Archive for August, 2012


Hey guys!
Today’s post was written as a gift to me by someone I’ll call M.
Yes, I’m keeping his/her identity safe.
Loved it a lot and decided to share.


They’ve got it all wrong.
Trust me, I know.
They say the lady in red, but nothing says “SLUT” like a strapless little black dress.
I’ve got to dress the part, you know; live up to my reputation. Black platforms heels, black fishnet tights, black dress well above the knee, raven hair.
The only concession I give to your misguided assumptions is blood red lips. I walk into a room, this time a friend’s father’s 70th birthday and they turn. All of them, men, and women, even the ones who have one type of genital but covet another. They can sense what I am; I ooze it, like a pungent odor. No, not sex, or even sexuality. It’s something far more nauseating yet just as glamorous. A lack of moral is what they sense in me. They know I’d spread my legs for every single one of them, not necessarily one after the other. They can sense that I wouldn’t mind choking on a penis or two or ten, lapping up a vagina, probably won’t even swat away a mobile phone used as an amateur video camera. As I walk around the room, champagne flute wedged between my fore and middle finger, the responses I get from you all is priceless. The opportunists are drawing closer to me, finding ways to intersect my path, a quick and easy ice breaker. I avoid them, deftly turning at a tangent just before they can approach. The thrill of the hunt is everything to someone like me.
Some of you shrink away as I approach, the disgust on your faces intoxicates me, and I stray a little closer than I should, close enough for my perfume to make you swoon in spite of yourself. Pitiful, even with your hate, you can’t help how your body betrays you and lusts after the abomination that I am. I pick the most disgusted out of all of you, the slightly older woman, probably 40 in the dress that sweeps the floor as she walks. She’s been clucking all evening, whispering and pointing at my ass. I’ve seen her fingers tighten around the ugly square glass tumbler that holds her alcohol free cranberry juice as her eyes linger on the swell of my barely clad breasts. I could seduce her, she’s halfway there already, but where’s the fun in that? I scan the room for her teenage son and make my way towards him. He can’t be older than seventeen. I catch his eye; my lips spread in a suggestive smile. He smiles back and walks towards me as his mother’s face, the template for half of the room contorts into a mask of disgust. Good thing you rich people teach your children assertiveness really early. As you all suspect, I’ll be spreading my legs open for him tonight, if I want it bad enough, in the backseat of his mother’s car just outside this house. I don’t really care what you think, but if it makes you feel any better, “It’s not his fault, it’s all on me.”
Does it really matter how many men and women I fuck? Not unless they’re your husband, or boyfriend or best friend or girlfriend or wife. Oh, in that case, it does matter to you. Perhaps I should apologize, but what good would that do? I have already slept with them, and if the opportunity presents itself again now that I know, I’m not exactly sure I would refuse. So I’ll oblige you and do the next best thing. I’ll rescind my ‘Fuck You’ policy and explain myself.

Trust me, it’s really that simple. I like the thrill of sex, and the chase before it. I love the way you watch me walk, and I exaggerate the roll of my hips just for you. My skin only tingles when you touch it, but never much as when you peel my slutty dress off me. My only pleasures are the anticipation of a new lover and no strings attached sex and no I’m not giving either up, for anything. In your world where religion and ‘morality’ and everything else scream love and monogamy, I have become vilified for taking what I want and not being a hypocrite about it. What I’m not really sure of is this, is it because I fuck or because I am a woman? I could travel the gender equality route, but I’m a simpler girl. I just want to fuck undisturbed. No, I wasn’t molested by father as a little girl, I just love to fuck. No, my first boyfriend didn’t break my heart by sleeping with my best friend, I shattered his by sleeping with his brother, and I still love to fuck. I don’t have an Electra complex, no hormonal imbalance or disassociative disorders or need to reconnect with my inner child. Are you even listening to me? I just love to fuck. It honestly is that simple.
I know I haven’t really been that helpful, and my explanation doesn’t really give you anything you can use to understand and help me. I apologize for that. It’s hard to get through to you too, you never listen.

There is one way you can help me. A way so ridiculously simple, that you’ll probably smack yourself for not thinking of it first.
Here it is:
See, I said it was ridiculously simple. If you see me coming, turn away, distract yourself with something else. Cross the road if you have to; just stay out of my way. I could have said leave me alone, but that is passive. Staying out of my way is something you have to consciously do every day. Leaving me alone is not enough; you have to actively keep what you cherish out of my way. Your son, your husband, that girl you’re secretly admiring? Keep them out of my way, and if you can’t do that, teach them to leave me alone. Because if he/she so much as smiles suggestively at me, I’m going to end up in their bed and we will be back where we started. I know you don’t want that, so you know what you have to do. One more thing, when you lie in your bed alone at night and finally let yourself fantasize about that person around whom you had to suppress your animalistic urges to tear your clothes off and fuck shamelessly; remember me, I’m living your hidden ‘ugly’ fantasies. 
I am without remorse, what you call a slut.




I know, I know. I haven’t written anything here.
Suck lemons. Inspiration cannot be picked up on the streets.

Having a bad day and you know what i get like when I have those. Yes, cranky.

This isn’t even a rant.
More like a bitter review.

I am sure most of you knew about Bag of Rice Ross coming to Lagos et al.


Decided to evaluate the dress sense/looks of the some people that attended.

I got these pictures from so you can go there to see everything.
Don’t even know if it is legal to cull the pictures but I’m just too tired to care ok?

Right here, I’m just going to pick the bad ones.
What? I am nice.


Number 1, this lady.

I am actually struggling to understand what is going on.
1. I love the jacket.
Everything else is unsightly. Should I start from below?

1. The shoes. HORRENDOUS. Horrendous design. Horrendous colour.
Horrendous style that doesn’t go with her ensemble.

2. Those trousers. Either it was an artistic idea of a deranged tailor, it it was a bad attempt at tacking up torn trousers with pins.
What would have happened if she had worn plain black trousers??

3. Turtle necked shirt+ the chunky thing on her neck.
I will just LOOOOL and move to the next picture please. Can’t look at this for long.


Eva Alordiah.
I love Eva’s music.
I love her style..sometimes.
This, is a lesson on Doing too much.
I understand the fact that she’s trying to go for the ‘Rockstar’ look.
This right here, went to the Rockstar look bus stop, passed it, and stopped at the Mildly insane bus stop.
Any further and she’d have looked like Denrele.
I mean. The leather jacket is so friggin cool. Why add the leather gloves?
Not just one, BUT TWO!
And the gaudy baubles that she adorned her fingers with are just too damn poor!
Love the skull ring. Does it work here, Not for me!


I have only two words to say about this:


Bikonu what is this?
This…This is just..i don’t even know.
Pretty lady, from her waist up.
I won’t even start with the fact that this was worn in Nigeria.
The boots just did not work.
Not one bit.
My Chi says no to this.


Some jokes just tell themselves.
Where do i start from?
I mean, this is a Rick Ross fan if I’ve ever seen one.
Built like him dammit!
And the dress?
Good Lord. Can your Precious blood wash away even this sin?
*cries into teacup*
The hair. The bag. The shoes. The…EVERYTHING.
I’d recommend a meeting with Toolz O for this lady.
She seriously needs that Body Magic Toolz O uses.
That shit can make Rick Ross look like Big Sean no lies!


When i first saw this picture, I swear I actually thought it was a Photoshop trick.
Like the same person, twice.
Sadly, they’re sisters and it seems looks are not the only thing they have in common.
Where do i start from?
Their pose? Almost like the Earth tilted when they stood and you find yourself slanting slightly just to look at them.
Their synchronized dressing? (or lack of dressing if i dare say)
Can i mention the poses again? Especially of the girl to the right.
Never seen a worse ‘Suck belle’ pose.  Or is that a ‘Push brezz up’ pose?
I can’t…just..
Next please.


Another one who needs to meet Toolz O.
I really do think Toolz should own her own fashion label. Like seriously.
Women like this shouldn’t be found wearing something this painfully…disturbing.
This is a look only slim girls should try.
Still short of words.
Like I can actually hear the cries of her genitalia, begging to breathe!
And are those shoes or did she tie red pieces of cloths to her ankles?
Even her belt is saying the pray of Forgiveness and Redemption
And she’s so good looking!
That is the annoying bit!
It’s almost like she was trying to re enact her slimmer days or something.
I just give up.

I am done.

Hungry and getting hungry gets me angrier.


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