Of Tinder Sapio & Demi sexual Babes, and Unfinished Stories

= 11700

I have several unfinished pieces heaped in my PC. Pieces I haven’t been able to handle successfully as life has minted most of my imagination and also money. Without imagination, creativity is left unwatered and it dies. Without money, I cannot travel to interview people for stories. Interviews usually produce powerful stories, relatable stories that I find easy to write because I don’t have to lie or imagine something that doesn’t exist.

Scandalously, I’ve been entertaining dark thoughts in my mind lately. Dark thoughts are thoughts that cut you off people, tell you that life isn’t worth living, and convince you that you’re not loved or that you’re not capable of being loved. This easily leads to narcissism. Narcissism will make you think you’re lesser of a being, that you don’t matter or deserve important things in life- such as not being enough to deserve to be loved. You feel low and sinking into the lows of abyss is a constant in your existence.

So you hide from the public. You develop a feeling of loathing others because they seem happier and their lives seem to be smooth. You don’t care much of what happens next in your life. Though you wouldn’t mind dying- that would bring the relief you badly need, perhaps.

It is usually unbearable to talk or connect with others, even your friends. Therefore, you withdraw from the public and spend time obsessing in dark thoughts in your little crib. Showers become something of the past. Eating doesn’t seem like something you find fun in doing. You don’t clean or take care of yourself. Why bother when you want to die?

Moving on swiftly, I am a great listener. I didn’t say good, but great. I can sit down and listen to someone talk for hours, sometimes without even saying anything. I’m a collection of stories that people tell me, stories I hold in confidence because that’s what pushes them to tell me, plus the part of being a great listener. Stories that can produce 100 books and counting. In a month, I get to listen to five to ten stories. Most of these stories are dark.

When thinking about these stories, sometimes they’re the ones that influence my dark thoughts- so I think. The worst part of it is that I can be a source of light. A candle in the darkest of rooms because I have been groomed to give people hope when they need it most. Something I fail to offer myself during trying moments of my troubled life. I don’t know who to blame for that.

Most of my ‘victims’ are women (both young and old), who for some reason find their route to my life. Women whose lives are miserable. Women whose lives have been turned upside down by men they loved. Women whose lives have been destroyed by people they trusted, loved or even supported, by family. They carry their grief to my corner, open their hearts and unload their burdens to me, because I have a sharp trusting ear, and I can light a candle in their lives.

In this quest, one that I didn’t ask for, I have travelled far and wide- to attend these women, sit down and listen, give a hug and sharp, but comforting words. I have found myself on dates due to this. Dates where I hardly enjoyed the food because the stories were so sad, gruesome and grotesque in a way that couldn’t allow me to enjoy food, because it might look like I am having a good time while the other party is grieving.  In some of these dates, I’ve almost made mistakes when things become too emotional and in that moment of comfort lips found way to each other and then followed by awkward moments almost immediately, and several ‘sorries.’

In some situations I have found myself looking too hard at them as their lips move from side to side. Sometimes, I have had boners , and embarrassingly felt guilty for the same. The most trying moments have been when I get to visit these women and things get heated up and sex becomes the next solution in all the madness. I often conclude that it was an oversight on my side, that the woman who invited me must have had that intention- otherwise she would have talked to me over the phone or somewhere public.

Starting this year, I have been immersed in many thoughts, rarely getting attentive enough to be of help to others as I have been before. I have been battling with my own emotional issues, heart breaks to be exact. Heart breaks resulting from breaking up with girls I loved, getting broke, and corona which by the way, has made me see how useless one can be without money. There hasn’t been much going on: no dates, no travels, and no good times like before. I’ve had a few ‘victims’, and proved helpless because I was trying to put myself first. Being broken, sick in and out, business going down, debts and loans taking toll on me, I had no energy left to deal a hand on others.

But I remember one of the ladies who constantly kept telling me she wouldn’t mind dying. She’s a young virgin in her early 20s, studying in a prestigious varsity, and working part time in a prestigious firm as well. She also comes from a well off family and can have pretty much all she needs except that one need- the need to live. She’s not happy especially when she’s at home or around her family.

When schools closed due to corona, and work asked staff to stay at home, she had no choice other than collect her belongings and head home. Two days didn’t end before she wrote me- all the things have come back, things I had forgotten or rather thought didn’t exist. If I am being honest with you, I don’t mind dying. But I won’t hurt myself, I promise.”

I totally understood her situation. Many people fail to wonder how someone can want to die or kill themselves. It’s not a foreign phenomenon if depression has at one time hit you proper. To a point of feeling that only death can cure all the pain and confusion that is rocking your life.

I followed up, and she didn’t get back to me but I think she’s okay.

My fingers are really ready to write this story, but my mind isn’t convinced yet. It doesn’t find it alluring, and it has been whispering to me, “Don’t write it. You don’t have enough material to have a go at it.” It is now the third day I am giving this a shot. In the previous two, I’ve managed to have excellent openings- Openings that can’t merge with this story because they were from a different frame of mind and mood. In fact, I even ejaculated on the thought of them being read by an audience as they were orgasmic-ally thrilling.

Having thought wide and for long, deep and expertly, I’ve come to a conclusion that I need to get this story done with. Right now, more than ever, I have an obligation to write often because I have found the little purpose I have been looking for for this blog- how to make money. Finally, AdSense decided to lower down their guard to let me in. This means that if I really put my effort to write more, and you as a reader begin to savor my articles ferociously, I can finally enjoy the fruits of my five years-old and going efforts.

I managed to limit the number of ads you can come into contact with so that you can be able to enjoy the story without feeling like I am sentencing you to an ad agency, with ads poking their heads from every side like you see in other blogs. I want us to enjoy the story as that is the main objective of this household. As I have previously mentioned, this is a story telling house, with humans who share stories that make you laugh, stories that make you stay awake at night, stories that make your skin crawl, stories that put us bare before others and show our vulnerabilities, stories that inspire, stories of vanity, stories that leave no stone unturned because we don’t fear telling tabooed stories. Here, we share everything- we encourage sex, we inspire creativity and confidence, we promote feminism, we strip down old behaviours and chart new courses, we break down societal pressures and build pursuit for personal desires, we cultivate equal treatment.

Today’s piece is all about my experience on Tinder. If you’re wondering why the hell I am on Tinder, then you’ve not heard what I have mentioned on the above paragraph. Here, we tell stories we experience firsthand so that we don’t have pretend or sugar coat anything- sugar has become expensive, and lying so heavy a burden to bear. We tell stories because of the freedom of our minds, freedom from the chains of societal expectations. We pursue personal freedom, to live life to its fullest. We are an open minded house, the kind of house that encourages orgies and quickies even in inappropriate places.

If your mind is free, you’ve a few obligations- keeping your conscience clear, keeping your principles; avoiding judging others, and asking God for good health. Everything else is vanity.  

I’ve been on Tinder for what now! A week or two? A lady friend told me that if I wanted to get quick pleasures from high class women, then Tinder should be my destination. “You only need to swipe right after all.” She texted me. She knows that I haven’t been laid for like three months now, and the rate I’ve been “suffocating my monkey” is alarming. She even recommended that I go downtown to K-Street and get myself a quickie for 200 bob. Or even join telegram groups such as “Seniors Club” for access to women who offer free sex, women who even host you.

She even sent me a few nasty videos of what I might get from pursuing this awaited adventure.  I did think about it but I still decided that if I am going to pay someone for sex, then it would probably not be someone I’d pay 200 bob. It doesn’t sound like a good deal.  

The beauty of buying sex is that you get a service you paid for without having any attached obligations. You get a full package. I know so because this isn’t an unusual subject for me. Back in college when my fame couldn’t allow me to have a girlfriend because every girl thought as a famous guy I couldn’t be single, I was massaging Karatina’s finest whores in brothels and whatnot. That’s how I know what paying for sex looks like. It is another kind of experience: – expert service that leaves you smothering with undivided longing for more of that.

I finally decided to join Tinder for the experience of it, as I hunt for a girlfriend. At my age, paying an escort 6k for just sex isn’t something I want to do. I am at the age where I want to invest. And if I can get a woman to do this with, I’d be more grateful than entertaining a new face every night. It was my second time to be on Tinder.  They first time I tried to join; my then woman deleted my app and warmed me that she’d leave if I didn’t stop “this stupidity.” I couldn’t stand the idea of being called stupid so I decided to cherish the relationship. I always try to be the bigger person, understanding and loving.

Tinder is many things. It is a classy whorehouse. A whorehouse for people with class. A class where most of us don’t belong but want to be. You’re going to come across words such as ambivert, sapiosexual, demisexual and many more equally surprising.  It is like walking into a room full of foreigners who talk the same language, a language slightly different from yours, and they can tell so. Your pictures, no matter how well they’re edited on Photoshop, will betray you. They will notice your wrinkled face full of pimples and a forced smile, and terrible or white backgrounds.

Pictures of women on Tinder have backgrounds that tell you of the places they spend most of their times most. They tell stories of the kind of lives they lead. By pools, trips overseas, with wildlife, before a huge building in a town in Spain, sipping expensive champagne etc.  They have genuine smiles that radiate even damp rooms, shiny faces that depict fullness of life, and their interests are just wild- travelling, food bingeing, love animals, art, long walks on the beach, cooking and such.

While some are on Tinder to look for genuine and meaningful relationships, others are there for strictly hook ups. These are the reason why Tinder exists. They just want fun and nothing else. Their bios read like this, “If you can pet me, dress me up, and touch the right places- then swipe right. But if you want to look at your pocket every time, swipe left.”, “I am here for the fun, just spoil me and I’ll do anything you want.”

I usually keep away from these because I already know a den where I can pick one without having to do thousands of miles of dates, innumerable messages and arguing before you can get what you want. I once asked one how much she charges if she were to offer her services and she told me 30k. That was mind-blowing in some kind of way. I wrote back telling her that she was super ambitious and if by any chance she had clients who pay her that kind of money, she wouldn’t be online all day long and all night (it was on a dating site), and that she didn’t look like a million-dollar girl because she was the most undesirable hooker I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Haha! Come on, she was just not attractive.

Then there are those like me, from the hood just looking for someone to rescue us from our destitution. These are just normal women who don’t know life beyond the little towns they live in, but have dreams of one day touring the world. Whether that will come true or not is a question of chance. They have normal photos, nothing forced. Their bios will read something like, “No hook ups or nudes. A mother of one looking to meet the love of my life.” Or, “Here to find my prince charming.”

The truth is that I never look at them twice, I swipe left immediately. My excitement lies in those who believe chivalry still exists. They have certain notions about men that I love to deconstruct. I meet them up for dates and behave as if I am not interested, or even don’t care. I make them think twice about what they want and ask themselves “why can’t God give me a good man?” the same way I ask myself why can’t God give me a good woman. I never text or call back to know if they got home safe. I wait for them to call and say they reached home well. I make them crave for something they never thought they could- attention.

Congratulations to Mama Chad, the new mother on the block. Welcome to motherhood and don’t stop being freaky- otherwise I won’t get someone to introduce me to good things such as Tinder.

These are the unfinished stories I am talking of, stories I don’t think I’ll ever finish.


If you need some home to perch on, some place to pursue your career as a creative writer, here is the home you’re looking for. Reach out by contacting 0716503589.

Mzangila Snr,

(The Supreme Hunter In Captivity)

Where shall we go, we who wander in this wasteland in search of better selves?

Use Facebook to Comment on this Post

Related Posts:

About Mzangila

Man of all seasons

Check Also

The End

The key to winning a fight is having the right tool and knowing when and how to use it

A lifetime with a feminist

Post Views = 31406 Thanks to all men who are taking part in this conversation: …

Leave a Reply

No apps configured. Please contact your administrator.

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *