The other day, Chucks (not real name) messaged me to tell me he would be in Lagos in a couple of days. I was ecstatic because we had planned this meet for ages. Chucks lives in Abuja, is in his mid 30s and is married with kids. He asked me to help make enquiries about a decent hotel where we could spend the night as his flight was scheduled to arrive very late.
All was going fine till he casually dropped… “Do you mind if I come with a friend, for a threesome?”
Words I’d heard before, a preposition I was used to getting and something I had indulged a few times during my ‘threesome fantasy days’.
I don’t exactly know what it was this time, maybe the casual way it was dropped, but I absolutely lost it. I went from teasing about how I couldn’t wait to ride his very married dick to unleashing a slur of venom on him. Such was my vitriol that all he kept saying was sorry over and over again. But I wasn’t done; I went on to say I didn’t want anything to do with him and deleted his numbers. Oh, and also blocked him on Whatsapp for added affect.
Yet the anger wouldn’t abate. I went from being angry to being really upset to the point that I was on the verge of tears. I knew why I was upset but I didn’t want to admit so.
I rang a close friend of mine. He is the same age as me but far more experienced in the gay scene and a one-time whore who has since ‘settled’ with a man. During the course of our ‘mother-to-daughter’ conversation, I finally broke down and admitted why I was so upset and acted in such fashion.
I felt cheap. I felt like a whore. A lingering feeling that I had been in denial about, casually brushing it off or justifying it with one reason or the other. I also felt exhausted and tired.
After the lengthy phone call (he had to ring me back because I ran out of credit), I lay in bed and thought about a lot of things. You see, after my painful break up with Justin (real name) this year, I went into full slut mood, maybe to compensate for the fact that I was genuinely hurt from the breakup and just needed something to distract me. But the thing about going into slut mood is that you can’t seem to turn it off.
I found myself in a vicious routine of Chat-Meet-Fuck, a routine that quickly became redundant and exhausting. Soon it became the norm, having sex with men whose names I couldn’t recall during the drive back home.
It was fun, but there was always a lingering loneliness that wouldn’t go away afterwards. And when all was done, it was just me and a sore butt on a lonely bed. I felt there was a void I couldn’t fill or an itch I couldn’t reach, an emptiness I couldn’t contend with.
It seemed everyone just wanted to fuck. So I went with the flow, completely in denial that I didn’t need the affection, and I didn’t miss the feeling of being romanced, or Justin’s calls out of the blue to know how I was doing, or the times we lay in bed and did nothing but kiss or watch movies on his laptop. I missed all of that so bad and wanted it back. But to admit that would be to concede defeat of some sort, so I kept lying to myself.
The threesome question was the hammer to the head that finally broke my facade. That one incident brought to light what I had been in denial about. I really had become a slut and was being treated accordingly. It was the tail end of the year and yet I was in the midst of a circle that was endless. I also feared the repercussions – yes, I could feel them already, especially mentally. Lustful thoughts constantly plague my mind, and there are still moments where even amongst friends, I would feel deeply alone. I’ve tried to rationalize why I feel that way, maybe it’s because these men just see me as a means to relieve themselves.
My friend advised I stop sleeping around. The advice, while being extremely generic, might be the key to restoring my mental sanity.
That night, while I was in the midst of my epiphany, sober and reflective, Chima’s (not real name) message came in. “Hey bae,” it read
Chima is my beacon of hope. He genuinely seems to be more interested in other things about me than my ass, and our conversations are always varied, from politics, to music, to marriage and the occasional sex. We’ve met once, and I really thought he wasn’t that into me till just when I was about leaving, he got up and kissed me passionately and told me he was leaving the country for a while, but he’d always keep in touch. And to my surprise he has. He’ll be back for good soon, and we plan to see.
A part of me hopes he’s the one…because I am tired…tired of being a whore.
Written by Chizzie