Believe it or not, I’ve never in all my travels been intimate with a local. Intimacy, I think, requires understanding, which is really communication. If one can’t communicate than the authenticity of intimacy is unclear.
Additionally, my native country has a reputation in the developing world- We’re all rich and gullible. Making thus foreigner and thousands of others a reliable mark for long sad stories ending with authentic pleas for financial assistance, manufactured tales of woe from the crafty opportunist and the most annoying, ” You you you give me money! You. Give me money. Hello.” From the fully capable, well dressed amateur or determined three year old.
Clearly I’m harbouring unexpressed feelings on the subject of begging. I’ll remedy that soon in: The Chinese impact in Africa:How unchecked capitalism and political corruption is reinventing colonization.
I’ve always projected that the interest I get from women abroad is a result of this affluent reputation, and not because of my enchanting demeanour. All said I feel that intimacy with local women from countries where the cultural and economic disparity is abound, makes me feel like I would be taking advantage of desperate people hoping for a new life.
Plus THIS IS AFRICA, not a continent where sexual safety has had the cleanest track record.
Then Ethiopia happened.
The women of Ethiopia are like nothing I have ever encountered before. I can confidently say the women of this country are the most beautiful I have ever seen.
I’ll fast forward to me in Addis Ababa, I’m at a watering hole watching a Ethiopian Marvin Gaye preform his greatest hits, “C’mere and let me kiss you on the forehead ” And “Throw balls of money at me guys, c’mon” When an American girl tells me that her friend wants to meet me.
As I lean in to shake hands and say hello, she grabs my hand, jerks me forward and loudly whispers “Please. I want you, I don’t want anything from you I just want you, please. I will do anything you want, please.” Followed by a wet tongue in my ear.
However obvious the platitudes of contradiction, her whiney, desperate, suggestive tone was a turn on.
Because she was a dead ringer for Michelle Obama she had me at “please“. After a couple hours of dancing and pantomiming sexually suggestive innuendo, we went back to my fairly dingy room. Once the door was shut Mrs Obama pressed the mattress with repetitive enthusiasm which then yielded the most violent wooden squeaking I’ve herd since Mrs Gump showed appreciation for her sons education.
So she suggested we cooperatively take the single mattress off the bed frame and place it on the floor, to hump in privacy mode.
Clearly not her first rodeo.
I won’t go into details, despite wanting to. I don’t know who’s reading this.
I will say that we were safe and things were said that I can never forget. Hilarious things.
Afterward we faced one another and talked for a time.
“I don’t like Ethiopia mans”. She told me. I felt like there were some things to unpack there, but decided to leave it.
She then took a large bag of bread from her purse, while holding the base of the loaf with both hands she ripped off large chunks which her mouth, like a shark, while maintaining intense eye contact with me. I decided that this was the best time to roll over and call it an experience.
I woke up a few hours later to her moaning “My belly is fire!”
That’s what happens when you don’t chew purse bread, I thought.
But maybe “My belly is fire” translates to- “thank you for an amazing night, but I should get going”
“My Belly is fire too Mrs Obama” I said. “My belly is fire too.”