Funmi Iyanda

The cafan delivered my sex chair yesterday. I absolutely love it. It’s huge, its heavy, its a gold sprayed wrought iron contraption with gold thread tipped royal purple upholstery. I do admit that it looks rather wonky, some might say a tad tacky but I love it. Besides, the cafan assures me that it will deliver to me copious amounts of mind blowing sex. Now I must tell you about cafan, my crazy artist friend and neighbour.

When I moved into my estate, I was told that he was the substance ingesting, dread locked, robbers harbouring owner of the huge lot with the open access bungalow next to my house and a potential danger to society. On closer inspection it seem to me that he was just a rather bohemian man with interesting looking friends and hobbies. His personal style is what might emerge if you crossed Lenny Kravitz with a starving reggae artist. Aside the 1999 Jaguar and the rundown ‘78 truck packed in his mostly unfenced, undoored and unlocked fabulously hand built home, he seem completely devoid of any material possession and thus free of fear and fancy. He also looks like the type that has copious amounts of fantastic unpaid sex which I suspect is the reason my other now former rich neighbour with the always sad looking wife was so catty about him. The poor man looks like he must pay both wife and girl friend to have sex with him and given his girth and manners neither he nor they can find it particularly enjoyable not that you can tell by the generous moans of those rather wise women (ok, ok, so I am making that part up but it just looks that way alright?).

Anyway back to cafan, I have always wondered what goes on in that bungalow of his but never ventured in simply waving hello to him though the years. In the New Year, I was pleased with the world and idle so I went in to visit and was delighted by his wall and ceiling murals as well as his eclectic knick-knacks and furniture all hand made by himself or fabricated in his workshop. We sat talking in his patio, getting feasted upon by sand flies as he explained the architecture of the house and compound, his background, his fiancée (I must meet the brave young woman who will take him on) and his work.

Then he shows me these twin chairs he had designed and constructed as an aid to what surely must be tantric sex complete with a manual.
He explains how the man must sit on it and grip the sturdy joystick like handles whilst the woman straddles him holding the curved overhead railing for stability and levitation.
Myself being of a rather mischievous and easily excitable disposition promptly ordered a customized one and ten days later, it arrived, much to my squealing delight.

Now my dilemma is this, how will I test drive it? The cafan did offer but abeg this is not wisteria lane, one must know the limits of good neighbourliness.
At the rate I am going I may be looking at my first Zimmer frames before I take somebody home as I am prudish that way although my oracle assures me it is a sign off my suppressed goddess trying to free herself. So what am I to do with my sex chair/throne which is fast turning into a great conversation piece?

Actually, last night I found it super comfortable (good back support) despite its looks and was great for curling up and reading a good old book whilst sipping camomile tea with plantain chips which is what becomes of all good sex, ahem I meant self respecting partnerships.