It was a time when imbibing Tusker Malt and notching up sexual conquests was the only thing I thought worth my time.
As long as it was in a skirt/trouser/full dress and had the necessary orifices to qualify as a female,it was game.
It almost landed me in trouble. Real big trouble.
It so happened that my employer,in his infinite wisdom,decided that being the only unmarried man in the headquaters,I would have no issues to raise if they transferred me to Nakuru.
And there I was. In Nakuru. With a thirsty throat and an expert pu**y zeroing deek.
One of the main duties in Nakuru was cash handling. Within no time,I was familiar with all the bank managers and tellers in the town. Handling millions per day belonging to supermarkets, flower farms and petrol stations had its share of ups and downs. But we managed to do what we had to do.
Now,the number of assignments grew and we had to take in some new girls to help with the cash handling. Why the HR department insisted on females only still escapes me to date.
Fortunately or unfortunate,the job of initial interviews fell on me and my boss.
I had never ever been placed in such a situation before. On the interview day: Everywhere,girls. Girls girls girls. I thought I had gone to the Kenyan version of the playboy mansion with Hugh Hefner (RIP).
Apparently,due to having been in the town longer and due to business contacts,my boss already had a list of names of girls to be employed. The interviews were a formality and I was just a rubberstamp.
This is where my problems or rather ferk sessions started. She entered the room with all the grace of a model. All 6 feet of her. In a trouser suit. I could not take my eyes off her. After a lot of blah blahs,I learnt that she was Chebet. She was 26. Visions of those legs naked clouded my thinking for the rest of the session.
After the initial interviews,they were required to go to the H/O for a second interview with the security guys and a bit of cash handling training.
After a week,5 ladies,including miss-legs-never-stop reported for duty and I had to orient the group. I had my chance to get to know the girls properly.
With no time,I knew everything they wanted me to know. I must also say that the circumstances did favour me since I was at liberty to call who ever I wanted for duty since initially the job depended on the number of assignments.
Miss Long Legs was a permanent fixture in my duty roster.
With this close proximity,I did ask for what I now know as slices. Shock number one awaited me: She was married! To the manager of AFC branch in town. A guy I knew. Why she needed the meagre salary I will never know. Why she was married at 26 will forever remain a mystery to me. Saitan,is a liar!
I never lost hope. And eventually,after a lot of planning and lines that would shame Shakespear,I did get my share of the slices. Once! But it was enough. Then.
Unbeknown to me,when the group went to Nairobi,the HR ferker manager had also liked what he saw and wanted slices.
He had been lying to her that he could employ her on permanent and pensionable terms.
One problem existed though. The lady was a born Baringo,raised Baringo,schooled Baringo. She knew zilch about Nairobi. (yeah,I know,she went to Nairobi for interview. She was in a group).
The poor girl turned to the only nigga in her circle she knew had lived in Nairobi. Me. She innocently asked me if I could take her to Nairobi. Asking why,she was hesitant. But prodding revealed that she had agreed to meet Mutisya,the HR liar ferker.
One Saturday morning saw us in a Mololine heading to Nairobi. Took the lady to a hotel in South B. Was given some cash to keep myself busy and instructed to pick her up at 5pm.
And thats how,ladies and gentlemen,I became a pimp for a day. And risked the ire of Mutisya the HR ferker who later came to learnt about who brought Miss Long Legs to Nairobi.
Postscript: Mutisya the HR ferker never made good his promises. The lady left the AFC manager.