I have quite a number of fuck buddies. Basically friends with benefits, no strings attached. No emotional entanglements whatsoever. However, one of them stands out. His name is Frankie.
Frankie and I met a little over two years now at a party, and we've been fucking since that first night. The dynamics of our friendship is well laid out, to me at least. It was just sex. But on some occasions, he'd tell me that he thinks he loves me and that we should consider a relationship. And on those occasions, I’d make it clear to him that I wouldn't and couldn't date him. And this isn’t because he sleeps with older men for money. I'm not one to judge. It’s because I felt like we weren't on that level, and we didn't have anything in common besides good sex.
I really enjoyed having sex with him. His sexual skills in bed are unmatched. There's a very different kind of aura and prowess that exudes from him when he's in the mood. The way he spreads his legs and arches his back. The sultriness in his eyes. The thirst on his lips. The want raging through his body. He becomes wild, energetic and even aggressive. Sort of like a porn star.
On a particular night two weeks ago, I picked him up and drove home. We ate noodles spiced up with sprinkles of weed. I had a bottle of Carlo Rossi red wine, while he drank swigs from a bottle of Absolute vodka. Our libidos were rising, and next thing, we were tearing off our clothes. We had amazing sex. It was the best fuck yet. Dude rode me on the bed, on the couch, and on my reading desk. He got on all fours as I went into overdrive while giving him the doggy. By the time we were done, I was exhausted to my bones.
I sprayed some air freshener to kill the stench of sex and lubricant in the room, and then went to shower. To my surprise, when I came out from the bathroom, Frankie was still up and erect. There was a slightly manic look to him as he asked for more sex, this time, him topping me. I have no problem with playing bottom. Some of my best sex has been flip sex. But there was no way I was going to take him. Nigga is long and thick like a sewage pipe. And with all that aggression in bed, second degree anal tear wouldn't be very far from me.
I gently refused his request. His demeanor changed instantly. That manic look began to intensify.
"Are you not a man?" he yelled at me. "Did we just fuck? Who the fuck do you think you are?" He was raging over and over again.
Shocked and taken aback, I tried to calm him. The next thing I knew, he hit me. Hell muthafucking yeah! His fists were flying as he hit me over and over. Boy, I got pissed and hit him back. Hard!
A line in Rihanna's Man Down could best describe the situation. "...What started out as a simple altercation, turned into a real sticky situation...”
The situation quickly degenerated into a combat. We fought from the bed to the floor, to the reading desk, to the glass center table. The intimate memories the room held from just moments ago was getting shredded by the violence. Ornaments and ceramics shattered as we tumbled around. The house was a total mess.
When he realized that he couldn't overpower me, he starting yelling at the top of his voice: "HOMO! HOMO! FOURTEEN YEARS! HOMO!” He kept screaming the words over and over.
I live in a well secluded house, with private security and huge dogs. Yet, panic kicked in even though no one would hear him. I shoved him off me and went out to signal for the security to come upstairs. I wanted to pull on some clothes, to retain some decency before the security got upstairs. But this crazed Frankie foiled any attempts of me getting dressed. He made sure that we both stayed naked.
When the security guy came upstairs, Frankie started screaming “Homo” again. He told the security guy that I was a homosexual, that I have being fucking him for the past two years and that he's got nothing to show for it. He went on to demand two million naira or we could just kill him. The security guy looked disappointed by the spectacle, like he suddenly didn’t want to be there. I’d wanted to have him forcibly throw out Frankie, but I changed my mind. By this time, Frankie was clearly beginning to tire. He was winding down. I dismissed the security man now that I knew I could handle him on my own.
He dropped off into sleep. I left him in the room and fled to another room to sleep.
The next morning, I tiptoed back to the room to find him still asleep naked. I threw the duvet over him and switched off the air conditioner because he was shivering in his sleep. Then I made him breakfast of rice and coffee. I took it to him in bed and nudged him awake. When he opened his eyes, he was the Frankie I'd always known. There were no signs of aggression. I told him the story from last night while he ate. He looked so flabbergasted by what I was saying to him. I watched his eyes dew with tears, watched the tears trickle down his cheeks when I showed him the video, a recording I managed to make last night as he raved and ranted and misbehaved.
Dressed and on his way out, he apologized to the security man and took back the things he said from last night. He said he didn’t mean what he said about us fucking. I have no idea whether the security man believed him – us – or not.
That night’s manifestation made me wary of Frankie, raised some questions I suddenly wondered about. They say alcohol and weed lessen your inhibitions and bring out who you truly are. If that is so, then what does that have to say about who Frankie was that night? An internally homophobic gay man who was made manifest under the influence? Or a disgruntled gay man who has nursed a grudge against me for the years I’ve known him, but pretends we are cool?
Written by Simba