Guka Amock: A Christmas Confession

I bumped into her in one of those dingy hang-outs at Fly-Over, just after Soko Mjinga, a kilometer or two into @aviator ’s Nyandarua.

She was a bar waitress at a place we used to meet to ‘strategise’ during the campaigns.

She was nothing to write home about, except may be her slightly stained teeth and an average tall figure. And the age difference between me and her – probably 45 years.

But there’s something about me and young dirty titties – they turn that long dead fire on. And this little shit looked like she was right up my alley.

So, five WhiteCUPS on, we got chatting. She told me about the long working hours, and the way her boss charged her for every flat beer she opened. I listened like an understanding grandpa, quietly studying her nyonyos. Stupid thug that boss, I said – does the poor gal manufacture the beer to be surcharged for every bad one?

She had never met such an understanding man. Could she quit her 6K job there and then and we ride into the midnight? I sighed. The foolishness of youth!

Anyway, I invited her for a Christmas pre-eve drink somewhere in the thickets of Limuru – discrete, but not too classy or expensive. A place an old man could hide with a dirty little thing and get his balls sucked dry.

The day came, and – like every aspiring slayqueen – she came with her ‘friend’. A very dark gal in that garlish cheap Pakistani make-up that they all put on nowadays, to go with those funny painted eyebrows and smelly wig. I thanked my gods for the poor lighting – it kind of hid my embarrassment. In any case, if anybody saw my faux pas, it was three days removed from Christmas eve – the season of giving and getting and forgiving.

I could always explain the gals as two youths from Kwa Mathore or Gatarama I was mentoring (ahem!)

I had, on intuition, booked two rooms, a decision I thought prudent.

And so we drank – them wine and I more WhiteCUPS.

Little bitches couldn’t handle their alcohol, embarrassingly. By the third Merlot (hey, who said I am gonna splash choice wine on tushambas who put in ice-cubes?) they were dead drunk.

Miss Finest Brown started crying that she loved me more than she loved her matha, despite the fact that we had only met twice. Miss Garlish, who at 29 was way more mature started cutting into her friend’s lane. She was available, she indicated.

I just sat there, downing WhiteCUP after WhiteCUP, listening to sob stories and the whimpers of alcohol-induced puppy love, in between being groped by Miss Garlish.

I felt like a real Ktalker baller – bitches were throwing themselves at me, only they weren’t the Brazilian model types, just some calicos (as we used to call them back in the day) smelling of charcoal smoke. And I didn’t have a Lamborghini in the driveway, just an old beat-up pick-up 504.

And so it was.

I will, of course, not go into the details of whether the two rooms were both utilized or not. Similarly, and to my eternal shame as a bona fide member of Team Mahaina, I will neither confirm nor deny that any purported threshold was met. Your guess is as good as mine given that you cannot play cricket with a baguette.

Nor will I provide any evidence of any substantive or @Ebru value.

What however I can confirm is that some unholy things happened. To my credit, I did not initiate, encourage or promote them.

Suffice to say that on Christmas day I said 5 Hail Mail Mary’s for misleading – and possibly emotionally, psychologically and physically taking advantage of two vulnerable young females who thought I could somehow change their slow lives.

I was very contrite and very penitent as I said my prayers, until I remembered the travails of the boy-child across the country at the hands of assorted queens, mchele dispensers, hoes, harlots, baes and so-called independent women (ahem!).

And then I thought, gleefully and malevolently, maybe, just maybe, I had taken two down for the team.

I let out an evil laugh and slipped into sleep.

Long live the boy(guka)child!

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Ahem!

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Long live Guka

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2019 I am pretty sure hatutasumbuana

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Summary baba @Mzee mzima na usinitusi huu mwaka.

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Coomernina siendi mahali ng’ooooo!

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I’m beginning to think this guka might just live forever (on dirty titties and whitecap,ahem!)

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:D:D:D:D:D…funny as always though osungu.dll has taken a hit presumably from your interaction with the dirty ratchets from Nyandarua.

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Where I come from kama baiskeli haukuendesha ukiwa mtoi utaendesha ukizeeka @FieldMarshal CouchP .

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leave baguettes out of this m’sieur

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Ngoja matusi @123tokambio .

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Hehehehehehe brilliant. BTW umenichekesha sana. My Mr Ukahe reee calls me calico upto today, I kid you not:D. Each time he calls me I burst out laughing and since I don’t tell him why I am laughing (gossiping about him to all and sundry online and in real life) he is convinced that he will win me back. ‘Kae ndagukenia atia? nindirenda gukuona muno unjire wandigire niki…’
I can’t bring myself to tell him hiyo Okuyo ilinikalia too much. Kikuyu is not a romantic lingua. Asha. Kwanza there is a day he asked me infront of our friends…‘umuthe niuguthie kuhee’ :mad::mad::mad:

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I love learning. Kindly point out the mistakes I correct them son.

And no, there’ll be no matusi this year wachana na yule jamaa wa kende moja…

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:D:D:D:D:D straight to the point, hakuna beating around the bush.

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Guka kukumiss nayo :D:D:D:D

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beautiful story

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She was nothing home to write about…
I could somehow change their slow lifes.
Etc…
but like I said the narration is on fleek so I totally understand.

Yes indeed!!:D:D:D:D:DHe is a funny dude. Great guy tho. Could not let me pay for anything!

Just give us a hint of what happened you old goat, did you have a threesome where one sucked your scrotum while the other rode you like a wild mustang, or they riced you and the last thing you remember is miss finest brown putting on a huge strap on and aiming it on your sorry wrinkled butt hole?

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Great read old man

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