By Naija Dyke/ @naijadyke
I know what I want.
What I want is a relationship. A real, proper relationship. One where it’s just me, and her. No boyfriend on the side. No girlfriend on the side. In fact, a relationship where there is absolutely NO side, because I’m the appetizer, the main course, and the desert rolled into one.
So why the hell should I share?
After all this time being single, taking the time to get to know myself better I am falling in love with the woman I’ve become (far from perfect, but far more accepting of myself) who is more beautiful, more passionate, more everything. A woman who is awesome so why the hell would I then allow myself to be the side chick?
Nope. Not for me.
But here I am, swamped with all these ‘unavailable’ women. There’s something in me that calls out to them. Yes, I am responsible for it like I am responsible for everything else that happens in my life. I’m one of those ‘I create my own reality’ people.
For a while it had been night after night of meaningless sex. Said meaningless sex only happened with two people, one, a dear friend and the other, could be described as an acquaintance. But something snapped in me the last time and I decided I was done. I broke off the casual thing with them both. Casual isn’t really my scene anyway. I’m extreme. I’m all about “all or nothing.” I briefly forgot that’s who I really am. But I remember now.
So, I have made a decision.
This vaj would remain chaste, until I meet the one.
Let me explain what I mean by the vaj remaining chaste as the notion is relative. It does not mean that there shall be no coming it simply means that when I am absolutely desperate for an orgasm, it will be handled by either my hands, and/or my vibrator.
And that will be all.
Also, since I tend to get some women who want to “sleep over,” and I know there’s a huge chance something will happen when they do I thus decided that I wasn’t going to shave anymore. Not till someone deserving came along. Not till I actually take the time to get to know this ‘someone’ whoever she is.
This plan is disgustingly brilliant, I know. Or brilliantly disgusting. Especially when you consider that I let the pits grow out too.
You are probably asking how long have I stuck with this? Well, let’s say long enough. (Pun oh-so-intended).
At first I was amused at myself. Then I grew slightly disgusted. Then, even more disgusted. Then came acceptance. Now, I dare say, I am quite proud of the thick, coarse, curly, thatch of black hair between my thighs.
What? Why are you scrunching up your nose? Why be pretentious about it? Nothing wrong with hair down there. Ah keeps it nice ‘n’ clean, thank yuh verrah much. In fact, I have grown fond of it, a little too fond, which might be a problem.
I’ll tell you.
I have got a list of qualities my next girlfriend will have. I thought I pretty much had it covered, but now I realized I had to add one more thing: ‘likes bush.’
I always thought to myself I wouldn’t be able to go down on someone who’s got hair down there. But now, having grown mine out, I realize that really isn’t such a big deal.
What’s the worst that could happen? Hair gets caught between my teeth? No problem! That’s the real reason dental floss was invented. Or, I choke on a particularly long strand of hair and I die? Well everyone dies anyway, sooner or later. In my a-tad-too-honest opinion, dying in between the thighs of a beautiful woman is not a bad way to go.
I love my bush. I have become attached to it – in more ways than one. I imagine, when I meet The One, it’ll be a very magical moment. She’ll look at me from across the room, she’ll confidently walk up to me and introduce herself, and then I’ll tell her my name. Then the next thing she does – and this is the super sexy part, folks – she gives a slow, lazy, half-smile, and then she says:
“So, got bush?”
And then she winks, a la Ruby Rose in OITNB.
And then we get together and live happily ever after.
And we have bush-braiding competitions.
And we see if we can make them into dildos or something. I’m thinking lots of gel. We’ll see who has the biggest hair-dick. And then maybe we wash it all off, and figure out how to make each other come just by chewing on the hair. Then when it’s too long that we look like we have actual penises or something, we’ll help each other trim. Not shave, trim.
*Deep sigh* That would be so romantic.
Okay, I’m done sharing.
For more posts by Naija dyke check out this one where she goes to strip club for the first time.
First published on Diary of A Naija Dyke
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