Make Love To Me
By Felly Oyuga
I am forty. They said this would be my sexual peak. I kind of thought they meant that I would have a lot of great sex. I was looking forward to that. I think they meant I would just look forward to great sex and not necessarily have it. I spent my twenties having babies. If there was no baby in my belly, the baby was on my breast. I think I strictly used sex at that time for procreation. I used to be a Christian, so yeah. In my thirties, I basically just gave in to the fleshly urge. I had an itch, I scratched it. So when I got to my forties, I somehow expected heaven. I mean, I have done my time. I have come to accept my body and I even love my belly (Belly gang strong!). I know how to pose, so that what I feel are my best attributes are show cased. I know the styles that get me there. What I was not prepared for was the partner. Wait, why was I thinking anything would really change?
As young women, we are taught how to handle a man’s ego. Most men walking around really are horrible sex partners, but as African women, we have good manners, and will uuuuuhhh and aaahhhh and shake at the right intervals, to protect your ego. In fact many of us are really wasting our acting skills. We should go to Nollywood and start our side hustles. We have all attended a sex class, googled best sex positions, and spent countless wine drinking hours with our girlfriends, trying to get a way to have good sex. We have bought the thongs, gels and apparatus. No one ever says, “hey, maybe your man should learn a thing or two?”. It has always been our cross. Whether we enjoy or not. That HE enjoys, is paramount.
Something happens at forty though. Aside from the self acceptance, life has taught you a thing or two, and you realize sex is not just about the man. You want to enjoy it too. You realise that whereas you were protecting a man’s ego because in most cases you did not want to offend your protector and provider, now you can protect yourself, maybe even provide. You catch yourself many times about to ask him what the hell he is doing on top of you. Or under you. Or beside you. And now the man who has received applause all his life for his less than average performance (we cannot blame him, for we have lied to him all through), decides to spice things up by watching some creative nude films. Picks up a move or more, and thinks this is the icing he needs to provide a stellar performance.
I do not think men will ever understand the disappointment women go through. A man tells you how he will make you scream, nay, and beg for more. Your body tingles in anticipation. You prepare carefully. You shower with you favourite shower gel, apply half a bottle of coco butter lotion (even between your toes), and wear you sexiest underwear. Only then to have a grown man grunt and heave on top of you while prodding and licking, mostly drooling on whatever holes he can reach. Then after a whole two minutes, asks you if you enjoyed. Well of course we enjoyed. Enjoyed the fact that the ordeal took just two minutes.
Listen, at my age it is not a sprint. We are not trying to see if we can light a fire by gyrating on each other. Can it mean something please? I am well aware there are sex machines my age, who do not mind the innings and outings at 100KMPH. I am speaking mostly for myself, but I am sure we are more than just me.
Let us go dancing. Take me to dinner (eating meat and drinking beer with your friends is not a date!). Get me in the mood. Laugh with me. Touch me elsewhere. Believe me, I have more body parts than just my breasts and between my legs (did you not attend a biology class?). Learn how to kiss, pace yourself. There is nothing sexier than a man on the verge of losing control, but somehow overcomes. Talk to me, do not shout eh! It is just the two of us in the room. Make eye contact. Put the correct things in the correct holes. Dude, I am not trying to ‘keep’ you. I am not interested in that freaky, most times risky, activity just to keep your attention. I am more than hanging from chandeliers.
Lying down looking up at the ceiling, I understand what my mama meant, or tried to pass on when she asked, “did you enjoy the sex? If you didn’t, you must not go back.”