15 june

A great misconception among the “decent” women in society is that dirty girls do not want relationships. This is not true. We do want relationships. We are however incapable of choosing men who are suitable, or sane. I have had many boyfriends since high school, all fitting into some social stereotype of what I was supposed to be into. We’ve all been there. The guy with the v-tech, the guy with the relaxed spikes… and if you hail from the southern suburbs of cape town, the guy with the orange ford focus who just installed a system that is going to “naai” everyone else’s at the Town Centre Annual Sound off. you know him all too well don't you? he only wears Takkies ending in the word "air", never turns down his collar, makes hand signals at every photo op, and refers to everything as "JITS MYBRU".

Throughout all these mundane, somewhat serious relationships, one man stands out. Not because he was an exceptionally great boyfriend, but because I now wonder if I had indeed taken the blue pill. As promised in our first chat, I give you the first installment of the gripping tale of a man I call, “Sperm donor X”.

Ah, the highlight of 2009. You meet a guy. He’s gorgeous, exotic tan, almost foreign.  He was perfect for a long weekend away, and a great sex story to tell your friends. But alas, after banking on my third stage endometriosis, vodka, a "slow boat" and bad decisions in a hotel room away caused me and this beautiful man to procreate.

What’s the problem?

After meeting his family, post coitus, I was informed that he had gone to a remedial school. This didn’t bother me at first, I thought “oh well, can’t be genetic if it’s just him”, then I proceeded to meet his brother and two ADD cousins. All proud graduates of Oude Molen.  I suppose there were clues in the very few conversation I had with him that he wasn’t your everyday Einstein. A devout Muslim, (I see the irony too), he was somehow conflicted between society’s perception of prehistoric life and that of the scriptures. One day on the couch in my lounge, after watching the discovery channel a little too intensely, he turned to me showing sincere concern, almost terror…

 “Shana, dinosaurs is not real ne? It’s then not in the Quran”.

I don’t know why red sirens didn’t immediately go off in my head.

Yes, another issue was that we were from two completely different religions. I am not religious myself, but respect all religions nonetheless. However, one needs to be realistic in the practicalities of dating someone so vastly different. I can take many things. I can look past the fact that our families will never see eye to eye. I can embrace that you don’t understand my western cutlery. I can however not overcome Guilt of sex in Islamic religious attire being overshadowed by the person that you are sleeping with having to lift his skirt slightly higher than yours. Yes, he preferred to keep the top on. Apparently being naked made him feel like we were doing something wrong.

Now, as a woman open to experimentation, I have been asked, as you have to engage in acts that I have condemned to the deepest recesses of my mind.  Among the usual, favorites such as...

“Will you blow me?”

“Yes”

“can I spank you?”

“er, yeah sure”

“whose your daddy?”

“uhm, you are?”

Hip Thrusting During Oral Sex, fine.

…all are socially acceptable. But there are some things that you just don’t do, right up there next to “can I call you my mother’s name?we're really close and i just miss her so much, you know?”

I had to get out. But I didn’t have the courage or exact words to break up the obviously dead-ended relationship. He loved me so much, what would I say? Apparently all it took was “I’m pregnant.”

Now, men have told me many things to get rid of me. And as a dirty girl yourself I know that you’re sitting there, realizing that he didn’t just “need space” away to prove to himself that he actually loves you, he wasn’t working a 36 hour shift last weekend and his family isn’t in the mafia and going to kill you if he sees you again because “you know too much”.

Next time you think that you’re about to lose him, tell him that you’re pregnant.

If he stays, he’s into you.

If not, tell him you need R800 for the abortion and then delete him from your life.

At least that way, you’ll be heartbroken for a while, but you’ll have an awesome new pair of Nine West’s to console you.

Till next time

S