Ulla survived. In Nairobi, nurses repaired her body but not her soul. Oozing wounds faded giving way to her former glory, but her delusional rants were misdiagnosed by a miopic doctor as cerebral malaria, a common misdiagnosis in malarial infested regions. Larium was prescribed. This led to heavily accented hallucinations in which Ulla disappeared into her truly realised self, Freyjulla, the re-embodiment of Freyja, the Nordic goddess of love, lust and war. Her battle scream, “Lägg på en rem!”, rang throughout the ward, thus confirming the doctor’s biased diagnosis. Who could blame him? How could he have known that when Ulla was taken hostage by Kitok, she’d searched for a place to escape — and found it in her childhood superhero alter ego.
As Freyja and Ulla merged during the hospitalization, they vowed to break any shackles that imprisoned them, including the unbecoming gown and the bed’s raised side-rails. Ulla’s metamorphosis was lost on Kenyatta Hospital staff who panicked when the emerged Freyjulla broke free and attempted a naked escape aboard a metal gurney cushioned by stuffed toy animals stolen from the children’s ward. Fitted with a full length straight-jack, a sedated Freyjulla was dispatched to Sweden on the next available flight.
Aboard were a group of Hindu holy-men militia, who’d been on a pilgrimage to a temple in Nairobi. Unfortunately, one of their number had a serious speech impediment, and had mistakenly booked the group flights to the international airport closest to Kalman, Sweden, and not Katra, India. When one of the militiamen began to rant violently about their detour, Ulla’s battle cry, “Lägg på en rem!” rang through economy class. Correctly translating her demand as ‘Hurry up’, the holy-militiaman hoisted her atop the drinks trolley, and launched Ulla, honking in delight, down the aisle, where she collided, legs akimbo, with an astonished Tatudi just exiting the lavatory — who quickly undid her binds.
Tatudi was on his way to his vacation chalet on the shores of an alpine lake. The chalet boasted enough guest rooms to keep Tatudi’s visiting family happy during boating and skiing holidays, and to satisfy his quest for solitude on bi-annual retreats away from the super-egos and debauchery at Bundu. Little did he know, his retreat was about to be threatened by one of the aforementioned debauched egos.
Despite a history of berating Tatudi at Bundu Lodge, his was the first familiar face Ulla had witnessed in weeks. So accustomed to being bound, Ulla automatically wrapped her arms and legs around Tatudi’s torso in appreciation. Underneath the straight jacket, Ulla wore nothing. No longer clad in Indian garb, Tatudi’s Ruf Lurien jeans could not hide his first erection in many, many years.
Flight attendants were nervous. Though only passengers from aisles 37 to 42 were privy to the Swedish sirens splendid physique, anyone approaching with a blanket to cover her fine form was threatened with a low rumble which preceded Ulla’s battle cry. Tatudi empathised with the cabin crew’s plight, but knew their approach would never work. His offer to help was quickly accepted. Firmly holding Freyjulla’s face in his hands, Tatudi whispered, “I am thinking that if you are being of calm mind, they will be moving us away from the cattle bus, and into first class.”
Freyjulla collapsed in his arms. Once the captain invoked air safety privilege, the crew was able to forcibly remove two first class passengers from their shared suite. No amount of frequent flyer miles could appease the ejected pair, and they needed to be restrained — not difficult in coach class seats. The fully reclining bed was made up, and Tatudi and his charge were escorted gingerly to their sanctuary. A soft blanket and Tatudi’s protective embrace enveloped Ulla. Russian beluga caviar, a shot of cold Vodka Rus Bogorodskya and two glasses of brut bubbly further calmed the Nordic Goddess. Some say purring could be heard behind the privacy panels. But it was not she who purred, it was he.
***
Freyjulla lives with her husband in an alpine chalet in Sweden. Though she is free to do who and what she wants, she hungers only for him.
***
Tatudi lives with his wife in an alpine chalet in Sweden. Like all great loves, she loves him for what he is, and for what he is not. A man with staying power, and a man without balls. She is difficult, but he knew that in advance. For years he had managed her, as he had managed George, Cazzino and Bundu. George especially, credits him with The Lodge’s success, saying it would’ve collapsed were it not for Tatudi’s delicate handling of Situations. Tatudi attributes this resourcefulness to something which did not appear on his CV — a low libido. His diminished testosterone count shielded him from the shenanigans at The Lodge making him immune to most temptation. Once enticed, his forever hard-on fulfilled his wife’s most ardent dream. Being an eunuch has its advantages.
***
Pilot was last seen wearing top hat and tails as a doorman of an exclusive residential block in Manhattan and using his tips to play Wall Street.
***
Meanwhile in Central Park, a group of angry, large women battled with the police. A nervous passer-by asked a bedraggled policeman what the fight was about. The policeman passed a weary hand over his forehead and explained that a group of activists wanted the right to cremate their friend in the park and have the site dedicated to the Large Lesbians Alliance.
From the centre of the melee, one woman was hoisted onto the others’ shoulders. With her hair in braids, and breasts heaving, she lifted her placard and chanted, “Cremate Clarissa, cremate Clarissa.” The women around her took up the mantra, and brandishing their placards charged the police again, the lone woman bobbing on top of the crowd. “That,” continued the policeman tiredly, “is the ringleader. Her name? Lucy.”
Lucy, when not promoting lesbian rights, has given up on doctoring humans; especially kids. Frankly, children get on her nerves, they always have. After the death of Clarry, and the emergency airlift of Ulla and Jimmy, she has had little desire to practice medicine on adults either. She is currently back in medical school retraining as a veterinarian. She feels animals are more deserving of her talents. When she receives her degree, she plans to specialize in cats. Small cats, big cats — no matter. This will be her salute to Clarissa, who showed her just how extraordinary a big cat could be.
***
Though outwardly accepting of the new Sam-George situation, Cazzino was shocked that a woman he lusted for had carnal knowledge of a close blood relative. Perhaps his revulsion was due to the fact that during his Catholic upbringing, he had been educated in the body, as well as in the mind, by a Catholic priest who was now facing charges for molesting 175 boys. Cazzino’s sculptures have taken on a new identity in this light: exceptionally young men with angelic faces. After one particularly well-received gallery opening, critics were heard to say, “The passion, at last the maestro has found his true passion.”
***
Jimmy was recently seen on the Jerry Springer Show, recalling his sexual experiences in the African bush between deep breaths from an oxygen mask. He was cruelly upstaged by an octogenarian transvestite, whose stepdaughter had stolen his pregnant 13 year-old girlfriend to set up house in a trailer park. After his allotted fifteen minutes of fame, Jimmy returned to his old job at his old firm. He never mentions his trip, or the leopard tattoo, which he surreptitiously strokes from time to time.
***
Brought together by shared secrets, Tom, Dick and Harry retained the same attorney to handle their divorces and draw up a partnership agreement. After their misadventures with their glued joints, they formed a joint venture called The Sticky Bog, a bar featuring mud wrestling, and a cocktail called the Crazy Glue Boo Hoo. A sign on the ladies restroom features a blonde boobed hippopotamus, while the men’s room sports a black hippo draped in a red karasha. On any given night, Tom, Dick and Harry can be found schmoozing their clientele with well-rehearsed stories of life in and out of the bush.
***
Whirly, annoyed that he missed out on the Samburu orgy with Kitok’s widows, converted to Islam and married all three. Once betrothed, he learned about the Koranic fine print which required that he treat all of his wives equally, not just sexually but economically. Three Black American Express cards later, Whirly found that helicopter pilots with a harem need ever more money. Fortunately, the success from his screenplay, Beating about the Bush and his skills in helicopter piloting, kept his haranguing harem in style for a year, and allowed him a brief respite from his trying trio. But as the money dwindles and the demands increase, he spends all his spare time holed up in one of the rear bungalows at the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi, feverishly writing the sequel to Beating about the Bush, before the Foreplayers get their version into print.
***
“We’re done!!!”
“Finally…. ”
“About blurry time… ”
“That’s it?”
“What do you mean, that’s it? It’s bloody brilliant!”
“Aren’t we forgetting something, laydies?”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
“You don’t notice someone’s missing?”
“No.”
“Sam and George… ”
“Who was supposed to write the follow-up for our hero and heroine?”
“Temptress?”
“Not me.”
“Juicy?”
“Nope. I spent all my time figuring out how to get Ulla and Tatudi together.”
“She did too!”
“And are they?”
“Last I heard… ”
“Didn’t Tatudi take up with a Japanese guest?”
“Juicy changed all that.”
“Sultry?”
“Wasn’t my turn… ”
“We can’t just leave Sam and George hanging in the tree.”
“Maybe our readers won’t notice… ”
“Of course they’ll notice!”
“They were enjoying themselves… ”
“Yes, but no-one wants to dangle in a tree with a limp cock in their mouth forever… ”
“It was hard.”
“Blurry right it was hard… ”
“You think it’s stretching the limits of credibility?”
“Credibility? This is Corn Porn… ”
“Whilst the rest of the book is totally believable?”
“Well, yes!”
“Do you think Whirly’s figured it out? He’s supposed to be writing the sequel… ”
“Hello! Whirly is a figment of our imagination!”
“So who decides what happens to Sam and George?”
“WE do!”
“WE do!”
“WE do!”
“We do?”
The tall, khaki clad, bush-tanned man unsnapped the opening and out popped his head, just as Samantha snapped the now faded picture at her bedside. Everything about that moment years ago was enchanted, including the Polaroid SX-10 that spewed out the magical photo that developed before her eyes.
Now, in her Park Avenue studio, Samantha was alone by choice. Cheetah print sheets hugged her round bed. On the carved mpingo wood night-stand stood the framed photo — vivid company on sleepless New York City nights.
“God-damn it, Daddy, why’d you have to kick the bucket?”
Despite the tear-stained satin pillowcases, Sam smiled, recalling how after taking that photo, Daddy had emerged from the tent, grabbed his rifle, and stepped over the record setting rogue crocodile he’d shot in the early morning hours, before sweeping her onto his shoulder on their way to breakfast at The Bundu Lodge.
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Sam picked up the treasured frame. Her father’s image gazed back, challenging his daughter to once again read the loving but stern inscription on the back. Sam complied. Her father’s familiar flamboyant hand shook her with his endearing counsel: “What the fuck are you doing with your life, my little one?”
***
The romp was in full swing when George, urged on by the throbbing between his legs, whisked the rollicking redhead out to his newest toy, Chengelele. The antique two-seater sat in the darkness at the end of The Lodge’s red clay runway. “It’s the same one Redford used on Meryl!” she cooed, proving that Out of Africa really was her favourite movie of all time. “Help me up.”
Gleeful and gloriously naked before him, George hoisted the carrot-topped bimbette onto the wing. She screamed drunkenly while dangling, her legs kicking the air, her damp muff, several shades darker than the hair on her head, waving inches from George’s face. One final shove from George’s strapping arms landed the dream seeking damsel in a heap on the cockpit floor. George couldn’t have been more pleased — or rewarded.
George scampered up like a baboon after a banana, although the banana in his shorts made it tricky. Taking his place in the pilot’s seat of the De Havilland DH60X Gipsy Moth, the stage was set for the redheaded woodpecker to live her fantasy of being satisfied by a modern day Redford. While she frantically unbuttoned George’s safari shirt, he helped himself out of khaki boxers. Sporting only his pilot’s cap, George had no sooner made himself comfortable when the fiery hotty eased her well-lubricated chassis down onto his cock. Rubbing her breasts against his tanned and hairy chest she moaned, “Oh George,” while performing a kneeling version of The Twist on his manly mechanism, “I just love flying a georgestick, it’s so much friendlier than a joystick.”
“You so sure?” George asked, guiding her left hand from his nipple to the plane’s control column in front of him, and directly behind the lady straddling his lap.
Quizzically, the bimbette’s fingers explored the control column jutting from the floorboard behind her. George could feel her wet vaginal sheath pulse around his cock. “Don’t knock it, till you’ve knocked it.”
In a flash, her dance on George’s pole halted. “Is that what I think it is?”
“I’ll give you a hint. It’s Chengelele’s namesake.”
“Don’t tell me… Chengelele means dildo!” she squealed.
“Dildo is dildo in any language, my dear. Chengelele is Swahili for penis.”
“Well fiddle-de-dildo, Georgy,” she said lifting herself off of George’s eager shaft. “Now don’t be so greedy. A faux Chengelele by any other name is still an inviting dildo. Grab some lube and let’s tame that bad boy!”
With a hearty laugh, George quickly inserted three fingers in her now vacant lair while his thumb attended to a grateful clit. She gasped when George’s sopping digits were removed to prime the dildo for pumping. She resumed her perch on George’s pole, but it wasn’t long before he lifted her sumptuous hips off his cock. Like Redford, he liked giving unexpected gifts.
“Noooo,” she whimpered in distress. Her moan of deprivation quickly turned to moans of ecstasy as George eased her gently down onto the now moist Chengelele of the Redfordesk mount. Keeping in mind that timing is everything, George allowed the bimbette’s relationship with the control pole to ripen, before lifting her off and easing her down once again onto his own ready rod. She gasped and moaned in abandon until she was the one gently but deliberately moving herself from one joystick to the other, while the full moon light cast a cued quixotic glow onto her sweat laden skin.
But unlike the manual controls of the Gipsy Moth, George was on auto-pilot. He knew the script by heart, and after her forth orgasm he’d lost count and interest. Despite the enjoyment of having her naked breasts crashing into his face as she manoeuvred between the joystick and his somewhat softer, at this point, appendage, George knew it was hopeless, and looked forward to a cold Tusker and some chevda. By the end of the aero-escapade, the owner of the bouncing boobies was satiated and, he hoped, too exhausted to notice he still hadn’t come.
***
Sam had no sooner de-arched from her orgasm when her clit began throwing another tantrum.
“Again? Not again… I’ve gotta think. What am I doing with my life,” Sam muttered. “New York City, my thirtieth birthday, and you poke your head up, with not a dick in sight.”
The day had been filled with celebrating family, friends and suitors. As was usual at these gathering, Sam had spent more time than she cared fielding the heavily laden hints about marriage and babies. The only response Sam could muster was to sink further into her yearly shoulder-slumping-birthday-invoked-depression. No one would have guessed, and even Sam could’ve ignored it, except today. Today, Daddy’s counsel echoed through her fear-filled sadness, “Birthdays are a hell of an excuse for a piss up, but those ending in zero are game changers.”
Sam took a deep breath. She’d confront her fears tomorrow. Tomorrow she would look at the back of the frame again. Tomorrow she would find her Daddy, her champion, ready to pat her on the back as she takes on the naysayers and makes the tough decisions. Not tonight. Tonight was still her birthday and she could do whatever she wanted on her birthday, thirtieth or not. And what she wanted was to sleep.
But Sam’s struggle for control was in vain. With each headstrong attempt to ignore the calls from below, Sam’s defiant and dainty diva pulsed, taunting her to come and play. Eventually practicality ruled, and getting it over with seemed the best course. Then she’d sleep.
No sooner had Sam de-arched from yet another digital-O than she found herself battling her petite partner in pleasure, once again in a rip-roaring rage. This time Sam obeyed.
“Can’t figure,” she gasped “why I’m suddenly so wrapped up in myself. I’m not usually a double dipper… ” Her answer came later. In fact eleven times later. Though she had to bring out a remote controlled Rabbit to relieve cramping fingers, each inning’s orgasmic intensity increased to perverse heights. Unable to put two thoughts together, Sam finally gave up trying to think outside the box.
Satiated by Sam’s surrender, her little Doctor Toughlove calmly withdrew its horny hold and retracted. Deep inside the slumped, satisfied and sweaty Sam, a revelation took place. “I’m not ready,” she announced. “I’m not ready for the New Yorker version of a white-picket-fence. Not ready for sewing gold plated buttons on the school blazers of 2.5 children. I’ve followed the script; the best schools, the best clothes, the best job. Enough’s enough. The time has come. Many times… Yup, that’s it. Forget about the gold buttons in need of a child and planting perennials on a penthouse terrace overlooking Central Park. The only planting I’m doing is the sowing of rock-hard, wild oats. And think I know exactly where to look… ”
Flashing neon from the 61st Street Cinema’s marquis outside her window reflected off Daddy’s picture frame, giving the croaked croc a psychedelic appearance, and redirecting her attention to the night-stand. Sam pulled out the tight drawer and dumped the contents on the bed, extracting a gold trimmed, decade old brochure which she clutched to her bodacious ta-ta’s.
Sam received the Bundu brochure for her twentieth birthday, along with the croc shot of her father and a check to cover the cost of an extended trip to the infamous Lodge. The money was long gone, spent, despite Daddy’s objections, towards her Harvard MBA. But the fantasy lingered; evidenced by her boudoir and bathroom, fashioned in the same Bundu décor reflected in the glossy pages in her hands. Even the towers of intricately carved, intertwined human figures on her Tree of Life headboard, were the same as the traditional Makonde designs that decorated The Lodge’s spa. Browsing through the pamphlet, it was her groin that twitched at the heading:
BUSH MASSAGE
at
BUNDU’S
TREE OF LIFE SPA
Let the adrenalin rush of your
encounter with the Big Five
be smoothed away by our
Big Five Therapies
RhinAroma
An essentially oiled full body massage that cossets every nerve ending
inside & out, leaving you smooth, glowing & scented of Africa.
Buff Aloe Melt Down
Stimulating Yohimbe bark & soothing Aloe for
deep manipulation of your body’s core muscles.
Stoned Leopard
The ultimate in sensory delight, pure, heated basalt stones
glide away tension, unblocking trapped energy.
Lion’s Gate
Designed to pamper you from your head to your toes and everything in between.
Cheatahhhhhh
A quickie for those times when full body surrender has to wait.
Confident her father would approve, Sam turned her back on security. Now the only dread Sam felt, was fear that the mystique of The Bundu Lodge had perished during her straight-laced journey through the glass ceiling, to the joyless top.
***
Gazing despondently into the mirror, George viewed the ravages the night had inflicted. With his tanned craggy face and startlingly blue eyes accentuated by grey flecked brown hair, there was no doubt that George was, at the age of forty-five, and after a long night carousing in Chengelele, still extremely good looking. His body had fared just as well. His stomach was washboard flat, and he took pride in hard leg muscles shown off by extra short shorts. He was an African version of the Marlboro man, with an easy smile and air of confidence verging on cockiness. This persona was supported and intensified by excesses in alcohol, women and the great outdoors. He was the epitome of a Kenyan Cowboy. All of this, along with his expertise in the bush, had secured him his job as General Manager of The Bundu Lodge, an exclusive getaway in Northern Kenya.
The Lodge, as it was also known, was more than just your run of the mill safari lodge. Bundu not only abounded in wildlife and stunning scenery, but had the distinction of being designed by the internationally renowned artist, Antonio Cazzino. George resided in one of the celebrated Bundu tents, where the atmosphere and adventure of Africa found union with luxury and comfort. The tents gave guests a tree house view, and it was from his own tree top veranda that George stood contemplating his domain.
When the rustling of sheets drew George’s attention from the exotic environment to the intricately carved crib of the water bed, he was caught off guard. There, riding the waves, were the glorious black and white stripes of a zebra stretching voluptuously. The surprise was surreal, but quickly dissolved when George realized he’d once again been seduced by design; specifically, the designs of that great giver and getter of pleasure, Antonio Cazzino. Antonio Cazzino, whose desire became his vision, and whose vision became his promise. No one who succumbed to the Bundu brochure’s sales pitch was ever disappointed, despite its extravagant claims:
“Sensual luxury by Antonio Cazzino thrives in the details,
and his trademark Animal Week Sheets, prove the rule.
There are seven designs, providing the Monday to Sunday
guest of the exclusive Bundu Lodge in Samburu, Northern Kenya
with different bestial bedding each nightfall.
Whimsical designs will entice you, as each consecutive
evening the bedding becomes more seductive.
There is Snake Monday, Giraffe Tuesday, Wild Dog Wednesday,
Leopard Thursday, Cheetah Friday, Zebra Saturday
and Sunday’s Feathered Foray.
Each night, your body will be captivated by the silky
warmth of 800 thread count linens, so wildly realistic,
they will certainly entrap the most discerning hunter.”
And they did. And not just for week long guests. It dumbfounded George how despite all the times he’d seen a woman beneath the slinky sheet-skins, the seductive effect still delivered. Cheetah was George’s favourite, but since Saturday was game night, in both senses of the word, he had most of his sexual forays with Zebra. Last night’s romp was no exception, and though he thought he’d had enough, here he was again, spellbound by the trophy; the Meryl-wanna-be bimbette stirring restlessly beneath equine sheets. Hardly breathing, George watched from a distance as the glorious zebra stripes raced up and down the woman’s frame, her back and haunches barely revealed. George’s blood also started racing, but just as he was about make a lunge for the wild mare, a mongoose’s persistent peep peeping interrupted his trot to the starting gate.
Two weeks later, and Sam’s therapeutic side trip into hedonism was taking off. The Lodge’s private black and gold twin engine prop with its plush, sleek interior, contrasted sharply with the grey buildings of Nairobi, or Nairobbery, as quipped by the guidebook. Sipping papaya sweetened champagne from a crystal flute, and snacking salted dry roasted crickets, Sam headed for the hills — Simba Hills that is. A blur of increasing schoolgirl giddiness took hold as the exotic, unrestricted savannah overwhelmed a straight-laced civilisation receding into the distance.
The banked landing over the welcoming JAMBO on The Lodge’s largest rooftop spurred new waves of excitement. Away from the confines of strict building codes, architect Antonio Cazzino’s genius and artistic temperament had been allowed to run riot. The resulting structure was a sprawling and elaborate two-level maze that borrowed from numerous architectural schools of thought. Even from the air, the folds and flow of geometrically patterned Arab tenting melded seamlessly with stone buildings that cherished elements of Medieval Europe. Inside, mahogany and teak furniture and decorative trim had been shipped from Thailand, lending a further exotic feel to the place. The resulting Bundu Lodge, with its subterranean casino, was as impressive as any of the pleasure palaces on the Las Vegas strip, but with more intimacy and class.
As the aircraft nimbly bounced onto the bush runway, they passed a somehow familiar old craft labelled Chengelele, before coming to rest beside a row of waiting zebra-striped, safari-roofed Land Cruisers. Sam, the first to alight, taking in the 360-degree view from her swivelling bucket seat as she was whisked to reception. After check-in, she was escorted to the Lion’s Lair, where her brown leather Hartmann luggage had been unpacked. On the carved Makonde table, late afternoon lunch of sherried vichyssoise, spiced ahi tuna salad and oatmeal chocolate chip snaps answered her last need. Sam’s only requests, before closing the door on her first day enfolded in Daddy’s spiritual embrace, was a noon breakfast tray, and a guide for tomorrow’s afternoon outing.
“Howzit ndugu,” asked George, before Sam had a chance to completely open the door at two o’clock the next day. When she came into view George lost a beat. Ah, whoa, wrong room? Not ndugu… definitely no bro’ of mine. More like sister. No, wait. Not a sister! No, no, no. No sisterly intentions coming this way, George’s thoughts and shorts banged together, before politely saying, “Right, um, Ms Stillport?”
Sam, refreshed, glowing, and surprised at the khaki-clad Crocodile Dundee figure at her door, nodded her head in acknowledgement.
“General Manager here at Bundu, George is the name. Reception reckoned you wanted to take a look at the local manyatta,” he said extending a hand. “I have a small matter to discuss with the Samburu chief and the warden. Happy to act as your guide.”
“I’d be honoured,” she replied, giving a mock curtsy, pulling up just enough of her camo mini-dress to reveal her tanning salon tan line. “But please, it’s Samantha. Friends call me Sam.”
Ah, she registered as Sam, George thought, now understanding why he thought Sam Stillport was a man. “Well then Sam, ready for some local culture?”
When The Lodge’s manicured path turned rough and narrowed, George paused to let Sam walk in front. He began his well-rehearsed tour-guide monologue with an eye on the brunette prey. When Sam sensed his gaze, she also paused, then deliberately slowed her pace, her hips rocking like a lazy see-saw.
As the African scenery unfolded around her, Sam set to work. She was here to engage sensuality. Keeping men in line at the Exchange was an ego trip. Her body yearned for a libido trip. No thinking. No thought. Just primal passion. And as thought cleared, Sam was quickly rewarded with the tingling intensity of blue, blue eyes — like twin lasers — boring into her bottom. When thought fought back, she wondered whether she should have worn shorts, then dismissed the idea. After all, if there was any chance of action — she wanted to be completely open to it — a short dress was the way to go. Daddy would have been proud.
But being way-laid by distracting thoughts would get Sam nowhere with the ego escorting her to the manyatta. George was giving her the full measure of his tour guide speech and she hadn’t heard a damn word. Though he was definitely in the three B category - brash, blustery and all balls, there was something there. Already this manly man was invading her like the thorn stuck in her Gucci sandals, just niggling away at you. But while she was interested in being niggled by George, the thorn had to go. Stopping to steady herself on a felled tree trunk, Sam could feel her dress ride up a little, exposing the damp patch at the crotch of her teeny weeny panties. Straightening up she glanced back catching George off guard. His eyes bulged like a baboon seeing a banana tree — had he noticed? Restraining a smile Sam turned back toward the manyatta and, not too quickly, headed down the packed dirt track humming The Wiz’s, Ease on Down the Road. Could be fun…
“I should warn you. The Samburu might not be so pleased to see you,” George said, staring at the tight bum bouncing along ahead. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he knew that keeping his newly formed vow was not going to be easy. “The tribe’s new generation of young men are to be circumcised, cock on block time. You’re in luck, it only happens every two years or so, but they likely won’t want a foreigner, especially a lady, around.”
“Maybe I can persuade them,” Sam said, glancing back and giving a wink.
“Be careful what you wish for. Here in the bush things are a bit different, back to basics. The actual nip and tuck is about as exciting as watching a warthog give birth. Families live in fear their young men will dishonour them by running away. But it’s steeped in mountains of pretty interesting ceremony, not to mention mountains of bits and bobs. Even the healing is ritualized. Celebrations called ilmugit go on forever. These party animal ndugus love celebrations. Hell, they’ll celebrate just about anything. Each new warrior… ah… the new um… “George’s lines came to a grinding halt as Sam deliberately bent over to remove a stone from her sandal.
“He what, George?” Sam asked, as she slowly stood up, giving George a tour of her tummy by way of her cleavage.
“Ah… well… right. Each new warrior that’s about to have his bits hacked off is given a bull and cow. The bull is slaughtered with the help of two older morans.”
“Morans?”
“Warriors.”
“Mmmm, warriors… has a nice ring to it… ” Sam’s hands slowly glided down each pulsing cheek while walking. “What’s with the bull? Do they eat it?”
“Course, they never waste meat. First they drain the bull’s blood and mix it with the cow’s milk. The initiates drink only this for two days before the big day. But the main ceremonial event is when the new moran presents the bull carcass to his mother, and promises never to eat meat in front of a married woman again.”
“Did you say, never beat meat again?” Sam called back.
“Funny. Listen, I’ll stop if this is boring you. I’m just trying to be a good safari guide, my dear.”
“Talk about their bodies, then you’ll be giving me my money’s worth.”
Blurry bloody mad these New Yorkers, George muttered to himself, while trying to get another glimpse of what was underneath the dress in front of him.
“Well, one of the pre-requisites to manhood is the ability to carry a new-born calf home on their shoulders, making these men specimens in their prime. Then they do this thing where they decorate themselves with red ochre. Erotic, eh?” George continued his recitation without missing a beat, all the while testing his hypothesis that beneath Sam’s tight dress there was no VPL. No visible panty line, no panties. Down George, he thought, but his bone was already pressed hard against his now even tighter shorts.
“Yum… maybe they’ll let me help?” said Sam.
“Easy girl. Or as they say here, pole-pole. Don’t be disappointed if they won’t let you stay and watch, particularly if you go charging in there like a randy gazelle. They’re private people and guard their ceremonies like a lioness guarding young cubs.”
Despite George’s comments, Sam’s pulse quickened. Maybe this would be the erotic African episode she was hoping for. Putting aside thoughts of the mutilation of parts she would rather fondle than see slashed, Sam let the fantasy of dozens of naked, dusky young men parading in front of her prevail. So long as she could see them before the circumcision she would be happy. Maybe when it’s time to smear red ochre all over their firm bodies. And who knows? Maybe today I’ll be able to entice a stray warrior back to The Lodge, and, among other things get myself an invite. That would make up for last night.
The night before, a driver had taken her to a manyatta on the other side of the Simba Hills. Sam had intended to stay in, but after a peppermint scented shower, the scrumptious cold lunch and a luxurious nap, her second wind kicked in. She went in pursuit of native prey, but much as Sam tried, she’d had no luck. Even the ploy of buying a Samburu’s blanket right off his back hadn’t worked. Instead of getting the young warrior to disrobe in front of her, she ended up with a new blanket wrapped in plastic and labelled, Made in China. Events continued downhill when to her frustration, the women of the tribe took control, and Sam wound up spending a bewildering night listening to the singing and crooning of an endless parade of children, and sampling various foods — both equally revolting. Must ask George what the hell I drank, she thought; think it had buffalo balls in it.
Engrossed in her own thoughts, Sam followed the path as it meandered alongside the river, while the calls of birds squawked their progress. Vervet monkeys chattered at them from the rooftops, swinging amongst the tall trees.
“Up there,” said George, pointing to a nearby fig tree. “A troop of vervet monkeys. The males have blue balls.”
Sam stopped, and squinting into the sun stared at the excited monkeys.
“Blue balls?”
“So the females can see who have the biggest balls in the troop. The bluer they are, the bigger the balls, the better the mate.”
“Well then, that’s proof that travel really is mind expanding,” Sam said, hackles rising. Does he really think this is a turn on? “Puts a whole new light on blue balls, doesn’t it George? Makes one wonder how stiff the competition is for safari guides.”
“Some of us,” George said, shoving his hands in his pockets until the tight shorts got tighter, “don’t need any blue to advertise. Mine speak for themselves, and they sure as hell aren’t blue.”
“Speak? Oh my! So glad you told me. Here I’ve been thinking you’re a ventriloquist,” Sam scoffed, no longer interested in banter with the GM. She had her body, if not her sights, focused on her warrior trinket.
Pulling his hands out of his pockets, George laughed. He’d crossed a line, and though this vixen had seemed game, he reinstated guide mode. Besides, he wasn’t interested in sloppy seconds. “Nope, but if you listen carefully you’ll hear the Samburu.”
In the distance, singing and drumming could be heard harmonizing with the lowing of cattle. The path climbed a hill and there before them was the manyatta. Looking from a distance, Sam saw that this manyatta was similar to the one she’d seen last night. Inside the outer thorn encrusted wall, made entirely of narrow supporting branches, mud and cow dung, there were numerous huts spaced at regular intervals. The dust from the cattle filled the air, mingling with the wood smoke of the cooking fires. Just outside the prickly covered entrance, children squatted in the dirt playing with a car made from scraps of old wire and bottle top wheels. Close by, a group of women stood chatting.
“Sweet, sweet! Give me sweet,” shrieked the children when they saw Sam, charging up to her and tugging on her arms. Their sandals, locally called ‘thousand milers’ for the used tires they were made from, flapped excitedly.
“Let me talk to them first, and see if you can come in,” said George.
“They’re women. They’ll relate better to me,” Sam announced, edging him to one side.
The women cackled in delight. Used to George’s preening and domineering manner, the elder women endorsed Sam’s behaviour by leading her by the hand into the centre of their group, deliberately leaving George on the outside.
Sam looked at the women surrounding her. They all appeared ancient and desiccated as they babbled at her incomprehensibly, plucking at her hair and clothes. They were fascinated with the silky tresses, so different from their own shaved heads.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Sam loudly, carefully enunciating every word. When the women continued to stare at her uncomprehendingly, she began miming. George, obviously amused, settled back to enjoy the entertainment.
Sam presented her audience of tribeswomen with a perfect enactment of a circumcision. She began by pointing to a tiny boy who remained engrossed in his toy car. She then raised her hands to indicate a larger child. Pointing to George’s crotch, she then scissored her fingers. George raised one eyebrow. The women roared with enjoyment, their ornate necklaces bouncing against their withered breasts. This white woman was more fun than the ones George usually brought around. The laughter attracted some attention, and a man appeared from inside one of the huts wearing trousers, a Bermuda shirt and incongruously, a bowler hat.
“Good lady,” he said, “what can we do today for you here? I am lucky enough to be called Ole Ngurube, but you may refer to me as Pilot.”
Smiling at his quaint English, Sam said, “Well, George here said there was a circumcision ceremony taking place. I’d be honoured if I could see some of the ritual.”
“Good lady, rest assured you may indeed witness some of this rite, for a small fee of course. We have to appease our ancestors, and if you see today that which you wish, you will buy a goat for the feast. Then you may witness the feast of the boys having their father’s skins off.”
Realizing that he meant foreskins, Sam opened her bag, and after a moment of bargaining, handed across a wad of money.
“But Bwana George, I am sorry to say that you must remain with the women,” said Pilot. Turning to Sam, he explained, “The last time he was witnessing such an event, Bwana George became ill and fell asleep quite suddenly.”
George shuffled his boots in the dust uneasily. “A man can’t help but feel faint at the sight of such an act being inflicted on the family jewels,” he countered. “Yeah well, I’ve got to go and see the warden about that rogue buffalo anyway.”
Once George took his leave, Sam followed Pilot inside the compound. The women and children remained outside, still laughing and imitating Sam. Sam cautiously picked her way through the cow dung and brushed flies away, following Pilot into the nearest hut. The only light came from a small hole in the ceiling, which, she could now see, also served to let smoke escape from the cooking fire.
“First you must drink some milk,” grinned Pilot. “Very good Samburu milk, not like British milk,” he said disappearing from the hut, leaving Sam to wonder what was in store for her. Returning a few seconds later, Pilot offered her a chipped enamel mug. Groaning inwardly after the culinary horrors she’d been given the night before, Sam peered into the mug. Inside was something that resembled semolina gone bad, decorated with what looked suspiciously like dead flies. Trying to block the smell, Sam took a gulp.
“That’s just wonderful thank you, but that sure is good and plenty,” she gasped handing the mug back to Pilot.
Looking around, Sam realized she was the only woman present. A group of warriors lounged against the walls of the hut staring curiously at her. Their bright red blankets were slung casually over their shoulders, and their muscles flexed unconsciously as they clutched the spears at their sides. Most of the men had ornate beads decorating their ears, and long, intricately braided hair hanging down the middle of their backs. Sam was suddenly conscious of her own revealing attire, and of the lusty possibilities.
So much potential. How’s a girl to decide? Those decorative braids are amazing, and great cheek bones, but what bodies! One by one, she surveyed the men standing languidly in front of her. Their lean bodies, and each finely tuned muscle, begged to be touched; her thoughts drifted back to her previous booty boys.
Wall Street may be a jungle, but those men don’t have an ounce of animal in them. But these guys… Men with a capital M — M for muscles! Not treadmill muscles made while watching videos and looking in a mirror. These are bringing home the ox muscles, chop the wood muscles, I want you muscles, fuck me now muscles…
Trying to control her shallow gasps, Sam took a few deep breaths and tried unsuccessfully to divert her attention from the barely covered buttocks before her. They were perfect; not even a tan line detracted from their virtue. While she continued salivating over the beefcake smorgasbord in front of her, Sam noticed a group of boys chatting quietly amongst themselves. They seemed to be in their teens, and when Pilot returned, she asked if they were the initiates.
Pilot pointed at the warriors who were anointed with the red ochre mud from the river. “Those are the elders. They have no longer the fathers’ skins. And those are the ones to be men now,” he said, pointing to the group of younger men. “They have for now been hidden in the bush for many days at a secret place.”