Africa baby!

I’m in Africa biatches!

As you’ve read, the lead up to my departure from Melbourne wasn’t exactly relaxing. Having finally made it out of 2017 and into 2018 slightly unscathed, it was time I gave my mind, body and v-jay-jay a mother-flippin-break.

My bestie, Mumma Africa, and I, based ourselves in Moshi, Tanzania. There I began my Melbourne detox.

I woke up early each morning, ate vegan meals, kept up regular yoga practice, went for runs, and did NOT drink alcohol for almost an entire month.

Yes, you noticed the almost. So there was this one Friday night that we got on the drinking train, literally a lethal Tanzanian spirit that poses as gin, yet costs less than water.

Rule of life; no alcohol that costs less than water is good news.

Three bottles down and shit got wild, Mumma Africa and I made our way to a mammoth club called Red Stone. It was teaming with hot Tanzanian gals twerkin their booties and a pelethora of beautiful men backing up on them glorious derrière. Normal me would have, could have, been one of the ladies being backed up on. However, my vagina was seemingly also going through a detox and I just didn’t have the motivation to interact with anyone other than my third bottle of Konyagi.

Mumma Africa on the other hand was NOT having problems interacting. Without me having witnessed the advancements, she had made her way into the arms of a gigantic, gorgeous, Tanzanian man. I took this, and my inability to stand straight anymore, as my queue to leave.

The morning after. I awoke in shambles, I crawled my defeated body to the toilet and discovered a disgusting mess of black tar filing the loo. I suppose you’d call it vomit, but it certainly didn’t seem human made. I realised with regret that it was in fact my mess. I tried to flush it away but a clogging situation started. In my hungover panicked state I MacGyver a solution: I wrapped a plastic bag around my hand and created a plunging affect with the force of my palm, gradually squealching my stomach bile away.

My day of hangover doom was at least livened by hearing the tale of Mumma Africa and her very fulfilling night with Mr. Mount Kilimanjaro, from her recall, she well and truely reached his summit.

The month of Jan was quickly reaching its conclusion and we would soon be beginning our backpacking journey. At our farewell drinks we got chatting to a Dutch friend about my almost sexless month. She informed me that in the Netherlands there is a term called ‘Panda Points’. You see, Pandas are only ready for sex once a year, makes sense why they’re going extinct hey? So at Uni in the Netherlands if you go a month without sex you get one Panda Point. The Panda Points accrue and if you reach 12 points, a full year without sex, your mates’ duty is to throw you a ‘Panda Party’ where only your attracted sex is invited, thus attempting to help break the points streak.

This was the most absurd/excellent Uni tradition I’d ever heard. I was ready to spread the word of this great tradition, however, I believed that I would NEVER be receiving my own Panda Party.

Yet here I was about to earn my first Panda Point!

Departure day arrived on the 31st of Jan, Mumma Africa and I spent the day sitting on a sweat box of a bus for 8 hours. Surrounded by people vomiting, and a bunch of live chickens in plastic bags, I slowly came to terms with the fact that I was about to put my first Panda Point on the mantle.

I awoke the next morning to learn that Mamma Africa had been sexting Mr. Mount Kilimanjaro. She had playfully mentioned that she wished he and his mountain member were in her bed.

Something I was quickly learning on the trip was that African men aren’t like the hard to get Europeans and Australians that I’m used too. He took her dirty talk seriously and said he would get onto a bus immediately. We both laughed, thinking surely he wasn’t serious, but Mr. Mount Kilimanjaro ain’t a joker, soon after our laughter subsided she received a selfie of him on the bus!

Whilst awaiting for his arrival Mumma Africa and I hiked the glorious Usambara Mountains, searching for chameleons and sending off the sun at a stunning and kinda scary look out.

Mr. Mount Kilimanjaro appeared and Mumma Africa was a goner.

It was now the 1st and my one Panda Point was already bothering me, as if sent by the anti-panda gods, suddenly two young men arrived to the lookout. Naturally, I sat my ass beside them and learned they were Uruguayan, and worked for the UN. Impressive. My eyes were scanning over both the new characters and though neither was particularly my type, there was a little something about one in particular…we’ll call him Wonky Boy.

We progressed from the viewpoint to a bar with the Uraguian’s and Mr. Mount Kilimanjaro in tow. Wonky and I got onto the topic of techno and our deep love of a dirty base. I knew he was impressed with the cute redheaded techno loving Aussie, and wasn’t too surprised when he asked for my number.

I also wasn’t surprised when moments after arriving back to my hotel room, Wonky Boy messaged filling me with compliments: ‘you have a nice crazy mind, I like that.’ Interestingly being called crazy really worked for me and I invited him around. We got under my mosquito net to avoid not sexy malaria and quickly got down to business. It was then that I previewed his wonky member in its full banana-bend glory. I’ve had one other wonky penis, and they can be really great for tickling new angles inside. I clambered myself on top and started to enjoy the affects of the sideways slamming when suddenly he was making pterodactyl noises signalling his all too soon orgasm.

I hid my disappointment at our four minute session while escorting him from the dindgy hotel and wished him the best. He was actually a lovely man and when I get my ass to Uraguay, he’ll be hearing from me, for techno party recommendations, probably not a banana-split.

And there you had it, I’d bid goodbye to any possibility of Panda Point number 2 and I attained probably my most random flag. To date.

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