After going through the first few comments on my story, I Was Warned to Leave Straight Boys Alone, I have realized that it is pretty easy for people to judge without actually knowing the stories behind one’s behavior.
On some comments on my previous post, I saw lots of accusations leveled against me: that I’m a predator, I’m wicked, I’m sick and I need a therapist, I’m insensitive. Well, I have been accused of insensitivity more times than my name has been mentioned, and honestly, I am not disturbed. Although, I feel I owe everybody an apology if, by a fat chance, I gave the world a bad impression about gays.
When I was a kid, I used to adore both my parents, but the adoration I had for my dad always increased exponentially on a daily basis because of the excess love he showered on my siblings and I. The fact that he always beat my mom at the slightest given chance didn’t affect my relationship with him. In fact, I revered my dad with regards to his physical strength and masculinity, which, when I look back on now, was toxic. Somewhere in my mind, I nurtured the belief that my mother must have done something wrong which warranted the beatings, because as a kid, it was difficult for me to think of my wonderful and playful dad as a monster.
Also, somewhere in my mind, I imagined I would grow up one day to be a disciplinarian who would beat anyone who did me wrong; but in a twist that only Fate is capable of manufacturing, I have ended up being the one who enjoys getting brutalized and manhandled.
On my previous story, I made mention of a near-kito experience. Well, this is it.
Right after my NYSC in 2016, I got a job in a big hotel in Asaba as a supervisor. This wasn’t what I imagined I would do, but since the death of my parents in a capsized ferry in Bayelsa, my future had always looked bleak. This hotel enabled me to get acquainted with quite a number of foreigners, male and female, some of the gay males which I got down with, and I usually got adequately compensated for the sex, except when I unfortunately got involved with the stingy ones.
There was this guy, Ogar, who’d always envied me and wanted my position as the supervisor. I never really acknowledged his existence because I generally despise covetous people. And I wasn’t even remotely interested in him, whether he was gay or straight – although I figured he was straight.
I used to generally presume that most, if not all, Lebanese men were gay, or at most bi, so I didn’t think it was out of place for me to flirt with one good-looking Lebanese guy that came down to one of the bars to have a drink. This guy, Isa, all patient and accommodating, told me he loved women. I did not believe him; I told him not to be scared of Nigeria’s anti-gay law, that we could be discreet as possible. He insisted that he was straight, but I did not leave him alone.
And so, I wasn’t surprised when, three days after our first encounter, Isa called my phone (I didn’t even think of where he must have gotten my number from at the time) and requested to see me in his room. I figured he had finally come around and dumped all that I was doing to run off to his room.
He offered me a glass of expensive wine and reiterated his straightness, followed by, “But I’m willing to try something new with a fine boy like you.”
Well, I wasn’t about to satisfy his bicuriosity for free. I told him he would have to pay me for it because “there are many white men in this hotel that would pay me a thousand dollars just for a blowjob.”
We both stripped to our boxer shorts and I was determined to make his flaccid member come to life. My plan was aborted when that stupid Ogar burst out of the wardrobe with a phone, taking photos of us in rapid succession. I grabbed at my clothes but Ogar used his free hand to slap me across my face. It was all happening so fast and it dawned on me that Isa must have gotten my number from Ogar. That Ogar must have approached him to cook up this plan to set me up.
Ogar requested for my life savings plus my iPhone 6. My mind works very fast under pressure, and so, I told him all my money was in the bank. He made me put on my clothes and asked me to lead him to the ATM or he would splash my pictures and videos all over the internet.
When we got to the main road and were about to cross to the other side, as he turned his head this way and that to check for oncoming vehicles, momentarily getting distracted, I grabbed at him, got him off balance, and wrestled the phone out of his pocket. Then I ran off. He chased after me of course, but lost hope of catching me when I jumped atop an oncoming albeit slow-moving, unoccupied motorcycle and sped off. Either luck was on my side that day or Ogar was just plain stupid, but I’m grateful those pictures and videos were not released. It of course would have been everything disastrous if they’d made their way to the internet.
I soon left my job and Asaba after that incident, and made Warri my home. I also grew to be less conscious of my nudity being used against me. In the years since that near-kito incident, I have grown to realise that I wouldn’t react the way I did should that situation happen again. At this point in my life, I don’t care if anyone spreads my nudes all over the internet; in fact, I’d be willing to strike poses for such a photo shoot.
In other news, to conclude the story of what happened with Kelechi from my previous post, we have not set eyes on each other since I fled from our house. The caretaker of the house called me on the phone some days ago and asked to me to come get my things out of the house even though my rent hadn’t expired yet; apparently, Kelechi had moved out of the house just recently, and before he did, he painted a bad picture of me to her.
So, I have got my things back, and hopefully, I will never have to encounter Kelechi ever again.
Written by Kenny