I passed a newspaper headline poster the other day. Last Sunday, I think. Stuck on a street light pole. I think it was the Sunday Tribune, or something. I don’t read newspapers anymore and that has more I think to do with the recognition that reading newspapers is only slightly edifying and far more depressing and a willful subjection of oneself to, at best, negative trivia and, at worst, manipulated bullshit, rather than the sensationalism that has overtaken almost every newspaper over the last decade or two. Did you notice that? Years ago. When you saw headlines, bought the (ordinarily unimpeachable) newspaper on the day and realized that the article was mostly hype and far less noteworthy than you had anticipated? Realizing, too, that the headline had been, basically, lying crap. I remember it, not only because I have an interest in matters journalistic, but also because it occurred to me as something sad that in the transition from the era of print (and thus newspaper) dominance towards the tech, online era, newspapers were not helping themselves by degenerating into bog-roll, selling their integrity like that. Many papers had struggle credentials too. It seemed an emerging tragedy that all of the horror and death they had so bravely tried to expose was now reduced to whoopy-doo horseshit.
Nowadays, with the Daily Sun cementing bullshit trivia as standard fare in this country and, really, in my opinion, just dumbing the whole world down with it and, rather stingily for me, treating their predominantly black, working class readership like assholes (although they are the assholes who consume the crap), it’s become standard. No one, perhaps with the exception of The Mail & Guardian and one or possibly two others, have any journalistic integrity left. And by journalistic integrity I mean manifesting the confidence in the reader that the articles are honest, unbiased and factually correct as far as the writer could ascertain and that the content is relevant, important even and contributes in some way to human progress or, at least, societal intelligence.
Different world today… So, when I passed the headline that said “How to be a blesser” my toes curled a little. For those of you who don’t know, a blesser is a South African, currently emerging term for any man who has sufficient disposable income to buy a usually younger, female ‘blessee’ clothes and tuition fees and hair and nails and stuff (there’s a quote there, but I’ll get to that just now) in exchange for her sexual charms. Her naked ass. I might be wrong, but I believe this used to be called prostitution…? Now of course it’s a soft version, couched in kissy-wissies and lovey-doveys, but the rote, mercenary “Ok bend over and I’ll bless you, bitch” remains inherent there for me. Ok ok, I’m sure I don’t have to use words like “bitch” and I also won’t pop a few images of underage Hillbrow prostitutes in here in words in order to avoid making this article depressing too but… really?
A blesser. Mmmmm…. I am ok with being a (limited) provider and, as it happens I am an older man dating younger women and it’s nothing but a joy to help out, but that’s a given anyhow… I give as freely to the vagrant who lies on the pavement lawn outside my complex every day. Also, while I’m going down this avenue, I am adamant about sexual performance – produce it or hop it.
So… while this wasn’t the source of my curling toes and, in fact, is only occurring to me now as I write this, perhaps particularly as a white man who dates only black women, I guess I am practicing at least some of the blesser formula, if only by default. Mmmmm.. It displeases me saying that, because I know I’m not. And the difference between me and a blesser? I need a real liaison, a genuine mutual interest with ALL possibilities present – up to and including love and marriage – before I want to be naked with someone. I need to have all of the essential ingredients contained in a woman before I do nasties with them. It doesn’t have to go that way – who gets to dictate that a natural unfolding of falling in love, marrying and mating is going to happen ever? – but the potential has to be there. For me. I need far more than a sex partner, at least going beyond the short term. Sex is easy, for almost all of us. Anyone can get laid, with apologies to all of you for whom this is patently untrue. But I need to lie down next to loveliness and intelligence too, before I get hard, besides any other prerequisites or preferences I might have… And how intelligent can you be, trading your holes for cash. Or goods, like that makes it better…
Although the whole blesser phenomenon is typically black, I am supremely confident that when people are selling their orifices for material goods, there’s plenty of colour blur and, frankly, who gives it? If you’ve got the money and you, baby, have got sufficient ice around your heart and tuition bills to pay or a desire for a new hairpiece, what does colour matter? So, what made my toes curl? The nature of the headline. I know I know – it’s just relatively inert phrase, “How to be a blesser”, but I was left wondering why it wasn’t “How to help your girl child not succumb to a blesser” or just “The blesser phenomenon of today”…? Something about the headline was almost tongue-in-cheek, almost congratulatory, almost suggesting “this is how you do it”… It stank. Much like when Lolly Jackson, that fine, upstanding bastion of morality whose smile shone upon Johannesburg, until organized crime shot him in his white-trash-with-money face and rubbed him out, was celebrated in some sense by the newspapers at the time. Regular articles, the life of Lolly laid bare with accompanying pics, Lolly the Joburg icon, the history of the rise of Lolly… God. The man was a sex trading piece of shit. Is he really making the papers as someone worthwhile? Is this really good reading for all, I thought at the time. That was a moment in the same vein, for me, when I saw that headline last Sunday. “How to be a blesser” rang those bells.
I mooted an explanation above. I mentioned that there’s a quote above I didn’t bother to punctuate with inverted commas. I was buzzed recently. By a young, black female student, resident in Pretoria. Online. From a site. “Hey – wanna chat?” or something like that. I looked at her profile. It stated quite openly “I’m looking for a blesser to buy me nice hair and nails and stuff”….. Unquote. Needless to say, apart from the fact that she wasn’t a particularly attractive mercenary whore which merely made it even sadder, I declined her request to “chat”. Shame. I guess she doesn’t know that the vagrant outside and I are more akin than strangers. Yes I live inside the complex he lies outside of, but our finances are pretty much neck and neck right now I’d be prepared to wager. He might get thrown off the lawn, but I might get thrown down the stairs. Anyway… I am not a blesser. Or, put another way, a man who would pay for a woman’s sexual servitude. Let me hastily ward off the acrimony that will surely arise from some (mostly female) quarters, mostly those women who know that they have compromised or will happily compromise their sexual integrity for material inputs, and say that of course people have got to do what they’ve got to do. No, I don’t wish to control female sexuality or curtail the freedom of women to do as they see fit, within the confines of what society deems law. But, really…?
I looked at the photo of the wannabe blessee who buzzed me. Weirdly, I thought of her folks. Was so saddened by it all. Did they really want their daughter growing up into this? Do they give a shit? Did they inspire her to it? People, hey…
It’s a headline. Young girls are going to drive past that. And it’s slightly celebratory in phrasure. Isn’t it? Am I being a prude? I don’t know…. But I do know that the young girls in my life that I care about I would have never factor in getting a “blesser” on board in order to ease their way in this life. God, no. For me, it’s far more prostitution and far less “just a girl making her way”, all smiles and happy, jiggly tits…. It’s whoring your slit. Can we just call it for what it is? A blesser is a whore monger. And a blessee is a whore. I don’t buy, as the headline seemed to encourage, that it’s a component of life nowadays and, ag, not so bad hey. Better than prostituting yourself on the street… Really? Somehow, street hookers seem to manifest more integrity than blessees, to me. I don’t think finding a blesser is an ok aspiration for any young woman. I would shit myself if one of my girls grew up factoring that into her safety net. Whoring one’s flesh costs. I know. We all know. We all feel it, which is why the massive majority of us don’t do it. I know that evolutionary psychology can paint marriage as nothing more than prostitution too, but I always found that extrapolation somewhat limited, as it avoided any mention of companionship, the spirit. The massive human growth and good that long term relationships help us feel if not positively manifest.
Whoring one’s flesh costs. Buying flesh costs. So, does “blessing”.
How long before your blesser wants to stick something up your anus and you’re lying there, contemplating the rape of your soul and the pain you’ll endure, weighed up against that big screen TV? Maybe you’ll be lucky and have a gentlemanly blesser and it will work out just fine for you, but the reason I don’t gamble is this thing – the losses are just too potentially great. If I could lose only 20% of my money and go home, maybe I’d gamble. But the prospect of going home without my shirt is too great an ask for me. The downside is too far down. It’s unacceptable. Complete. Utter loss. So, when your blesser makes you blow him in front of his friends, or comes over drunk and bliksems you before sodomizing you, or wants you to fuck his friends before he buys you a car, well… Good luck with that shit. It’s always a potential. See? It’s that unacceptable potential, like putting yourself into a situation where you can lose every penny you own, that’s an integral part of the contract that puts the lie to all the couching and lovey-doveyness you can say about blessers. Basically, it’s the knowledge that your ass is worth someone’s disposable income, that makes it unacceptable for me as a construct. A phenomenon.
Don’t be a blesser. Don’t be a blessee. Please God… And, speaking of God, bless all of you 😉