‘Four Cousins’ red wine and a remote West African jungle beach

Having sex in a West African coastal beach hostel was pretty chill. I actually enjoyed it very much. Not the awkward spending-one-on-one-time-for-the-first-time-with-a-guy-you-made-out-with-a-few-times-in-new-york-last-year-all-afternoon/evening part of the day, though. I think it was a mixture of him living in the farthest/furthest most remote part of the Ghanaian west coast you can go for a year with only a bunch of students from the remote fishing village down the beach and one white guy and one ‘annoying/needy’ white girl. He probably gets pretty lonely and tired of masturbating. I’ve never had sex with anyone who lasted so short yet was so affectionate and intimate. I was surprised at first because of the slightly uncomfortable distance he put between us (both metaphorically and physically) throughout the day. Maybe he felt pressure mount as the afternoon became evening, when dusk set in and the mysteriousness of the sexual possibilities that could or could not unfold but would, if they were in fact destined to do so, unfold, came closer and closer to unfolding. The tempestuously boisterous waves of the African Atlantic pounding, fading out, pounding in loud rhythm every few seconds probably added to the mounting pressure. Keats would probably think so were he etching this particular night in verse.

Personally, I thought he was giving off quite a number of mixed signals. I also self-admittedly might be the most ineptly communicative human residing on the West African coast at this point in time. So, it’s possible my communicatively-self-conscious mind was self consciously converting all the little things that were in fact nothing into signals that contradicted each other and were therein consciously perceived as ‘mixed messages’, but were really just a bunch of little nothings. Maybe things weren’t weird at all. Or maybe I was the one making things weird and then he was reacting weird to me being weird and a vicious cycle thereby commenced. I will never know. I bathe in showers of fear every day, when I think about how my life as I know it might not actually be my life as I know it, but a misconstrued perception of what it really is. I blame my brain.

So, my ex was probably the most #nonintimate and least affectionate person that I have ever had the experience of dating. Zooming straight from nine months of dry pounding fucks to a lot of kissing and touching with an acquaintance in the type of romantic isolated jungle-beach you think only exists for $500,000 a night in Indonesia was really really nice. When we ‘got there’ off of an extra large bottle of ‘Four Cousins’ red wine and some Club beer we started kissing and when we started getting a little too risqué for the German group hanging out close by we walk-kissed back to our hostel dorm. Luckily we were the only people renting out a bed in the dorm that night. He pushed me gently in a pretty sexy way onto the closest bed and after some really pleasantly gentle foreplay (of which I got to do nothing) we had some really really nice sex, sprinkled with just enough vigor to satisfy my sexual preferences. I thought it really went nicely with the whole atmosphere of the place. In a very Taurus way he would let out some throaty, gutteral moans that he couldn’t hold back, which turned me on a lot. Kind of appropriate since we were in the jungle, I thought. Furthermore, he did not just blast the affection away along with his semen like most guys do, but continued to kiss and cosquilla me as we laid spent under a mosquito net. I started singing ‘Something’ by the Beatles to myself in my head as he told me I was beautiful or something.

That was only the second night of the weekend and the first night spent with him, and it was then I began to think being single at 20 might actually be a good idea. I also thought that I was probably starting to ‘loosen up/chill out’.


Reflections of a Nymph

Myself. I am a middle class ex-Miamian current New Yorker temporary Ghanaian. Usually living real life Girls. Which probably sucks. My on-a-break-boyfriend calls me a nympho when we talk over Skype. I don’t believe I agree with that conjecture. I think of Ariel Pink every time he says so, and then I get the sudden urge to dye my hair pastel sea-foam green. I don’t believe I’m a nympho. I’m pretty sure I’m just an Aries. I tell him so, that I am just an Aries and not a nympho, but he does not believe in astrology. Not surprising; he doesn’t even know that his Akan name is Yaw [y-ao] due to the fact he is a Thursday born male. I had to look up his day of birth myself. I am the one searching for his broken and abandoned identity. But he does not like when I do that. He’s a practical one, not superstitious. He wants to rid me of my inner forest nymph essence. He wants to place both of his big, manly hands around my head and squeeeeze my nymph brain so it oozes green chunks out of my eye sockets nostrils and ears, and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the thick my green guts ooze out the pores of my light barky skin. And once I’m drained hollow I know, I KNOW he desires to fill in my hollowed trunk now covered in chunky and slimy green guts with the anti-imaginative juices and practicality of a mechanic. Or a product designer. But probably a carpenter. He’ll have me cut off my own willow bark limbs and craft them with industrial tools into a stool. I’ll fix you, he says. The world is foul and will never comprehend my fleeting leafy thoughts and dreams and thought-dreams. They do not want to comprehend the cotton ball clouds I roll and bathe and sleep in. He likes wooden framed beds with linen sheets and a firm mattress. I, I, I pine for the sun to tire and the calmness of dusk to rouse. When Mother Willow plucks me from the earth under the approving gaze of goddess moon. Her long weeping hair gently slithers around and lifts my soft worn frame, and the wind sings and swings me to sleep in the comfiest of leafy cocoons. I’ll likely dream of sex; maybe I am a nympho. Or maybe I just like to feel. I like to feel. Maybe I like to feel too much, says society. Maybe you should get an unpaid internship so then you can get a low paying job after you graduate, says society. You should probably do that, society says. I should probably do that. But Mother Willow and Goddess Moon and Ariel Pink do not agree. Do I agree?

– K