Broody, seeking mature black stud

2009-11-20 12:03

 IAM broody. Actually, I’m more than broody. My eggs are jumping around my womb in a manner that suggests an invasion will immediately set me on the family way.

I have been broody before. The first bout hit at 25 when I thought people who could not wipe their own ass and mix me a perfect tequila sunrise were somewhat appealing. The feeling eventually went away and order was restored.

The second time my womb rumbled was at 27 years, thanks to friends whose lives thrived instead of derailing following the arrival of their kids. Needless to say, I reacted to the pangs by numbing myself with medicinal doses of vodka so my eggs would know that I am the boss. And my final say on having children was: “The hell I will!” as I told my spiritual medium. She was seeing babies when I was paying her to locate my sanity.

I am 30 now and my eggs are jumping as though they are at the Olympics going for gold, aiming to break records along the way. And I am so happy about it I have swopped vodka for soy milk.

But here’s the rub. My eggs know my history with men. I’m emotionally lethargic even in love. I am also single and not interested in anyone coming my way. On top of that, I’m travelling and not going to stop until I have Africa as I want her.

Not good news for the eggs I want fertilised by 2011. The eggs suggested a multi-pronged plan of action, starting with catching a pedigree baby daddy. Which is not hard to do in West Africa because they have something called the love fetish.
To use, chant the name of your love object seven times and spray it on your wrists and they are yours from when they shake your hands. The most potent potion is to be found at the Dan Tokpa fetish market in Cotonou, Benin.

Alas, the potion is not for me. It’s for the next wonderful man that falls in love with me. I’m going to ask him to use juju on me because I’m never going to fall in love without spiritual meddling.

Also, babies are making me think of how I relate to black men, the species I want to breed with. I consider black men boys with big d***s, unless life does them the favour of throwing a huge learning curve. Even then, you know a black man is not going to take it without screaming and kicking.

It’s a fact, brothers: finding one who does not eventually confuse our vaginas for a school where boys become men is not easy. But like I say, I am determined to be a breeder and to that effect re-examining my relationship with the species and treating men with patience and sensitivity.

I have also started a fertility shrine. It has one Ashanti doll flanked by two Ndebele dolls for the twins I am channelling. The shrine also has pictures of fertility dolls, gods and fetishes from across West Africa.

In the meantime, I leave sacrifices on effigies of the gods of fertility. I have also started baby-sitting, usually imploring a confused-looking child to rub my tummy and bless my womb. I’m also getting regular acupuncture as it’s said to help in that department.

My friends are veritable breeders and think I’m complicating something that’s “as easy as opening legs”, as some put it. But I want babies so much I’ve decided to be celibate until I find a man I want to breed with.

Now, I know celibacy is the most dangerous sexual state to be in. Who is to say if one won’t get so dangerously horny they will grab the first thing with a third leg?

It’s for that reason that I have become like the Taliban. I do not socialise, let alone with men. Those who refuse to respect this position still get their balls tossed into the deep fryer because there is nothing as determined as eggs jumping for fertilisation.

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