Life of an Entertainer (Part 2) — By Anonymous DJ

On the way to my house, I stop at the garage to buy some cigarettes and condoms and the 8.5 comes out with me and tells me she wants a pie. I tell her no chick I’m with will eat pies. We’re at the Engen Woolworths on William Nicol so she can get some pasta or something decent. She agrees. And before we get out of the store, she pulls me and kisses me deeply. Says she wishes I had chosen her instead of her friend. I must just take care of her friend… and I must call her in the coming week. She chooses some sort of pasta dish and asks me if I have a microwave. I am shocked. Who doesn’t have a microwave in this day and age? And before I could take offense, she tells me I’d be surprised how many guys don’t have microwaves.

So we get to my apartment and as we step in, the girls are genuinely surprised that I have furniture, never mind books, at my place. Not just a little surprised; they were blown away.

They tell me I’d be surprised how many guys in nice cars don’t even have couches, let alone a microwave or DStv. The pressures of Johannesburg. So I prepare drinks for them and warm the food up for the one, and the girls lay on each of my couches.

At this stage, I’m conflicted as I’m morally bound to fuck the one who had seen me first but I’m more attracted to her friend. What am I going to do? I pace up and down for 15 minutes then these girls start speaking isiXhosa or isiZulu, I’m not sure. My grasp of Nguni languages leaves a lot to be desired, but the conversation between the two of them went like this: “Ungamtya! (You can chow him.)”

“Hayi, nguwe omfumane kuqala. Ungamtya wena. (But you saw him first. You can chow him.)”

This discussion goes on for about five minutes.

At this point, I feel like a piece of meat, these girls don’t care about my feelings: they’re tossing me around like a piece of salami. Eventually, the last thing they say, in English, is “Are you sure, friend?”

The 8.5 gets up from the couch and takes me by the hand. These girls were players, I’d heard of the female player before but I don’t think I’d met some before. These chicks knew I couldn’t speak Xhosa so they made a whole transaction in another language while I was there smiling like a sucker. So the whole lemon in the mouth thing was a routine, which they had pulled over and over again to unsuspecting fools like me. These women were cold-blooded and, to be honest, I liked it. It turned me on.

The 8.5 takes me by the hand and asks me to lead her to where my bedroom was. I don’t need to go into details but you can imagine what happens in the bedroom. But one thing though; this girl had a big vagina. It was massive. It felt as if I had a put a sausage in a tea-cup. And believe me, I’m no Mr. Small. The last person I had sex with, I was wearing a king-sized condom.

To add insult to injury, this girl is chewing gum while I’m pounding her. She might as well have been filing her nails or reading a poem. So because there is no friction it feels to me also like I’m chasing a dragon, i.e. the orgasm, but I am committed.

After about 45 minutes (maybe the 45 is an exaggeration, who knows), we come out of the bedroom.

The 6.5 on the couch says to me, “Mike is on his way. We’re going to need R300.”

So being a former junkie, I know that Mike is the name commonly reserved for Nigerian cocaine delivery men, but had I not been a former junkie I would have thought he was a pimp.

So I try to protest saying I don’t condone drugs and the 6.5 asks me, did I enjoy fucking her friend? I feel as if I’m filling in a customer satisfaction form and I can’t say it was so-so, her vagina was a bit too big. So I say yes, I did enjoy it. (I also want seconds.)

As soon as I said yes, she said, “Then pay for our drugs and shut the fuck up.”

I do just that: pay for the drugs and shut the fuck up. A quick mental calculation tells me these women have cost me over R500 already: the liquor was a bottle of Johnny Motsamai (Walker) which was supposed to be a gift for my brother’s birthday; the cocaine was R300. I could have gone to number 37 in Hyde Park and fucked an Asian woman for that much money (please don’t ask how I know that).

But, it turns out the 8.5 is a nymphomaniac. She loves sex. She keeps taking me to the bedroom and fucking me over and over and over again. At some point, she’s giving me a blow job in the living room, while her friend is chopping lines and the Christian Network is playing and someone is preaching on the TV. I feel as if I’ve booked a one-way ticket to hell.

After the fifth round, I feel like I’ve had a sports injury; my penis feels like a raw nerve and I can’t even walk properly. The only way I can stop the sex wave is to kick these women out of my apartment. I call an Uber to take them home and finally get some sleep.

It’s now when I recall those events while writing this, and I realize that the scales of power in sexual relations in the 21st century have come a long way and have shifted to a space I will struggle to understand.

Women are out there macking guys, using routines on guys, and being as cold-blooded, if not more cold-blooded than men could ever be. I’ve met many women before, who I suspected were players, but not as cold and calculating as these two.

I know some of you won’t believe this, but this story I just told you is absolutely 100% true it seems there are parts of society a square individual does not believe happens. I’ve kept myself anonymous as I want to tell you true stories from my experiences and not compromise myself as well.

You can follow in my example or the women, I ask you to please be responsible and keep the sex you have safe.

Anonymous DJ