Sex and Bitterness

Before I actually start writing my next blog posting I would like to say something: I know that I should be writing about my experiences in Mali and what happened with this kid this one day, and how I am changing the world and how I am changing and all that kinda shit. Well, not today. Maybe one of the other nearly 800 days I will be living here and being a PCV, today I am writing about sex and being bitter (which really has not a lot to do with Mali but at least it’s fun to hear me bitch).

16 – 05 -2011:

Alas! This blog posting is about sex. So if you don’t like sex (I question our friendship), don’t like me talking about sex, or feel uncomfortable in any way concerning sex and or me, please cease reading and tune in next time.

Sex, our mommies and daddies never wanted to have the discussion with us. Yet, on the verge of our youths, 12 years old, erupting with zits and questioning why blood was coming out of that area (or for you gentleman, why that thing down there was suddenly standing up! --- Or well, im told. I don’t have a penis so I couldn’t tell you how going through puberty was as a boy), we looked for our parents for that answer. For many parents, mine included, they decided to defer that specific convo to the special employers of the public, or private, school district. Unless, you had the special opportunity to have a parent that was a teacher, them that said parent got the grown up responsibility about teaching said child about how babies were born. Undeniably, the concept of the birds and the bees would come up, maybe with an interlude of “planting and watering the seed”, which from a child’s perspective, I will tell you, either will leave said child confused or obsessed with gardening.

Now, in my household we never had the discussion and my parents left it up to my teacher to tell me what sex was and how NOT to get preggos. I must confess, I don’t eve know if I was listening to the whole sex part of my schooling, I was more concerned with the boobage part. “Where are my boobies?” I would wonder to myself. My mother, on the other hand, was not worried. “Don’t’ worry” she would tell me, “You’re going to have boobs like your aunt”. Lets just say, she was exceptionally wrong. For the most part of my life so far, I have had to declare war on boobies and lean on Victoria Secrets as my only confidant in the darkest of times. See, Victoria Secrets has this great thing called padding. My mother never liked this idea, she always said I was being decisive. Our conversations would go something like this:
- “Sweetheart, when you take home a gentleman [and yes, this ACTUALLY happened, like really conversation] and he takes off your bra, he is going to be greatly disappointed”
- “Mom, number one, the padding is only to lure the guy in and two, if he doesn’t like my boobs the way they are, as members of the tiny titty committee, well FUCK HIM”

…I would like to put it on the record that I have never had a complain, that I know of, against my tiny titties.

Back to what I was saying, when I was learning about sex, I was more concerned with my boobs than actually having sex. To be honest, I was kinda grossed out by the whole thing and about talking about sex, and until recently I am still not completely comfortable about talking about it with my mother. Aunt? Yes, best friends? Yes, acquaintances? Yes, sister? yes, but mother? Well the way I look at it is that she pushed me out of her vagina, im not comfortable telling her what I’m pushing in mine.

Back to my topic, sex . . . sex in Mali . . . and sex in the PC.

Sex in Mali is like talking about sex in front of your parents, its awkward and uncomfortable, but in reality your parents would probably give you tips rather than send you to your room for being rude. I mean who really cares about what you favorite position is, other than your significant other and or best friends, because bifs are always in the know. Well in Mali, people don’t talk about sex. They don’t acknowledge the elephant in the room that is the mammoth bulging prego 17 year old, who is about to push a 7 pound human being out of her vagina (which is probably why pre-natal consultations are such a hot-bottom issue right now). Anyways, people don’t talk about sex, or at least personal sex. Since I’ve only been here for 4 months and my language still sucks, I can’t really understand full conversations or secret conversations at that. I’ve heard that the teenagers here not only talk about sex in code – who doesn’t, but they get it on like possessed rabbits on a mission to bread more than the year before, leaping out in to the middle of brusse, while their parents believe they are talking long walks on a path with their childhood bif talking about ponies and rainbows and catfish. Other than the random not so random child resulting in these long walks, reproductive sex is never discussed. Here is an example conversation that I mastered up in my head:

- Hello kind sir, how are you?
- I’m fine, how are you?
- I’m fine. And your family? Your children? Your dog? Horse? Sheep? Goats? Second wife? Cousin second removed called your sister? oh yeah, here’s some peace bitch
- Yes, peace only
- By the way, going along with our casual made up conversation, I had the best sex last night! Like totally! It was missionary position, very enjoyable, simple, I suspect we should be having our 11 child arrive in around 9 months.
- Oh that is wonderful!

Yeah, no, that would NEVER HAPPEN.

Sex in Mali is never discussed. Which bring me to the topic of sex and the Peace Corps. As a woman in the PC, we are told sometimes we should make up a spouse. If not, given the fact that some of us are in our twenties, never married and haven’t birthed children, people here think we’re old maids.

“What!!!! You don’t have 5 CHILDREN?!?!?!?!?! BUT YOU’RE 23!!!!!!! We need to get you a ce (husband) and pregos sisan sisan (right now).”

So this topic might be awkward for some, but for me, usually all of my conversations with Malians are awkward so I just shrug it off and go home. anyways, since sex and sex are like forbidden publically here, so is touching, kissing or anything to do with affection. Which is were the problem arrises with sex and being a PCV. Sometimes dammit, we want a little cuddle, maybe a smotch, maybe a rough get it in sesh, maybe some non-commital touching or maybe, JUST MAYBE we want some freaking affection!!!!!!! You see where im coming from? (of course you don’t, unless you’re another PCV where right now you’re being like, um duh). Well I would like to leave you with a conversation I had with another PCV.

Friend: “Next care package request: vibrator. Holy shit, every other guys starting to look good to me”

Me: “no shit Sherlock, ps did I tell you im pathetic?”

Me to my mother via text: “Vibrator, in next care package. A NECESSITY. No judgment”

Friend to me: “It’s me, my dirty thoughts, my hut . . . im bound to force a Malian up against a wall and demand we get it on . . . sooner rather than later”

Moral of my story or this blog posting:

Young ladies, if you’re coming to the PCV, bring a vibrator. If not, you will, inevitably, end up having another awkward conversation with said package sender about 1) long lasting batteries 2) Pure Romance package deals 3) RUSH SHIPPING.




17 – 05 – 2011:

So as I sit here waiting for the horse cart to take me to market, I’ve come to the very important decision that will most definitely change the course of my life forever, making me not only fat, but miserable and alone . . . I’m bitter. Let me explain

1) This fucking morning. Y’all know I don’t wake up early, aka 4:30. If any of you know me at all, you would say I probably sleep more than anyone you know. So, I value my sleep. I value my sleep and made up dreams about hot tall blond haired men touching and making out with me. I value my sleep. So don’t fucking tell me I need to be ready to go at 7:30 when 7:30 really means 9. I mean, for realsy, is it really necessary to wake me up from my beauty slumber one and a half hours early? NO. FUCK. . . . Bitter.
2) Last night I was playing solitaire by myself. Lets play a game, how many things can you do by yourself to keep yourself occupied? Exercise? Done (need to do more though). Play solitaire? Done and usually lose. Sudoku? MASTERED, or at least up to the medium level. Play with myself? Yep done that and mastered that too (sorry, im being a boy, all I think about is sex, this is terrible). I can also talk to myself, sometimes it is even quite enthralling!
Mind: you need to take a shower
Hannah: I just took a shower
Mind: But you smell, like really bad
Hannah: Who cares! It's not like there is anyone here who I want to impress
Mind: I CARE, you smell and I don’t want to smell you anymore. GO SHOWER!
Hannah: NO! YOU go shower if you want to that bad
Mind: BITCH, I AM YOU so if I shower you also have to shower
Hannah: HA I win. No shower till 5
Mind: You’re such a ho.

Anyways, back to playing solitaire with myself. I am minding my own business when a little boy, I think he might be my little brother, but I don’t know all kids look the same, comes to my compound. Here’s how the conversation goes (in Bambara but the sake of you all non-Bambara folk I have translated it)
Me: Good evening
Boy: Good evening, how are you?
Me: im good, and you? Peace
Boy: Yes, peace only

. . . . . . . . long awkward pause

Me: so . . . what are you doing?
Boy: Food, are you going to eat?
Me: oh thanks, but I am full
Boy: but are you going to eat?
Me: um I’m full, I am not eating
Boy: are you doing to eat!?!?!?!
Me: . . . no
Boy: Eat, eat, nom, nom (gesturing with his hands in an eating motion) are you doing to eat?!?!?!
Me: No! I’m full! I am not eating!
Boy: . . . you don’t understand
Me: Yes I understand
Boy: no you don’t
Me: Yes I do
Boy: no
Me: yes
Boy: no!!!
Me: Ok ok, I understand, I am not going to eat, im full
Boy: you’re full?
Me: (fuck shit damn hobag) yes, I’m full
Boy: oh . . . bye!

I’m bitter. I’m a bitter terrible human being who talks to herself. I mean seriously! Im even listening to a song titled “fuck you” --- thanks Lily Allen. I love being bitter, it is so much fun!

The end.

No seriously that was the end. Yeah, not really inventive eh?