I have always been obsessed with love and sex; one because of the other. My first contact with love was with my parents; living in a face-me-I-face-you (informal term for a type of residential real estate in Nigeria) house in Lagos. My first experience with sex, though, began where the former ended (or I should say decreased drastically) in a better apartment in the same corner of Lagos. Sadly, better didn’t mean happier but that’s a story for another publication. I can’t remember that apartment now without sexual thoughts (most of them not exciting.) My sexual interests started from movies; those tastefully done scenes placed in the middle or later part of movies. I’d rush home from school to see one before my parents arrived. It was so I could enjoy every bit without any interruptions; without having to look away, or pretending to go to the loo, or suddenly remembering a task I was supposed to do earlier. I think the most hilarious was pretending to take a nap in the middle of a movie I was so woke for seconds ago.
Nevertheless, these pretences were necessary. They were a display of respect; an affirmation to our parents that they had not failed miserably in raising us. You see, to Nigerian parents, hating sex or its depiction is confirmation that one is morally upright. Judging so far from this post, apparently, I am not. Anyways, I found the romance novels and my interest peaked some more. This time I didn’t need to be sneaky or strategic because they came in books and our parents loved books. You could never go wrong with books. You could get away with reading anything, (even a DIY killing book) especially if your parents weren’t readers. The books imparted me more and with them I could use my imagination.
I started to create my own stories in my own little world. I’d crush on a guy and immediately start to weave a story around him. I’d imagine what he would say to me, how I’d reply, some coincidental meeting, being left alone in a room, the first kiss, some drama and eventually the sex. It was so much fun and it served as an escape. Whenever the world seemed to be stressing me out, I’d withdraw into this fantasy world of mine and it caused me to live in my head more than in reality and as I grew it shaped up better. Unfortunately, reality wasn’t as fun and I got disappointed a lot out of expectations my mind already created. I would sometimes wish I could make people see how much fun I was having in my head and so I started to write these fantasies.
The first time I shared a story I had written, it was to a mixed audience of two friends; a guy and a girl. I did this on purpose to get their reactions simultaneously. Half way into the story, the girl stopped, saying it wasn’t good for her spiritual health. I stopped myself from asking if she ever read romance novels. The guy, however, thought it was exciting and wanted to read more and so I continued this newly found craft of mine. With time, I continue to gain the courage to share it with more people as I will do here. My stories would be for those who love pleasure and who want to know the different ways it can be had and given. It is for those who like to explore the story behind the sex and see how different shared histories can shape sexual experiences.
On the flip side, the worst and best compliment I ever got was when someone referred to my writings as porn. Worst because I always felt porn dealt more on artificial and hardly attainable beauty and that it was lacking of soul. Best because porn is visual and I must have painted the picture well enough to get it compared so. No, I am not a sexologist and yes, I plan to be unhindered. So my next post will probably have an NSFW tag.
