IGNORING MEN IS MY FAVOURITE KINK

You begged for attention, now you belong on a leash called silence... shut up and obey

There is a particular kind of thrill I get from silence, a sacred, deliberate silence. Not the silence of fear or submission, but the silence of power. The kind that says, “I see you. I just don’t care enough to respond.”

And that, my loves, is why ignoring men is my favourite kink.

Especially here in Nairobi, where patriarchy has colonial perfume and Christian undertones. Where a woman daring to express sensuality is seen as rebellious, where a confident walk in a tight dress is an invitation for harassment, mockery, or judgment. I’ve heard it all:

“Vaa nguo!”

“Kwani hauna sweater?”

“Unaenda wapi na hiyo mwili?”

Their words try to clothe me in shame, but I walk past with my hips swinging like incense smoke, untouchable. Their eyes burn holes into my back, expecting a reaction, a flinch, a reply. But all I give them is silence and a soft smile as I scroll through my phone. Because nothing unsettles a man more than being ignored by the woman he tried to control.

They hate it. They crave the reaction. They want access. And I give them none.

This is what happens when a Black woman stops performing respectability. When she detaches from their projections, refuses to bow to religious guilt or colonial shame, and starts to own her body, her beauty, her divine chaos. The Black female body has always been policed and hypersexualised, seen as both temptation and taboo. But I will not be made small so someone else can feel in control.

My confidence is not up for negotiation. I do not talk to men unless they give me money. And even then, giving me money does not guarantee access to my energy, my mind, my spirit, or my time.

That’s my simple rule: money gets you a doorbell, not the key. Most of the time, I won’t even answer the door.

Men flood my DMs every day with dry, thirsty messages:

“Hey baby.”

“Hi beautiful.”

“How are you?”

They try to start a conversation like I’m not a whole goddess. Like I’m not a force of nature. Like I didn’t wake up that morning with ten times their worth in energy, in beauty, in power.

I don’t respond.

Because while they fantasize about me, I’m collecting blessings. I barely post on my clip sites anymore. I never reply to my subs. I don’t message back. I don’t say thank you. And still, I get tips. Daily. Wishlist items. Bills paid. Love notes I’ll never read. My silence turns them on more than any reply ever could. Because what they want is access. What they can’t have is what makes them obsessed.

Sometimes, I go live on LoyalFans, adorned in latex, my curves hugged like a second skin, a fresh pedicure gleaming under the light, or tall expensive boots laced up to my thighs. And I say nothing. Not a single word.

I just exist.

I let them watch. I let them ache. I scroll on my phone, sip tea, adjust my jewelry, maybe light some sage or play with my anklet and waistbeads. The silence becomes sacred. The tension? Intoxicating. Every movement is a ritual. Every blink is deliberate. Every breath is domination.

And they tip. Nonstop.

No dirty talk. No explicit commands. Just presence. Just me. The way I take up space without trying, the way I embody power without speaking, drives them mad. They don’t tip for interaction, they tip because the energy is irresistible. They crave my validation, but all they get is my stillness, my beauty, my indifference.

And still, they worship.

That’s high priestess kink. That’s Black femme supremacy. That’s power.

Ignoring them is not indifference, it’s erotic dominance.

It’s discipline. It’s tantric. It’s energetic hygiene. It’s me choosing my peace, over and over again, while they beg for a single drop of my attention. And honestly? I like watching them wait.

This is my temple. My world. My pleasure.

Let them suffer in the absence of my response. Let them squirm in the dark, whispering to a goddess who doesn’t whisper back. That’s not coldness, it’s cosmic alignment.

So, the next time a man yells at me in the street, tells me to wear more clothes, or floods my inbox with weak attempts at validation, I smile.

Because I know I don’t owe him anything.

And ignoring him?

That’s the kink.

That’s the spell.

That’s the power.

PURRR.