Down With Expectations — Including Facebooks Expectation that I will Go Away Quietly

A hard but important lesson on sex:

This morning during an intimate experience with a partner we both managed to trigger one another.

I gave him sensual touch which I felt like giving, but once I had had enough I stopped.

My partner was triggered as enjoying the experience he had expected my touch was leading to intercourse / orgasm.

Being tantric he expressed that he was feeling triggered and needed a way to release the anger he now felt in his body from lack of release…. cue my trigger.

I was furious. ‘How RIDICULOUS’ I shouted to him. How dare you have expectations.

We sat down and talked and it became clear. Pornography and male standards had led my partner to having the belief that sexual touch from a woman will, and SHOULD lead somewhere.

Now in tears I explained how this expectation had lead to me having unwanted sex in my past, more times than I can say.

You see men and women are trapped in this vicious cycle TOGETHER. Young BOYS and MEN are continuing to receive information from society and the media that sexual expectations of women are standard.

Meanwhile WOMEN have not been told that they are FREE from expectations. That their body is THEIR OWN. That any sexual touch they choose to give STOPS when they want it to stop. That it’s OKAY to change your mind DURING sexual interaction / intercourse. Women have not been made aware OR made to feel safe to SPEAK THEIR TRUTH.

Imagine this, you’re a man having sex and suddenly your dick goes soft — for whatever reason. What happens now? The sexual intercourse stops, you cannot continue.

Well if a woman’s vagina turns ‘off’ — for whatever reason there is no GATE that suddenly closes and shoves the penis / fingers / tongue (you get my point) out. There are NO gates in a woman, there are only her WORDS.

Once I explained this to my partner he was speechless. He thanked me so much for teaching him this and promised to teach the men in his life this vital lesson. I walked downstairs grabbed my iPad and typed this.

Now it’s your turn. Spread this message men AND women together need to create a new sex culture. And I ain’t fucking stopping till we get there.

How have you experienced expectations in sexuality?

Artist unknown — please comment if you do ❣

This was posted posted onto facebook the morning of November 4th 2019. By nighttime it had reached 12 000 people I was flooded with private messages from MEN and WOMEN about how this issue had touched them, reminding them of their own painful experiences of engaging in sexual experiences that were NOT a full YES from their yoni / lingum.

Without notification, email, any form of contact my post was deleted the next morning.

Facebooks filtration of vital content perpetuates a world were men and women are refused the basic human right to sex education that can literally transform the way we relate and can even REDUCE even sex violence.

Creating a change for sex culture will be harder without major platforms like Facebook, but that ain’t gonna fucking stop me.

And to YOU: comment below on how you feel about my original post, about deleted content, and please if this resonates SHARE IT!


More and more often these days I am meeting women who tell me that it’s easier for them to connect with men than women:

‘Women are bitchy.’
‘Women are judgemental.’
‘Women are so deceiving.’

Oh boy, does it hurt me to hear these things.

You see, it isn’t this way for me. I am, well as a cis person, I’m kind of a womaniser.

I’ve been surrounded by women my entire life. I was raised by a single mother and her many clucky, mostly Irish, nurse friends — ‘Oh you wee pet!’

I grew up alongside my two female Australian cousins — playing naked barbies.

In primary school, my girlfriends and I put ourselves in charge of telling off the boys for looking up girls skirts.

Entering high school my girlfriends and I entered puberty together and had daily discussions about how best to kiss with the mouth open and if putting a tampon in mean you’ve lost your virginity.

Girlfriends from uni, girlfriends from travel, cafe jobs, girlfriends of girlfriends, girlfriends of boyfriends…even dancefloor girlfriends. It just keeps expanding!

I seem to have a natural talent for befriending women and further to that I have a talent for connecting them together.

The more women I connected with around the world, the more I realised I couldn’t possibly see them on a regular basis so instead I started to link them with one another. Now today many of my girlfriends have formed strong and long lasting bonds.

And that’s okay with me. In fact, it’s wonderful! I am not jealous — I am happy that the global sisterhood has extended and is strengthened through their connections.

So here inside my big, harmonious, bubble of women it never even occurred to me that some women out there find it hard to connect with other women.

I got to thinking — Where has this come from? I mean, if we go way back when, in ancient times, there was the Matriarchy. There was the Red Tent where on the new moon women congregated together to bleed, support and share stories. Women danced beneath the full moon, held ceremonies, helped each other give birth — they were magical; they were fucking witchy sisters.

But then somewhere along the line the Patriarchy started to rise forth, and what was the best way to break the strong ties of women? Turn them against each other. Burn the witches and threaten — unless you surrender a witch to us, you’ll burn.
Women were cornered into turning against each other. If you outed a witch sister, you were a bitch, if you didn’t, you paid the price.

Okay, okay, I realise I may have lost some of you there but I’m serious. This really resonates with me. I simply DO NOT believe that backstabbing, dishonesty, fear, betrayal, jealousy and catty behaviour is at the core of who women are. It’s a result of years of distrust, disconnection and isolation.

Today, many of us are disconnected from the females around us, even the ones who gave birth to us, or the ones who gave birth to them. I know I would certainly feel uncomfortable having a conversation about menstruation with my grandmother, let alone my sexuality.

For many it really feels like the Sisterhood has been lost.

And so I believe it is my mission to help resurrect the Sisterhood and have started holding women’s circles on the road and online.

The women who tell me that they cannot connect with other women, who then join me in a women’s circle, feel the feminine energy, feel what it’s like to be heard, feel the womb love. That’s when the sisterhood healing begins and their usually ain’t a dry eye in the circle (bless the ability to feel true emotion with your TEARS!)

Sisterhood comes first. We are meant to tell each other face-to-face the things that have been whispered behind backs and feel safe in doing so: ‘You let me down when you….’ ‘I’m jealous of your job.’ ‘I feel intimidated around you.’ I get the feeling you really don’t like me, is this true?’ ‘I’ve been connecting with your ex-boyfriend and I just wanted to check with you if it’s okay that I pursue the connection?’

I have seen these conversations happen. I have started these conversations. These conversations have been started with me! And no, I didn’t mind that the girl started hooking up with my ex, I was just fucking delighted that she had asked!

Yes, it is confronting, unusual, a new way of communicating with sisters — but actually, it’s an ancient, witchy way of communicating. And it’s fucking magical.

Women’s circles are an ancient ritual to connect sisters of all ages, to share stories of womanhood, to be witnessed, to be gifted true presence — no advice. To be mirrored and met, 100% in whatever shape you come.

Click here to join a circle

Thank you to Margo and Cim ek for this beautiful photo journey

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Hard Core Soil Porn

Deeper, deeper into the darkness

Stronger, growing to the light

More deeply rooted in the darkness

Opening wider to the light

Like the tree grounded in the soil

Reaching with its branches higher, higher up

How many times did I touch the dead-end?

Close observation leads me to the conclusion that all life comes from the destruction, and without destruction, there is no life.

Let’s take the hummus – black soil — as an example. What else is soil, or so called Mother Earth, giving birth to all life, if not a product of the decomposition of something else, that existed before?

Annihilation and transformation of life into matter…

In nature everything is eating one another…Constantly.

There is nothing stable, and balance is simply an equilibrium between eating and being eaten. Being born, giving birth and returning to the earth.

Soil represents the entire natural world.

So, given the example, I am not so sure where to place all the good intentions…

It may or may not sound very Buddhist to you, but without death, there is no life.

Without soil there is no life.

I am the soil. Maybe not quite yet, but I am sure, quite soon I will be.

I am the water. The air. The temperature. The Fire.


Earth is soulful.

“When we walk, we are aware that the Earth is holding our steps. But Mother Earth is not just below us, under our feet, Mother Earth is inside of us. To think that Mother Earth is only environment outside of us, around us, is wrong. Mother Earth is inside of us. We don’t need to die to go back to Mother Earth. We are already in Mother Earth. That is why we have to learn how to take refuge in her.”

Thich Nhat Hanh

I take refuge in the bacteria that live in the soil and live inside my gut because I know that without destruction and decomposition, without transformation, there is no life.

Soil always brings me back to whatever is.

You can take all your good intentions, all your forgiveness, rightfulness and all your cleaning detergents, but they will not help you, because without destruction, there is no life.

The hell with good intentions!

Soil IS DIRTY. Soil is dirt. And I like it this way. My pussy is just the same way. Dirty giver to the life.

I am part of it. And I can’t ever be apart. I am human child, humble, hummus.

Soil gives me a better chance than your clean Gods, therefore I am, and my body is, speaking only for the soil. I don’t want anything else, do not show me the greater Path. Do not preach to me about change other than the one I can observe in my aging body and in my nearest environment – the soil that is always just below, like a gentle reminder about my final destination.

How many times do you touch the soil?

Body we can kiss, hug, touch and admire, but we can not touch the Soul, unless we slow down and close our eyes. Soil is the outer landscape, and Soul, the inner landscape.

What we do to soil we do in fact to ourselves.

Kali, be with us.

Violence,destruction, receive our homage.

Help us to bring darkness into the light,

To lift out the pain, the anger,

Where it can be seen for what it is-

The balance -wheel for our vulnerable, aching love.

Put the wild hunger where it belongs,

Within the act of creation,

Crude power that forges a balance

Between hate and love.

Help us to be the always hopeful,

Gardeners of the spirit

Who know that without darkness

Nothing comes to birth

As without light

Nothing flowers.

Bear the roots in mind,

You, the dark one, Kali Ma.

Hard Core Soil Porn is a collaboration captured by the amazing Cim Ek, lived and written by Margo and shared by me.

Margo was going through an extremely challenging time and instead of hiding herself away in her pain she decided to have her pain captured with Cim’s gentle lense and write about the process.

Her ability to dive daringly into the depths of her shadows was inspirational. Her ability to turn it into a work of art is pure beauty. Thank you Margo for letting me share your words so that all women may see that even pain is beauty and needs not to be hidden away. Let our fertile soil continue to bear truth in this world.

Have you given space for your pain and shadows lately? Would you do as Margo did and capture it through image and words?

Get in contact with me if you feel a calling, or share your story for all to see in the comments below.

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Love, Lust and Desire

I believe that the universe places certain people on our path at certain times to gift us lessons to learn from.

With women I learn these lessons easily. Mumma Africa, an environmental warrior, came onto my path when I was ready to learn about how I might make sustainable changes in my lifestyle. My mentor, Caroline, came onto my path in the last months of my degree and challenged me to think about how I would step into a career and keep my outer passions alive. Zimbabawia came onto my path, and onto this journey, so that I have always had someone deeply grounded to help plant my feet on the ground when I lifted off.

But when the universe has placed certain men on my path, these lessons have often become tangled up and lost in my deep desire to find my ‘one’, my mate.

I was doing it again, I’d found something shiny and beautiful in the universe from which there was a lesson to be learnt and instead I was trying to turn it into my love story.

North Star and I have been at Boom’s Alchemy Circle stage for hours, shaking our tooshies and lapping up the energy from the Boom crowd.

The music suddenly ends and we look up at the decks to see the next DJ take over, but no one arrives and everyone starts leaving the dancefloor entirely unfazed.

‘What the shit is happening?’ I ask a volunteer, who’s busy collecting abandoned items from the dancefloor.

He explains that this stage has a break during the hottest part of the day so that people will rest, drink some water and swim. Pretty much so people don’t cook themselves.

Fucking genius. The amount of times I’ve been at Australian festivals and simply not left the dancefloor because of FOMO… well, I can’t even count. My friends and I usually take turns going back to camp for supplies and along the way always spot a couple of humans being carried away from the stage — unconscious — because, well, they’ve literally over cooked it.

Accepting this new reality, we are about to walk away when I spot a curious looking fellow stumbling about the deserted dance floor. He’s as pale as snow, dressed in a floral shirt which he’s tucked into bright orange shorts, and is donning a wicker sun hat that flops over big blue glasses. Is this man a cartoon character?

His devastated face tells me that he too is baffled. ‘Don’t worry the music will be back in a few hours! They’re trying to stop us from cookin’ ourselves,’ I shout and start making my way towards him.

‘But I want to danceeeeeee!’ he blurts out in the most hilarious accent.

‘Where are you from?’ I quiz.

‘Brazil,’ he replies while handing me a silver plate he finds on top of the sandy floor.

‘Gee, for me? Thanks! Well then, Brazil, come with us and we’ll find some more dancing.’

I didn’t know then that this would be my most brilliantly intuitive invitation of the whole festival. Brazil was literally a cartoon character.

He had North Star and I stumbling around and wetting ourselves with laughter for hours. I asked what he was on?


WOW. This is a straight up human — to the maximum.

We simply needed him in our crew. Or was it that I simply needed him in our crew? I noticed the all too familiar lust trickling through my system again. I invited him to join us for the night, already too attached to let him go.

On my walk to camp for my evening outfit change, I pondered — Am I doing it again? Am I falling into a man?

At nine-thirty I stood upon the dancefloor podium and strained my eyes for a floral shirt and blue glasses. Then through the techno beat came his unmatched voice shouting:

‘Ohhh my gawddddd — it’s party time!’

Elated I leapt onto his back and he piggybacked me all the way to the crew. They cheered at his return.

From that evening on we would meet Brazil everyday. On the dancefloor, at Funky Beach, at our campsite. He never changed his quirky outfit making him easy to spot. Everyday he would have our whole crew in stitches with his raucous behaviour — screaming ‘the crewww’ intermittently and whipping off his shorts and helicoptering them in the air.

Everyone loved the guy. And I mean everyone. I would watch strangers approach him for a high five and ask, ‘What are you on man?’ then I’d laugh when they gawked at his reply, ‘Nothing!’

I too felt like I was falling in love with him. I’d never met someone so absolutely themselves, so unaffected by the gaze of those upon him. While he was giving free piggy-back rides to strangers I told North Star – ‘I think I’m in love with Brazil.’ What!? she laughed, ‘You’re joking right?’

But I was not joking, I was deep in the desire that this could be my mate.

With this resolution of love in my mind I changed my behaviour from that of a new friend to a flirtatious admirer. He felt this change and soon we kissed. It was sloppy and rushed but this didn’t change my mind. We went back to my campsite and had quick, heartless sex, but this still didn’t change my mind. Everything was telling me that this was not going to be my love, but I ignored all these potential lessons to better fit my narrative — the best was ahead of us.

By the time the final day came North Star and I danced in an utterly twisted state beneath the lunar eclipse and I felt a deep sense of peace. I was in love with Brazil and we would probably end up travelling in our own van together around Europe.

It wasn’t until after the festival, when I met up with Brazil and his French friends in Lisbon, and saw him kissing a French girl that I realised he wasn’t my love story. And I was devastated.

I didn’t understand it. And I certainly didn’t yet understand my lesson.

Do you?

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Lover Nature

The sexuality of nature.

The tangible memory of fucking in nature stays with you long after. Your arousal at the risk of getting caught, your vulnerability in the borderless outdoors.

It’s a newly discovered kind of sexuality to be naked outside like the thrill of skinny dipping for the first time — rule breaking, body liberating, addictive.

It’s the surface upon which you fuck; soft sand that gives way to the curves of your body, the bark of a tree that scratches pleasingly against your back as you are thrust deeply, the sound of lapping water that synchronises with the sound of your moist sex.

But is it more primal than this?

Could it be possible that in these moments nature herself is playing a part in arousing us, secretly loving to be involved in our sexual adventures? Like a voyeur, giving in to temptation when it becomes too much.

If this is the case then I wonder, if I let her, would nature have her own way with me?

Cim encourages me to walk towards any spot that I feel drawn to.

Cim is a Swedish photographer who empowers and liberates women with the lens of her camera. Her latest project, ‘Body Love’, explores and honours the female body in all its beauty.

Naked, I obey her request and begin to follow my internal compass. I feel my bare feet sink into the forest floor, the fresh smell of moss being released with every curious step. A gentle wind tickles the parts of my body normally kept from public view as I allow myself to be drawn forwards. Through the birch trees I see a shower of light streaming down upon a large rock — my throne.

I mount my throne like a wild pixie and Cim lets out an excited gasp, encouraging me to proceed as though she wasn’t there, as though I was entirely alone, in my own world.

As the wandering pixie I stand tall and present myself to the sun shower. Arching the back of my neck I begin to bathe — allowing my skin to be kissed by the rays. I feel the heat intensify as though the sun is pleased by my surrender — my nipples harden.

I dismount and kneel down to wrap myself around my throne absorbing its beautiful textures of moss, leaves and coarse, cold stone. My breath quickens as my senses start to salivate and I feel my buttocks clench — how to bring my yoni closer?

My mind has left me and my body is taking over. I fall back into the moss and am held by a bed of foliage. I pick up a cone, it’s lingam appearance makes my yoni instantly pulsate. Yielding it I dreamily caress my breasts, my navel, down to my own foliage.

Cim squeals, unable to contain her excitement — we are enchanted and barely speak a word as I drift dreamily through the forest following my compass once more. As I edge the forest a field of lupine call my name — their alluring perfume, vibrant purple petals, and tall proud stalks make me smirk — Nature you are a show off.

This time I need no encouragement, I am intoxicated with nature’s sexuality and immediately present my arse to a lupin, grinding up along its firm stalk. I pluck one from the earth and begin to caress my wanting skin — the soft texture like a tender lover.

By the time we wrap up the shoot Cim is ecstatic and I am riding what seriously feels like a post coital high — I am beaming from ear to ear, my skin is flushed pink and a deep sensation of relaxation washes over me.

I hadn’t intended or imagined that my naked nature shoot would become erotosicm, or that I would be so aroused by Mother Nature. Yet it felt so natural.

Nature is a sexual being. Flowers are the sexual organs displaying themselves to the bee so that they will be pollinated and continue their existence. The wind is the unpredictable passion that awakens us to our wanting. Moss is the bed for the forest to mate upon. The sun is the dominant master, who we all depend upon. Water is wet flowing nectar that signals surrender.

I don’t need a lover, a camera, a cause or the thrill of being caught to enjoy nature in its sexual form. Nature is a sexual being and we should let her enjoy us just as much as we enjoy her.

When I die I will decompose and become a part of nature, maybe she is always calling me home. I am under no illusion that right now in this humanly body I am not also a part of nature. I am. Maybe I don’t want to call her Mother Nature anymore. After all, I wouldn’t do the things I’ve been thinking about doing with nature, with my Mum.

Images by the power house woman herself, Cim Ek

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Chicks before dicks. Sisters before misters. Breasticles before testicles. Whichever one you choose the message is the clear — one doesn’t ditch their mates in order to get their pussy wet.

If you have read my tales you may have noticed that during festivals, or life in general, I don’t exactly follow this ethic. When I set my eyes upon a man, I fall completely into his world.

I’ve never questioned this falling and nor have my friends, they’ve always allowed me to just be me. So when we arrive to BOOM festival and I quickly slip into a new man’s world I don’t think anything of it…until I do.

It’s our first night at the big arsed BOOM in Portugal; my African world swapped for a European Psytrance festival. Dancing by my side in this sea of colourful humans are Zimbabwia, North Star and Wally, three of my dearest girlfriends. Joining us are ten other brand new best friends.

Festivals are like that. Good cunts know good cunts so relationships happen on fast forward. Despite the 30 000 people at this festival, it feels like we have the tightest crew going around.

Forming a human chain we make our way to the Chill Out stage. Upon arrival we copy the other dancers and remove our shoes and as I bend down to undo mine I tune into my heart — it’s pounding. I’m filled with the electricity of all these happy humans who’ve travelled far and wide to be together for the same thing: love, unity, freedom, music.

This electricity fills me up like a helium balloon, and when I sprinkle substances into the mix I allow myself to lift off and float up into la-la land.

I’m flying high on the dancefloor when I spot him — a beautiful Desert Man. I slither my way beside him — prowler mode activated. He has skin like Zimbabwia’s something that belongs to desert lands. His hair sways by his shoulders and a scarf wraps effortlessly around his head. The bare chest and Aladdin jacket tip me over the edge. What a babe. Without having spoken a word, I know this man is Israeli.

My tunnel vision is on and he senses my hungry gaze. As though born listening to these dreamy desert beats, he spins effortlessly to face me.

The girls and I had discussed having an early first night, but they are all too familiar with ‘the look’ I get when I’m consumed by a man and so whisper in my ear ‘Goodnightttt. Have fun!’

Once they leave I feel glad that they have gone and can now drown myself in this beautiful being. The music ups in tempo and Desert Man and I begin weaving together like two serpents dancing to a flute. I’ve never danced so spiritually with a man. I can feel the vibrations between us: my fingertips spark every time I brush against his body.

Once the set has ended, I begin to wonder what will happen next? Desert Man seems to hear my thoughts and asks:

‘Want to come and see something cool?’

‘Hell yeah!’ I beam without hesitation.

He takes me by the hand and leads me to the colossal main stage — The Dance Temple — which is closed off and still under construction. Peeking through the barriers I discover its true magnitude and grandeur, I’ve never seen anything like it — an Ottoman Mosque on acid. Holding up the geometric shade cloths are rows of giant columns decorated in vibrational patterns of colour, light and energy. When this place opens it will be big enough for a psytrance army.

Why on earth has he brought me here? Again reading my thoughts he smiles at me as we breeze past the security guard and behind the barrier.

Moving as though invisible amongst the frantic people attending to finishing touches, we find our way onto the main stage. I become intrigued about my guide’s forwardness and familiarity with this epic project.

It turns out the stage artist is Israeli and Desert Man knows him well, as he himself constructs art for midburn (Israeli burning man). I’m dead.

I need no persuading when he asks me back to his all Israeli camp site. I fucking love Israelis. My new friends welcome me into their world and I notice how at ease I am, how comfortable; how light friendship is. I’m having such a good time that when Desert Man asks me to come hang by the lake, I feel vaguely disappointed to leave.

The lakeside seems to be a designated lovers hangout. On either side of us I can hear couples meeting in various ways, a moan to my left, whispering to my right — are those balls slapping or lake waves? I’m aware that Desert Man and I will soon join the chorus.

He kisses me and we start to twirl together on the grass. Although a tender lover, the weight of his big heavy body makes me feel like a little fairy.

As he undresses me, the warm night air brushes my naked back. I straddle him, my hands exploring his strong, carpenters body. He spreads my legs apart and pleasures me with his hands. My moans encourage him and he makes his way down on me. I’m lost in lust when he swivels his torso around. As I take his penis in my hand I notice how different it feels with no foreskin to fondle.

‘I have condoms,’ he says, as he pulls me back up to face him.

Once he’s wrapped up he pushes himself deep inside me.

When we finish he invites me to stay the night. This is nice and I say yes.

Morning comes and with sleep still in our eyes we enjoy sweaty tent sex. Greeting us as we climb gingerly from the tent are his entire crew, inviting me to share some lunch. But something inside prevents me — ‘No sorry, I’d better get back to my crew’.

I skip home feeling grateful for a sexy night with a yummy man, I can’t wait to tell the girls. Just as I reach the campsite Wally calls out:

‘There you bloody are! We’re about to go!’

I spot North Star by our tent and her face lights up as she turns to see me. I can see in her eyes how excited she is. Excited, because not seeing me was in fact a real possibility.

Her unconditional love and acceptance of who I am, what I do, smacks me in the face. I almost missed spending the day with my friends because of my pattern to be so instantly absorbed in someone else’s world.

‘Well go on, wet wipe your ass and get ready! The Dance Temple is about to open!’ shouts Wally again, snapping me back to my beautiful reality, my world full of beautiful friends who are right here waiting for me to fall into them.

North Star jumps into the tent with me to help me get ready. As she hands me a fresh pair of underwear I swear to myself that the rest of this festival will be dedicated to my friends and if a man wants to join me, he’ll have to join my world.

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Image taken from Boom Offical — see you in 2020!

Hairy Pits Take Europe

So apparently I’m a hippie now. I have a weird haircut, I wear random clothes, I travel for a lifestyle but most notably, I no longer tame my body hair. I didn’t used to look like this, I waxed my underarms, shaved my legs, and scheduled my monthly Brazilian appointments. I loathed the cost, effort and pain of hair removal, but I did it because ‘that’s what women do’ and… what man will want to eat out a hairy vagina?

This bohemien change occurred in the desert where I released my wild woman — in many ways. The most visible way being my body hair.

In the desert my waxed pits were the odd ones out; practically all the female volunteers were rocking their natural foliage. Never before had I wished for my pits to hurry up and grow back. Once they eventually filled out I felt a sense of pride raising my arms alongside my desert sisters.

When the desert time came to an end and we were heading to Namibia, I intended to remove the hair but Zimbabawia, Mumma Africa and Impy persuaded me not too.

‘It looks great! Al natural gal.’

And so I was convinced to keep my natural hairs even in the ‘real world’. I didn’t think much about it until my road trip with the Namibia boys. Being in their handsome presence I felt the blush of self-consciousness come over me. Still seeking further reassurance I decided to ask Lekker Boy and Mumma Lover what they thought of my pit-Afro.

‘It’s great! That’s your true self.’

‘You totally rock it!’

Although it pains me to say, the validation of two men over my three female friends made it so much easier to accept my hairy new look and believe others would accept it too.

What the fuck had society done to my brain?

So, I did it — I embraced my natural hairs. While we drove down the desert roads of Namibia I let my them flap gracefully in the wind. As I danced to Afrobeats in Rwanda I threw my arms in the air without hesitation. When I became intimate with Honey he lovingly stroked my hairy pits as though they were the most natural thing in the world — which they were.

Now, seven weeks later, I have become used to this new furry version of myself. I find myself tenderly fondling the thick, black bush of my pits and vag.

Reunited with Mumma Africa, our departure date creeps up on us and I feel that same insecurity resurface — I don’t know if I can face taking my natural hairs on a plane destined for Europe.

Why is Europe any different than Africa you ask?

Europe is where I’m meeting a bunch of non-hairy friends. Europe is where fashion becomes important again. Europe is where the German lives — and I know beyond a doubt that he won’t like my pitAfro.

Tormented by these social pressures I turn to Mumma Africa and Zimbabwia for help and we decide to do a little research…

We find out that in the 1920s there was as a dramatic change in women’s fashion. Dresses became shorter and tighter, sleeves were removed — the body was the new biggest statement. So with all these limbs on show some scheming advertisers from the men’s hair removal industry began to target women’s hair and their self-esteem

Advertisements featuring joyous women in slick summer dresses with hairless underarms began popping up in women’s magazines. These advertisements promoted hair removal products that dealt with ‘unclean’ hairs and promoted ‘female loveliness’.

Hold on a minute — unclean? Women were bombarded with a message that the natural hairs they’d always known were now suddenly unclean, unsightly and unfeminine.

So clearly I’d been unknowingly programed so to speak. But this discovery did prompt me to have the invaluable realisation — once upon a time, not so long ago, all women were hairy, and none of them knew and felt any damn different.

Keeping my natural hairs is not me making a grand hippy gesture — it’s me just like my fellow al-natural sisters from the 1920s!

So no thank you Mr Gillette!

Empowered by a vision of hairy women of the past and the support of the women in my present, I throw my unused wax and razor away, then continue packing. Tomorrow we wave goodbye to Mumma Africa and Mount Kilimanjaro and board a flight to Portugal — my pitAfro can hardly wait to arrive.

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Before setting out on this journey I was in a state of doing, a state of achieving: complete two years of career work so you look stable on your resume, save up enough money to go away, and try to find a man to nourish your sexual and emotional desires while working.

I’d discuss my trip with friends. Where are you going? What are you wanting from this trip? When will you come home? I never had the answer to these questions, just felt this trip was going to mean something, something big.

When I asked for a year of leave, I knew it was pointless. I knew I wouldn’t be back, yet couldn’t bring myself to relinquish the security of a job. When I sublet my room it was the same. I told the renter she could stay for one year when deep inside I knew I wouldn’t be coming home to my quaint St Kilda apartment in one year, or ever again.

As I waved goodbye to my dear mum and boarded the plane, a tiny voice inside me whispered:

You won’t be coming back to this life.

Thirty hours later, I walked out of the Zanzibar airport. I had done it. I had closed the door on my past and my present had arrived. At this point, I could only imagine what this trip would reveal; all the adventure I’d been craving.

While snorkeling off Nungwi in Zanzibar we met a guy who had been travelling for five years. I mentioned we planned to be in Africa for seven months and he laughed.

‘Seven months?! But you won’t see anything!’ smiled the Nomad.

Something about his snail’s pace attitude called to me, and yet was so far from me, from what I was doing now. How can one travel for five years? I started to wonder.

Four months later at AfrikaBurn I had my opening where something deep in my core had been shaken. I could feel the beating of wings, trapped beneath my skin. The beating was growing louder — asking to be freed. I knew this was a message that wouldn’t be ignored.

With this feeling still aching inside and the words of the nomad echoing in the mind, Zimbabwia and I started to plot how we could become our own Nomads. One afternoon whilst plotting how to extend the length of this trip, we received a text message. A friend of ours, Jerome was dead, murdered in gang violence.

Jerome was a member of our Afrikaburn family. He was one of the first coloured* people to work for DPW. During our weeks in the desert he was a larger than life legend, whose energy was infectious.

I knew only the beautiful surface of Jerome, nevertheless felt the startling impact of his death. The desert changed Jerome, just like it did me. Our eyes were opened to the possibilities of non-judgemental, non-racist, non-elitist, non-sexist, utter freedom that life could be.

Death, they say is one of our greatest teachers of the fragility and impermanence of life. The death of a person who I’d so recently connected with, was the last gentle push towards surrendering to the potential of this journey.

I no longer view this journey as a trip, but as my life. I want to learn in this life by being IN it. I want to acquire more skills than a degree can teach me. I want to open myself to the opportunities life puts on my path because I’m not stuck to a plan. I want to allow myself to be guided by the universe.

I don’t want to wait. Life is literally, too short.

Jerome, I’m so sorry you had to be the lesson. But somehow I think you enjoy looking down and seeing the mark you’ve made on us. When we look to the sky we know there’s a new star shining down.

Your life, as much as your death, has made that whispering voice a whole lot louder. I can’t ignore it now. I’m not going back to that life.

After Zimbabwia and I cried looking up at your star, I took out my iPad and wrote my resignation.

As soon as I pressed the send button, I felt the skin on my back stretching open as my wings of freedom burst free.

Coloured – In South Africa ‘Coloured’ or ‘Cape Coloureds’ are an ethnic group composed of persons primarily of mixed race. At first this term shocked and offended me however I soon learned that coloured people like Jerome took no offence to the name and used it to proudly define themselves.

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The Challenges of African Dancing: Part 2 — The Challenges of Lovers

Lovers — I can’t seem to get the idea out of my mind. I want to be a lover, I want to have a lover.

But lovers aren’t necessarily singular. Take Zimbabwia, we’ve been to six countries now and she’s had a lover in five (go girl). So if I’m going to learn to be a lover, I need to learn how to love, and how to let go.

And yet, just writing that fills me with hesitation. I haven’t managed to find myself a lover on this trip, how can I possibly let him go when I find him?

I wake with that unfriendly yet familiar feeling — a hangover. I’m getting too old for hangovers. I roll over to check my phone and there blissfully waits a message from Honey! My nauseated feeling is instantly replaced with delicious flashbacks of last night’s Afrobeat base, of my booty (non-suggestively) grinding up against Honey, and the kiss… my tummy swoons with butterflies as I relive our tongues intangling.

Some replies back and forth and we arrange to meet up that evening when he and Lips have the keys to their new house.

Telling Zimbabwia the plan, we instantly realise our dilemma.

‘Shit. We can’t possibly be our usual free selves when we have a CouchSurfer Mum to go home to.’

For those of you who have couch surfed before, you will understand that sometimes — depending on the country, the culture, and the vibe of your host — you are obligated to show a certain amount of courtesy. Going out for a one-night-stand isn’t always considered courteous.

After much debate, and a little bit of embarrassment, Zimbabwia and I determine that our best option, for total freedom, is to leave Mimmy’s and ask Honey and Lips if we can stay at theirs.

‘Hey Honey, so about tonight. I know you’re just moving into your place and you don’t even have your own furniture yet. But we’re in a bit of an awkward spot and well… Could we kind of move in too… Like bring our entire lives in the form of backpacks with us? This doesn’t mean we have to have sex…’ I awkwardly stutter through the phone.

‘Yeah sure, that’s sweet,’ replies an unfalteringly sweet Honey.

And so, that is how Zimbabwia and I move in on our first date. HAHAHA.

No seriously. This story still makes me cackle while writing it. But this is just the typical ‘living in the moment’, outrageous shit that happens when you travel — I bloody love it.

With our packs on our backs we jump onto a pikipiki (motorbike taxi), wave goodbye to the lovely Mimmy, and cruise down to our new home. Little do we know that we are about to have two entirely different experiences.

Honey is already home and welcomes us by showing us around the completely naked house. Without even a cup for the wine we’ve brought we sit together on the balmy porch sipping from the bottle of red, waiting for Lips to arrive.

Lips, we learn, is a tailor at the Kimironko Market and often stays out late fulfilling orders for his many wazungu* clients.

The bottle of wine is long finished when he finally arrives. We sit together for a while and then wish each other goodnight — Zimbabawia and I’s eyes meet and we barely contain our laughter as we head into our ‘boyfriend’s’ bedrooms.

‘Have fun!’

Finally! With the door closed, Honey and I alone for the first time. As we sit down on his bed I feel utterly nervous, I really like this guy! But just like his dancing, he starts off tender and slowww.

He leans in to kiss me and I feel sparks of electricity shoot from my lips. We makeout for so long that waves of pleasure pulsate from my mouth through every fibre of my being.

Our possessed hands begin to roam freely, exploring each other’s bodies. Delicately he removes my top and brushes his hands over my underarm foliage — my skin erupts in goosebumps. I raise my hands to caress his beautiful natural dreads. He removes his top and I respond by pressing my chest against his gorgeous caramel skin, our bodies feel like they fit together perfectly.

He is a tender, gentle lover — looking me in the eyes, putting a condom on without me needing to ask, entering me slowly, with gratitude. My vagina senses Honey’s purity and fully opens to welcome his penis. I don’t need to angle my cervix or position him — we just glide.

A sensuously long time later, utterly spent, we collapse into each other’s arms and drift off into a lovers’ coma.

When I awaken Honey has already gotten up and bought us breakfast ingredients — and utensils to cook them. I’m seriously swooning so hard over him while he makes breakfast that when Zimbabwia appears, I laugh.

I forgot you were here!

One look at her and I register that her night wasn’t as luxurious as mine. We head out for the day leaving Honey to organise the house. Once we’re out the gate I turn to Zimbabawia and the gossip begins.

‘I’m a lover not a fucker!’ Groans Zimbabwia, who’s now slouched on the couch of the very impressive Inzora Cafe we’ve found. I sip on my smoothie through a bamboo straw (yes Inzora!) and listen to the tale of Zimbabwia’s evening.

It turns out Lips was the opposite of Honey. He wanted to FUCK all night and when Zimbabawia finally got to sleep he woke her up at 5am so she would let him out of the front gate. This resulted in her having approximately 45 minutes of sleep.

In the days that follow, Zimbabwia and I entertain ourselves throughout the day and in the evenings head back to our home and our housemates for dinner. I practically count the hours until I can see Honey again. I’m becoming addicted to his nectar.

Each day I find myself unveiling another affectionate flower, which has never before been watered. I’m not ashamed to show my heart in the form of kisses, hugs, making the bed, and bringing home treats.

Honey doesn’t push me back or make me feel over the top, or too obsessed. We’re just living in the now — because soon I will be gone.

Every night we make love, and every night my body yearns more deeply for his touch, his breath, our mingled sweat in the humid nights. I love touching my fingers on his scars and asking questions about his life.

With every day that passes I begin reflecting on my past romances. I have never acted this way before because I was never able — I was shamed for my openheartednes and made to swallow my affection.

Ten days later our Rwandan journey was coming to an end, and I started to feel confused. Is it possible to have this much loving with someone, this much of a connection and just leave it at that? Isn’t that a waste.

The mind began to take over and was plotting stories of how to make this work.

I could move to Rwanda!

Our last night comes around all too quickly and to comisterate / celebrate our departure Bitches, Bangles (our Israeli friend who we met in Malawi), Zimbabawia, Honey, Lips, and I all head back to Cocobean. Zimbabwia and I are rocking some seriously cool new threads* that Lips has been busy sewing all week and I am ready to shake my ass.

Honey and I melt together on the dance floor and Bitches boy is making us all wet ourselves with laughter sassing his booty around in our dance circle.

The lights and the music are pounding and I realise that my head is spinning. I ask honey to come outside with me for a bit and he escorts me next to the pool. We’re mid kiss when he pulls away and looks at me slyly.

‘Do you remember what you said the last time you were here?’

‘Oh shit. Yep. Hold on. Take this’.

Handing Honey my camera and shoes I stand up onto a chair and launch myself into the swimming pool. As my head resurfaces I hear a roar of applause, laughter, and some angry security men screaming at me to;

‘Get out!’

Soaping wet, I climb out and wave my arm in victory to the disbelieving crowd. A security guard takes my arm and escorts me towards the exit. Behind me Zimbabwia, Bangles, and Bitches mouths are all agape.

‘I guess we’ll see you later!’ They cackle.

Honey walks up next to me, holding my possessions. He smirks and says nothing.

From Honey I learnt how to African dance. How to love. How to be loved. And most importantly, I learnt how to let a lover go. I can tell you, it wasn’t easy, I asked Zimbabwia numerous times why moving to Rwanda wasn’t a good idea, until finally I had my own realisation. To ‘live in the moment’ also means that you sometimes have to leave that moment, where you found it.

So to you Honey. Thank you for tasting so sweet, and getting me addicted to the nectar of a lover.

*Wazungu: people who wander or in the case of Africa it is the common name for foreigners

*Threads: clothes.
Lips is an amazing Rwandan fashion designer who works his ass off to create unique colourfully explosive clothes, which combine western fashion with the beautiful African fabric
If you need an injection of colour and culture in your wardrobe then this legend at Kimironko Market Kigali OR head to his website.

What are your experiences with Lovers? Are you a Zimbabawia, you have multiple? Or are you learning to leave the moment where you found it like me? Comment below!

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The Challenges of African Dancing

When I travelled to India it was the imbalance between men and women challenged me.

When I lived in Sweden it was the conservative nature of the people that challenged me.

This is what I love about travelling. I love my perception of ‘normal’ to be challenged, to have my boundaries pushed and continue to grow.

I’ve been wondering what challenges me the most about African countries… I think I’ve decided that in Africa, it is the dancing.

We’re returning to the East.

The cheapest flight from Zambia to Rwanda has us arriving at 6.00 am. It is only Zimbabawia and I now, Mumma Africa has left to rejoin her man, Mount Kilimanjaro – the hunka spunk.

As the plane touches down I’ve slept approximately 2 hours (not ideal for a sleep loving human like myself). Shuffling out of the Kigali terminal, we are smacked with the balmy Rwandan heat.

Our CouchSurfer host has sent a driver to pick us up (bless). Surprised, he starts driving on the wrong side of the road! Well, Rwanda was colonised by the French so to him it is correct.

Driving along I notice the stark comparison of the traffic from other African countries. People are waiting patiently at traffic lights and motor cyclists seem to be carrying just one passenger.

Soon after driving into a luscious neighbourhood we pull up to a grand, highly secured house. Confused, I turn to Zimbabawia.

‘What kind of host is she?’

Before she can answer, a guard opens the gate and a beautiful Alsatian jumps up to greet us. Our host Mimmy, gives us a hug and leads Zimbabawia and I to our room.

‘You have your own ensuite for freshening up, leave out any clothes that you want the maid to wash. Then when you’re done, come downstairs and I’ll have your lunch prepared,’ beams an absurdly hospitable Mimmy.

One hour later, bathed and full of East African Cabbage* we retreat to our boudoir for an epic sleepathon — this is HEAVEN.

Some time later I lift of my eye ask and check the time… eleven o’clock! We’ve been asleep for almost 24 hours. It’s time to get our arses into Kigali tourist gear.

The smiley young guard lets us out the gate and we venture towards the Rwanada Genocide Museum. We’ve heard whispers of the harrowing exhibition but we really don’t know what to expect — neither of us have heard of the Rwandan genocide.

The second we step into the exhibition, we are in tears. In June 1994 approximately 800 000 Rwandans were slaughtered by their own community in a state-led Genocide.

This horror occurred in my life time. Why haven’t I heard about this?

This means that everyone over the age of 20 in this country; our host, her daughter, the guard, the maid, they all lived through this. What are their stories? I find myself intrusively curious.

Walking out of the museum, Zimbabwia and I are suddenly seeing Rwanda in a whole new light. This place is magnificent, it is so CLEAN — there’s not one bit of rubbish in sight, even plastic bags are illegal — get your shit together Australia! Motorcyclists are only allowed one passenger and they must give them a helmet. And Rwanda has the biggest representation of women in parliament!

Rwanda may have a hideously dark past but they —unlike many, many other countries in the world— have risen like a Phoenix from the ashes.

As we wander the streets looking at the city through a new found lense we stumble upon Inema Arts Centre. Excited to experience some contemporary African culture, we admire the unique paintings whilst being escorted through the gallery by a very handsome resident artist. He informs us that there will be a party tonight and everyone in town will be there.

‘Oh will they?’ we laugh, knowing not to trust every party guarantee.

However, when we return to Mimmy she informs us that actually;

‘Yes, it is a very popular party.’

‘Well then!’

For the first time in months we pop on our best kitenge*, a bit of makeup, eat another glorious Mimmy meal and head back to the gallery.

They weren’t lying. When we walk in we notice that the place has transformed and the party is going off! Zimbabawia and I look at each other wide eyed. We haven’t been out with just the two of us — we don’t know what to do! Like awkward turtles, we circulate the venue and gravitate towards a fabulous man bend and snapping on the dancefloor.

Bitches Boy instantly takes us under his wing and decides it is his mission to find us lovers for the night.

I decide to play along with this hilarious human and admit;

‘I have been admiring that dreadlocked boy by the bar…’

‘Well go over there girlfriend!’ Bitches Boy pouts, while shoving me towards the bar.

Realising that Bitches Boy won’t take no for an answer, I approach the bar.

‘Heya, I really like your shirt,’ I casually say while ordering a drink I don’t want.

‘Oh thanks, I got it made here,’ he replies in an unexpected American accent.

Introductions are exchanged and Honey tells me that he is a new Rwandan expat. We’re flirting away when Zimbabawia walks over to us with a man who has the biggest lips / pillows, I’ve ever witnessed.

‘Do you two know each other?’ I ask Honey, noticing the familiarity between him and Lips.

‘Yeah we’re actually moving in together tomorrow.’

HA! of course Zimbabawia and I have managed to be flirting with the two new roomies! As we laugh at the coincidence of the situation Bitches Boy returns — strutting up to the four of us he commands:

‘Come on, we’re all going to Cocobean Nightclub, you can all flirt there.’

Unable and unwilling to argue, we all pile into a taxi.

As we walk down the long entrance, the banging base of Afrobeats seeps into our skin.

Directly inside, and next to the dancefloor is a fenced off swimming pool.

‘How stupid is that, why have a pool but not let people go in? If I ever come back here I’m jumpin’ in,’ I pout.

‘I will hold you to that,’ winks Honey.

Just like in Namibia everyone is cutting loose on the dancefloor. And once again, I am in awe of the confidence and sexuality in their dance moves. I feel extremely shy and insecure to dance this way with Honey. I decide to tell him these thoughts and he simply replies;

‘We don’t have to dance.’

Relieved, we drink and chat instead. Feeling zero pressure or judgement from Honey, my nerves begin to settle. Once again, I look out over the dancefloor and spot Zimbabawia shaking her booty while sucking Lips’ lips. Just to her side, Bitches Boy is back to slut dropping.

Without giving myself time to think I down the rest of my beer and take Honey’s hand.

‘Let’s dance’.

Encouraged by my new attitude he takes on the role of teacher and pivots my hips so my bum faces his crotch.

He sways me to the rhythm, his legs coaxing mine to relax and before I know it, I’m African dancing!

Honey nuzzles his chin into my neck, I am grateful to have him behind me so I can observe the ladies on the dancefloor.

They are all pushing their booties into their partners. The sexual suggestiveness of their movements confuses my feminist mind.

Willing my judgemental eyes to look further, I finally I see it. Many of the women aren’t with their dance partners — they’re moving from man to man. They aren’t kissing their partners, they’re simply dancing!

It really isn’t about sex. Yes it is sexual; it’s a celebration of one’s own sexuality but it is not a mating call.

Take Salsa, Ramba, Tango, Bachata — they’re all dances that I’ve never attempted but the idea of them make me seriously blush. Is Australia so uncultured that I can’t intimately dance with someone without thinking that I’m giving them an invitation to fuck me?

My attention is once again drawn to Bitches Boy, Lips and Zimbabawia. They are all letting go in their own way, moving their bodies to the rhythm. They’re connecting with each other. There is no self-judgement, they are free.

I am doing this! My mind snaps and just like that my body starts to move how it wants. I push my booty confidently into Honey and he senses the shift. He too unleashes his true dancing — he’s clearly been holding back. Now he’s whipping out the moves!

He spins me around and pulls me to his chest, our cheeks press together and we flow like liquid to the ultimate Afrobeat—African Beauty.

One hour of totally free gyrating later and I ask for a breather. Honey escorts me next to the pool and we laugh at my baptism into African dancing. The laughter falters and we shyly lean in. As our lips connect I feel an ignition deep down in my gut.

This boy is different — he is beautiful, inside and out.

So I guess it turns out that all I needed to make the challenge of African dancing a little easier was some Honey. I even managed to get this honey’s number.

*East African Cabbage – For this delicious recipe and other African favourites visit my first fellow blog friend People I Meet and the Food they Eat

Kitenge – traditional East, West and Central African fabric it is worn as a skirt, head scarf. It has endless pattern and colour possibilities – I love it!

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Gorilla image taken from the Kigali Art Center