Body Counts.

“Are you expecting anyone?” asks this curious guy, eyes glaring in the neon lights?

“Excuse me?! … I… I … can’t hear you,” answers the lady on the counter, back against the crowd. She leans towards his direction kin not to spill her drink

“I – SAID – ARE – YOU – EXPECTING – ANYONE?” he asks again. This time, with an effort.

“IT – DEPENDS – WITH – WHO – IS – ASKING!” she howls on, smiling.

The blaring music won’t the gentleman toss his bait in peace but the dim lighting sure does. He musters some courage, pulls back the chair next to her and sits. What follows is an array of chuckles. The kind that come when pints of alcohol play games with your sobriety.

And the drinks come in fours. Beer after gin. Cognac after club soda. It’s almost as though they are planning to buy out the drinks at the club. Momentarily they stand up to dance. Gyrating against each other like horny adolescents. The girl has mastered her moves. Dancing sensually on the guy, moving her unmentionables in ways that makes the rest of the guys around jealous.

Some girls, apparently her friends, join in later but sit at a different table. They talk a bit over low tones and order their drinks. They seem tipsy already. Evidence of a club hop or marijuana effects. They have their fun, laughing rather loudly, dancing out of rhythm, teasing the guys that sit around them.

They couple soon can’t hold themselves together. Their alcohol is over the roof and so are their hormones. They’re all touchy feely occasionally kissing lightly to the cheeks. The guy foots the bill (I know) and they leave the establishment in the whee hours of the morning. Topsy-turvily they make their way round the tables, clutching on each other careful not to topple over or worse, spew their intake.

The girls are left behind, at the mercies of a black out.

It’s a Wednesday.

Body counts for both the guy and the girl. Fair. However they will have to nurse damning hangovers at work the following morning. Bad. The lady seems like the kind that works with these Chinese phone outlets that don’t have off days. The only off day you may get is on termination of employment or if your water REALLY just broke.
Sickness? Accidents? Hah! Wait until you see Mutiso lay concrete foundation on a crutch on a busy interchange along Mombasa Road. Make out the rest.

Thursday will be hell on high water.

The guy looks like a recently contracted banker, a lawyer or a guy with a job worth a six figure salary. A salary just above the five figure mark. Quote me right.

Khaki pants, brogues and happy socks speak volumes about his sense of style. He doesn’t have a significant beard. He too is shy of 5’7″. Often a time, a noisy maroon Mitsubishi Evo and an iPhone X work hard enough to tip the scale in his favor. Someone once said that a man has to pick his struggle. He can’t be short, broke and ugly, all at a go. He chose his well enough.

As for him, he will battle through the day wishing he would have gone slow on the bottle but happy he got laid either way.

And the two will never meet again. Not intentionally. They will in fact not feel the need to know each others’ names on the night because too much details means emotional attachment which is way above their pay grade.

Casual dating has gained more traction than we may be willing to admit. With the rise in a deeply pocketed middle class and a more open minded society, actual dating is the new boring. With money to back your words up, it takes as little as a hello to spend the night with someone else.

Both genders and surprisingly so women are becoming open towards the subject. Not having an issue with whether the male counterpart is married or not just provided he doesn’t come dropping his emotional baggage on her. Nobody wants emotional attachment. Not with economic meltdown (or whatever there is) weighing down the other shoulder.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the age of casual dating.

Have a wonderful week, Won’t you?


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