Waking up to a smell of morning sex. Been raining the whole morning since 3 am. That’s when we fucked. I step on jeans, shoes, underwear, condoms, strewn on the floor on my way to the bathroom. She walks in. Milk and bread in hand. Looking all kissable in a black hoodie and a scarf. Such kissable, eatable thing.
It’s the end of August and we just fell in love. This, despite the chilling fact that we both have idiots who trust us. She, an idiot she’s to marry early December and me, a wife with a son as charming as this muthafucca staring at me from the mirror at the sink wall.


It’s George who introduced us. George is the worst muthafucca I ever met. Been friends for 6 years now. Books spoil people. George had read Strauss’ book “The Game” on Pick-Up Artistry and the son-of-a-bitch got hooked. So far he’s fucked about 40 women in less than 5 months. Well, I know he exaggerates this shit whenever he’s briefing me on his ‘field reports’ but, heck, he has WhatsApp massages and nudes as supporting evidence. And of course I’ve witnessed his pussy-hunting conquests first hand.

I’ve seen him hit on women in odd places. From the salons his wife frequents to supermarket stalls to bus stages to meetings to schools to rugby matches to weddings. Four out of five women he corners end up dropping their panties for him. So let’s say he’s my role model because I’ve always been that introverted muthafucca who loves one woman far too deeply, hoping for forever and such imprudent notions.
What I found inspiring from George’s exploits is how sexually weak women are. He had once used newspapers to cover a floor of a hut somewhere in Kitale to fuck a woman he’d just met 2 hours early. You don’t wanna listen to George if you’re the sentimental type and you’re in a long-distance relationship. He says, sometimes all it takes is extra balls to sexually trigger a woman.

‘Accidentally’ dropping a condom from your pocket is the oldest trick in the book. Oddly enough, he’s never raped any of them except for a few cases where one reacted skittishly like a cornered mouse upon realizing his intents. The downside of this experience is that his respect for women is diminishing to a lowly misogynistic level. For instance, he doesn’t at all like female politicians, female radio presenters, doesn’t listen to female musicians except those few songs where they sing of heartbreaks, you know, how men have hurt and used them. He likes such. That also goes for films where women are tortured like I Spit on Your Grave.

One goofy muthafucca. One would expect, out of judgemental bias, George to be a single, scarfaced, weed-puffing, tattooed brute from a broken family but he’s a middle class gentleman with a lovely wife and two kids. Loves his wife selfishly and calls his mom twice a week. When I broached the subject, he said he’s simply carrying out a social experiment and mining for material for an up-coming novel and having fun in the process.

Fuck. Said he was getting bored too. Would have inquired of he enjoys having sex with his wife but I thought that was a bit too personal. Always cut a man some slack.

To spice up his adventures, he wishes to move to a new town, like Mombasa to fuck around. Maybe elevate his status to fucking powerful women like wives of politicians and mistresses of wealthy businessmen.
George says, all it takes is a little bit of aggression, trigger words, mind-reading, looking good, smelling nice, enough money in your wallet, lies and lots of lies and a good dinner. But not shopping or sending money. That’s for desperate assholes or FUs (PUA lingo for Frustrated Chumps). And one needs plenty of time to do all this shit. You’ve to keep improvising, changing methodology. It’s quite a sport that requires investment in all forms.

So why go to these lengths for a mere thrusting of pussy? ‘Cause it’s fun. And we live to fuck, eat, sleep, fuck and shit. George says. Once you bed your first three conquests, it’s addictive. The Law of Vibration takes place. All you think is women. Pussy. And you attract lots of those. And there are plenty of women looking for a lay in this town. They’re subconsciously advertising it on social media, workplace, church, classroom and at parties. Anytime you see a woman as PUA, your creative thought immediately kicks in. Like those broke insurance brokers or Jehova Witness cretins.

As a rookie, it took me seven hours to bed this chick. How I ended up in her room and being served breakfast is short of a badly scripted Hollywood crap. A total stranger, we met last night. George was a fuck-buddy to her friend for the second time now. (He broke one of his rules: never fuck your target twice. But like he said, her pussy tasted different. He was beginning to sound like a wine taster or, lust forbid, someone about plunge – head first – into the murky seas of love.)

So it’s Saturday, around 6 pm. He introduces us. Leaves us alone to go and flirt with his subject. Leaves me awkwardly fumbling. What the fuck do I do? I take her for a bite at Cloud Nine eatery. A moderately affordable joint. My line of defense plays around this logic: I’m not looking for a relationship here. I want to fuck this chick. She has good ass and tits and all these blobs of flesh that have turned men into nitwits. I want her, regardless. If she says no, fuck it – I’ve got a wife to go back to at the end of the day. So I eye-fuck her; gazing at her mouth and chest on occasion. Dropping hints like George said.

Hwst goin? George sends a text.
Lol. Great. I reply.


One thought on “A Rookie’s Pick-Up Journal

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