Baby Up To No Good (II)

A black and white photo of African woman with bushy pubic hair
Photo by Billy Hani

Written by Highest Kite 

I believe my eyes are the best of my features, but my face cannot be part of my first erotic images and neither can my mane of pubis hair. Around 6 PM, inside the bathroom I share with my siblings, between shaving and showering, I’ve taken boob and thigh pictures. The tap has been running to cover any flash sounds. I want to ease myself into this, nonetheless I am very nervous. 

My pep talk is a road map: doing this means a little less dependency, a lot less calling on old friends to pay for my high, and some money in my pocket. Must I get high? Yes. After some light editing, I send Carol the photos and she replies they’re not good enough. I need to relax, she says, and go all the way. How can I when around me are my younger brothers listening to “Chlorine” by Twenty One Pilots on loop?

At the table is our older sister working on her laptop. Since April, after settling into her second job, she has been catering for Wi-fi. I’ve no idea what telecom engineers do but usually, she keeps at it until late into the night. In this house, the only room I’m guaranteed privacy is the bathroom or a bedroom I share with said sister. The first won’t do now that I need a surface to sit on and the second is quite risky. What if anyone walks in? I can’t make sex noises with an audience meters away. 

Still, the bedroom is the better option and once inside it, I lock the door, lay down a towel and position the back camera against a TCB coconut hair treatment bottle a few centimeters away from the show. Once the camera timer bell goes off, I begin to lightly stroke my clit and labia wondering, what turns me on?

The man on my mind, his scent, shoulders and ideas. But he’s an arse with a girlfriend a year younger than me, and the father of a child with a woman nine years my senior. His decisions are a dirty game with my self-esteem but I love how spent he looks after sex with me, like I’ve taken everything from him when he cums from the long dick rides, ball sucking blow jobs and spring after spring of my squirt on his legs and chest. I live for the few afternoons I’ve spent with him. 

The memories of his nonchalant attitude when I’ve asked for more really hits my spot and soon, my fingers and cunt are wet. I pick up the phone and end the video but what I watch is not what I imagined. The lighting is shit and save for the sounds, no one can tell I’m wet. My pussy is more purple and darker than I’ve always thought and the camera seems only to catch the pink of my inner labia. I should have had the flash light on but thought the fluorescent bulb would work. I have neither the patience nor time to reminisce and reenact what I’ve just shot. 

Nearby is a bottle of cocoa butter lotion. After testing the flashlight on the back camera, I use a few drops of cocoa butter to help with visibility. The guaranteed pleasure from a pair of fingers to my clit is immense but cut short after a few minutes. The resulting video is much better and I crop out three sections I like best: middle finger going in out, thumb pulling over the hood on my pulsating clit and a clear milky flow. When I send Carol the new options, I’m not worried she’ll suspect a thing. On Pornhub, there’s a hashtag and account that goes by ‘The Creamy Machine.’ The stars seem creamy for days but as a female, I’m almost certain this is staged. Unless my period is calling, I’m not that wet until sexually excited. A few minutes later however, Carol calls me out on my bullshit. 

    “Hey R, is that lotion?” 

    “No.” I lie foolishly.

    “Inakaa (Looks like) lotion. Don’t use lotion.” 

    “Mbona? (Why not?) It’s working.” 

    “Some guys will notice and dislike you. Lotion si poa (using lotion is not good), you could get an infection.” 

    “I didn’t know.” 

    “Just stick to your body. Usiforce. (Don’t force this.)” I’m out of lies and let her continue.

  “Next time, focus on more. It’s not just sex hivyo (plainly). Involve your body. Take videos while playing with your chest, waist and ass. Don’t be afraid to use all of you juu kumasturbate (sure, masturbating) is hot but so is all of you. U know?” I really don’t, but say I do. 

    “Okay. Pole. (Sorry) I’ll change styles next.” 

Over the next hour, Carol turns the photos and videos into a Google drive folder in my name. Before 8:30 PM, texts begin to stream in and I know my sex work is live. I’ve asked Carol how to price my goods and she’s said to do what I want within my limits. She explained that I can only make bank from actual escort service and until I’m ready, it’s best to make acquaintances with whoever reaches out. I’ve had my rice and beans supper fast and are now on the top bunk in the bedroom. 

I can see eight texts from eight new contacts. I’ve gone through them and decided to reply only to six. The dejected pair is of a uniformed General Service Unit (GSU) man and a uniformed Kenya Defence Forces (KDF) soldier. I never want to be within arms reach. I’ve always thought I’m likely to cheat on someone if I date them long-term, so living with guns is off limits. Not that kitchen knives have not been used to butcher women before. Female-focused violence is such a turn off. Is the uniform meant as an aphrodisiac? A sign that he’s moneyed? It doesn’t work on me. 

The contacts all have their profiles on while I’m still deciding what archived Instagram post I should use. I reply, ‘Hi’ to all of them and in minutes, I’m offered a date, a sleepover, and a new job assisting with sales somewhere in Limuru. Only one young man asks, ‘How much?’ Bless him. I ask for five hundred and in minutes, my M-Pesa is better. I share the folder link and spend the next two hours wading through the many excuses I have for not providing physical service. The best is that I’m not in Nairobi but in a country town, Wote, Makueni. Being here implies I’m hours away and a Kamba woman. In Kenya, there’s a not-so-quiet belief that Kamba women not only love sex but are great at it. I don’t know if it’s true. When I do have a second sale, it’s almost midnight. 

The man in the profile is your typical IT guy: tall, lanky, dreadlocked and in glasses. He too only asks ‘Hey?’ and ‘How much?’ I get paid five hundred again and I’m glad for it. When Carol texts around midnight for an update, I mention what I’ve made and she’s happy for me. A thousand bob on the first try! She says I can make more as an escort and that she is willing to teach me the ropes. Would it be better if she accompanied me the first time? I don’t know, I’ve never had a threesome before. 

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