I am an Ajebutter. Not by birth, or by formings, or by swag – I am simply an unapologetic Ajebutter by default. I didn’t choose to be born one. God, without seeking my opinion (because He’s God, I guess), gave me the genes of an Ajebutter and a funny Bri-Merican accent . By luck or some twisted work of fate, fortune, Karma (I might have killed ten defenseless puppies in my past life) or destiny, I have found myself in Lagos, crazy Lasgidi, and this is my story…
Something is definitely wrong with me. That I am certain.
I have gone through life experiencing the different levels of male maturity and development.
There were days in my childhood when I experienced unparalled happiness from arching my cock high during my piss time, with the intent of achieving a fine trajectory of urine. How I loved the sick stream of water and urea that emanated from my penis, goes high in to the sky, and ultimately hit the ground, creating a beautiful sickle-shaped outline.
Then there were my teenage days when I worshipped the thought of asking a young smiling lady out. I did every time and was rejected politely. Looking back, I was just a tiny little flea with boundless energy, and rampaging hormones. I always moved around with a prodding erection, which almost always never got any attention. Almost.
I have moved past those stages, and right now, I think I’m the reincarnation of Giacomo Casanova. I have developed my ability to woo the female specie, following a strict code of human behavioural pattern, and applying it deftly with wisdom. The effects are magnificent to behold.
Simply put, I am now a bad guy. I was a sick little individual growing up, and that ailment has transferred to adulthood.
So this lifestyle has yielded many benefits which I really want to share with you, but can’t because it’s evil and flatly disrespectful to do so. Perhaps a part of me is evil. But I choose not to indulge it.
Heartbreaks come natural to me. I have been through a lot of it, and that is simply because the doors of my heart are constantly revolving. Ladies move through them, in and out with alarming speed, leaving behind many items from lessons to scars, panties to combs, just a lot of stuff. One even left a stuffed animal which hangs proudly in my bedroom.
But still I keep pushing. I meet new women every day, get phone numbers and make the calling. The chase gives me a high thrill. There’s something so refreshing and desperately exhilarating from selling yourself to a lady, and gently seducing her.
But surprisingly I discovered a new dimension to myself; I hate nude pictures.
I had been fortunate to meet a fine lady who is named Shantell. She fell hard for my wicked brand of humour, we talked for hours on end, and I worked her emotions by the book. No direct pressure, just a play with sexual innuendos and puns to get her pushing me from the friend zone into the I-want-your-lips-on-my-lips area.
So in this happy vein, I turned on my phone on Sunday, to see messages from her. It was just a bunch of flowery sentiments and one daring image. It was the image of her left breast.
It was a beautiful part of her anatomy. All fair, generous, and inviting. I believe if there ever was an anatomy-based award for left breasts, hers would be in contention for the ‘Left Breast Of The Year’.
But with all that beauty staring at me, I discovered that the image had an adverse effect on me. It flipped off the dating switch in me, and ultimately killed my interest in the woman.
Shantell’s beautiful breast (an image of it rather), have made me lose interest in her. I have fought the urge to not pick her calls since then, but I feel it within. Her fire in my heart has burned out. Killed by her boobs.
Something is wrong with me. Many guys dream of getting nudes from women. They even go lengths to solicit for it, but I got one, and I am done.
Shantell’s breast are legendary, but I hold no desire to be a part of its rich history. Call me stupid and dumb, you might be right. Call me a dulling guy, and you won’t be off the mark. I myself am alarmed by the effect the image had on me.
But I won’t fight it. Perhaps it’s a sign. Quit womanising, quit breaking hearts. Quit this life.
See you next Tuesday. Peace and good hustle.