charted its own course about this. Then there is the issue of the psychological fulfillment after a session with a man .When I know I have given a man what he came to look for in me I get a big moral and ego boost. A delight that makes me think I am still relevant on the streets. There are men, like I pointed out earlier, who come for the physical and others the spiritual. And it is easy to know what a man is after. The duration between him picking me and getting to bed gives the clues; it’s in the talk, the driving and his eyes. The way he acts during the actual sex also hints at what he is seeking. Men who thrust as if they are trying to get

something other than their semen out are not in for the physical pleasure alone. The crucial point for me is after the sex. I see fulfillment, guilt, satisfaction, bliss, delight, disappointment, grief among other things in the eyes of men. When a man requests to hug me after a session I feel good. When a man curses or says that was good I know he got what he wanted. A man who throws money at me rather than handing it over to me didn't get what he wanted. There are all these small clues. Sometimes I will be courteous enough to ask a man whether he is happy with the service or not. But such a question rarely generates an honest answer. When I have not satisfied a man I feel like I am losing my shine, which actually I might be. I will carelessly spend most of the cash I get from such a man. I will try, more than necessary, to prove myself to my next client, sometimes making mistakes in the process and losing whatever others think is left of my dignity.

Episode 26: An Allergy To Rubber And Other Latex Anecdotes My first ever client wore two condoms. He had voluntarily worn one but I had insisted he insert a second. This was as a result of intelligence I had gathered from Njoki, a girl I had befriended, and who had been at the Sabina Joy (SJ) for years. According to her a girl could not risk sleeping with a man who wears a single condom. “What if the condom tears?" she had asked. This was the Njoki who recited Yeats and whose experience and perceived brains were impossible to ignore, especially as an anxious novice. So there I was lying on a tattered mattress in a stuff dimly lit room, telling a rather drunk man to wear an extra condom or bounce. Of course he protested claiming I was giving him a raw deal, but too bad for him, he had already paid for the room and walking away would have meant him losing Sh200. As he penetrated me I was dealing with the relief of at last doing something I never imagined I would do and the discomfort of too much rubber. Word spreads fast at the SJ and it didn’t take long to know I was not endearing myself to men by always insisting on the double potion of condoms. Also after some research on my own I realized using two condoms may actually have been doubling the risk rather than the protection. So I went easy on it. That said the number of men who wanted raw sex; kanyama as they called at the SJ, was amazing... A man would ask to have unprotected sex with me, and if I asked why his answer would be a vague statement like “That’s what I enjoy”. Unlike on the streets where monetary gains may tempt a girl to have raw sex, at the SJ there were no such incentives. At times a man would try to penetrate me without a condom and if I alerted him to it, he would pretend to have forgotten. That however was a ridiculous excuse because the condoms would be lying on the bed for him to see. Yet what perplexed me most those initial days was why anyone would decide to have unsafe sex with a prostitute. It’s a puzzle I have never solved to date. The sex at the SJ was no frills. This made it impossible for men to trick me to having unprotected sex. You see the short time sex at the SJ follows a very predictable pattern: You smile at man. He smiles back. If he is at a distance you wink. He comes over to you. Twende shortie you say. The man asks how much. Two hundred. If he agrees he goes to the reception and pays 200 for the short time room, and gets a pack of condom wrapped in tissue paper. Both of you queue

awkwardly outside the short time room where there is always a couple inside. If those inside the room stay for more than five minutes, you start intensely knocking the door until they get out. Once inside you ask the man for your fee. Money in hand you lower jeans, lie on the tattered mattress, apply some saliva on your P and wait for the man. If he makes as if to touch your breasts and all or ask for funky styles you turn him down; money and time are not enough for the extras. On the street nothing is as predictable. The venue of the sex is an unknown just as what will happen when there. Since on the street I charge a premium, I am more flexible and give or act as if to give my all. Still a number of men have tried to penetrate me raw, especially when I am on my fours. Some wear the condom then try to remove it. But I am always alert and none of those odd men have succeeded in their trickery. There are other men who will offer me extra cash in return for kanyama. In such circumstances I, and most girls, decide what to do based on individual greed, desperation and need for money. As much as the effects of a an ailment such as AIDS may be more adverse on me than say pregnancy, like most girls I am equally worried about getting impregnated by a random customer. Most of the girls practicing in places like the SJ or on the street, and who have children are proud to pin point the father. In most cases the father is a boyfriend in their neighborhood. (Yes, many girls have boyfriends.) . In cases where the father is a client then it one of those they have built a special relationship with. While at the SJ I believed a condom could protect me more from disease than from pregnancy. No wonder I got pregnant despite my being extra careful. I have never understood how it happened. But luckily or unluckily something came up in the early days of the pregnancy and I didn’t carry it to full term. And no, I didn’t abort. There was another time when I had a pregnancy scare. A man picked me from the street around 4 in the morning. He was fairly drunk and so I was. We went to a hotel within the CBD and had this rough sex. Either he didn’t wear the condom properly or climaxed and continued thrusting, but somehow the condom came out. I only realized when we were done. I was not very polite with him and used some choice words to express my disgust. He laughed, placed my fee on the bed and left. Such was a “Shit! I am a prostitute!" moment; a few seconds which reminded me straight on the face of my place in a righteous society. Anyway I didn’t want daylight to get me in town, so I left the hotel and went home with the condom stuck in me. I managed to remove the filthy thing. Though it was during my unsafe days, I was lucky again as I tested negative both for diseases and pregnancy. Still on condoms, a man picked me one rainy night. He was not so good looking but quite polite. We went to a hotel in the outskirts of town. Immediately we entered the room we were all over each other with kisses and touches. When time came for the actual sex, he removed some cream from his trousers and gave to me. I thought it was a lubricant. “That’s a spermcide. I am allergic to rubber". What! I looked at the packaging and instructions, sure it was a spermcide. There was even an applicator which I was to use to apply it inside me. “I will use it too “the man said. For a moment I was frustrated and confused. I was broke and needed the money. “What happens when you use rubber?” I get very sick. He looked and sounded genuine. “Are you married?” No. This broke my heart. He was a prostitutes’ man. “Will this protect me from infection?" “I don’t know, but I have used it with other women and nothing bad has happened. Do I look like I can infect you intentionally?" There was a moment of silence. I then took the cream, squeezed and

applied generously inside me. In silence he applied it on himself. We made love, nothing forceful, and nothing steamy. But everything mellow.

That was a few months ago. Nothing bad has happened to me.

Bonus Episode The rush here on the streets is to acquire as much as possible within the shortest time. This is because in our trade we become less competitive as we age. Also, as with all illegal trades, we never know when the government might decide to tighten the noose and kick us off the street like the drug pedlars atthe coast. The urgency to accumulate makes it impossible to play fair at all times, and hence the need to pull a trick or two once in a while. Although when I came onto the street I was already psychologically hardened, there were some things I wasn’t prepared for like the extremes of the tricks. But with the new company, I quickly overcame such moral reservations. A common stereotype in society is that prostitutes are thieves; not only of emotions and husbands but also of material things. A stereotype stressed by Cheupe, who I met during my first week on the street. “Whether you steal or not, everybody thinks you are a thief,” she told me as we sat on a pavement sharing a cigarette. The first thing I noted when she first talked to me was her face, which was scarred as if a bleaching experiment had backfired. She chain-smoked and constantly sipped some pungent liquor from a plastic bottle she always carried. The sentence about stealing had come from nowhere but it was what she used to introduce me to spiking. She peddled the drugs that I could use to make men black out so that I could offload everything from them. Still with a touch of innocence, I never imagined myself drugging a man. But Cheupe,with her husky voice and warped, street smart-logic, convinced me the spikes were a must-have because with men you never know when opportunity may strike. And unless I was in the trade for other purposes, there was no reason why I shouldn’t use any means to get money from men. Cheupe had two types of drugs; a powder-like substance and chewing gum. I couldn’t imagine a man chewing gum offered by a prostitute. I bought and kept the drugs in my handbag, never sure I would get to use them. She also offered some tips; not to use the drugs on a sober man; not to spike a regular customer; to build trust with a client before drugging him, and, if need be, to corroborate with the watchman.

One day an African man driving a Mercedes-Benz with diplomatic license plates picked me, and we drove to a guest house in Westlands. He bought some wine and we ended up in the room. He was fairly drunk and seemed the perfect target. Although I was hesitant to do it, I wanted, just like all other girls, to have a story to tell and to belong. And because the man was foreign, the temptation was high. When the rather drunk man excused himself and went to the bathroom, I removed a small paper with a pinch of the powder from the pocket of my jeans and emptied all of it into his glass of red wine. To my surprise, the wine changed color to green. “What the hell!” I thought to myself. Cheupe had played a trick on me. “Shit!” I had to do something. Fast. As he came back from the bathroom, I removed my jacket and threw it on the table on top of the two glasses of wine, while beckoning the man to come my way. I was all over him with my hands and mouth. The spilt wine soaked into the carpet. In a few minutes, he seemed dead asleep. In his pocket were $900, a Nokia phone and a credit card. “Just leave my credit card and phone. You can keep the rest. It is all yours.” The guy wasn’t asleep. I went straight home, plotting a trick to pull on Cheupe. She had me this time.

For the complete E-book and to contact Sue, the authour ; Email Follow on Twitter: @suenairobi Facebook : Sue Maisha Visit for more… All the above material is protected by copyright: © 2011 Sue Maisha

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