Omodara…..Everything You wish you had known in your 20s about sex, self-respect and what not to do.


Paradoxical, Freaktastic Adventure….Lets go
I couldn’t quite wrap my head around
having a cold-blooded, unapologetic affair with
a married man. So the first thing I did the morning after my first six-hour,
marathon f*cking session with Ahmed was refer to myself in the third person as
a “hot, tired & well-f*cked b*tch.”

With good reason.

We must have done it at least six or seven times. I had never been f*cked that
thoroughly. And, did I ever need it.

“One freak f*cking another,” was how Ahmed described it.

Two nights later, he came to my apartment and f*cked me for 2-3 hours straight.
He went so deep inside me, I could feel it all the way in my navel. He was the
closest I’d ever come to being turned out – f*cked so thoroughly and so well
that I lost all sense of time, disconnected my brain and let myself be at the
mercy of his d*ck.

He asked about my sexual fantasies, and I bored him with beaches, bubble baths,
rooftops and elevators. He said, “Those are all pretty normal. What about
the kinky ones?”

I ventured that I sometimes wondered what it would be like to f*ck two men at

He answered that he had “done that sh*t, could arrange that sh*t.”


There were no barriers.

My capacity for freaky sex and nastiness was greater than I had ever imagined.
Or feared. Or admitted out loud.

I was terrified at what I was learning about myself. There were two me’s: the
good, sweet me – who was dying – and the bad, little freak who was getting
larger and greedier every day.

My libido was now locked in a blazing, throbbing “on” position. The
next night, with no Ahmed to put my fire out, I went out into the night, hoping
to find somebody, anybody, to turn my switch off.

Slinky gold dress. Fishnet stockings. Gold shoes. Gold earrings.

No bra.

Fortunately, the club I went to had no available parking. When I ran over a big
hunk of something in the parking lot, I took it as a sign and left.

Then, I decided I wanted to drink. Liquor.

Only it was Sunday night in Victoria Island, Lagos, and thanks to the liquor
laws, there were no wine coolers to be had.

So I took that as a sign, too. I went home. To bed. Alone.

I’d finally let the beast out of the closet.

She was hot, horny and insatiable.

But she was also very beautiful.

I could look in the mirror and see so much beauty in my face.

And I was genuinely kinder to other people.

It was paradoxical.

I was actively embracing sin, but I felt closer to God than I’d ever felt as my
socially acceptable, goody two-shoes alter ego.

My name is Omodara and this is my story, every Friday,
here on

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