There are some days, no matter how comfortable you’ve gotten in your closet, no matter how many extra locks you’ve installed on the sturdy mahogany doors, the devil would just wake up with you in his mind, and make it his first order of business to trip you out of the closet.

This story begins with a guy. (According to my friend, Colossus, it always begins with a guy)

Three years ago, I was in attendance of a workshop where the organizers provided accommodation for the workshop’s attendees in a hotel in Lekki. We were in our first week of lectures and I had started to get disenchanted by the fact that I had this entire hotel room to myself, away from the omnipresent eyes of the cousins I was staying with at the time, and I was yet to get any action going. It was most unacceptable.

And so during lectures that afternoon, while the instructor droned on, I cruised Badoo, hoping to snag some action. There were a few listless connections, where the prospect either corresponded with badly written English (a huge turn-off, this), or he lived a substantial distance away from my location (I don’t know why Badoo calls it ‘People Near To You’ when you get hits from guys staying not near to you).

Eventually I happened on Carl. He was perfect: good looking in his photos, had a great repartee during our conversation, and above all, was clearly as horny as I was. When it was established that he lived in Victoria Island, we made plans for him to come over to my hotel at the close of my lectures for the day.

And so, by 7pm, he was downstairs in the hotel lobby, buzzing me online for me to come pick him up. I went down to the lobby and breathed a silent ‘thank you’ to Jesus. In person, Carl was much more striking, with the small features I remembered from Badoo and an incredibly well-built body I was immediately hot for.

Because we’d already chatted about the fundamentals whilst online, there seemed to be no need for much talk when we got up to my room. We simply peeled off our clothes and went at each other in a passionate sex that embraced the entire room – from the bed to the table, to the bath-tub, and back to the bed. Our combined konji was thoroughly beaten and wrung out, until we lay there on the bed, deliciously exhausted, sated and catching our breath.

It was great sex, and in the week that followed, I was reluctant to get back online to look for other action. If Carl was available, why not enjoy more trysts with him until my stay at the workshop was over? I reasoned.

But Carl wasn’t available. After a brief catalogue of online exchanges between us, it became apparent to me that he’d been all about just the one time. Knack and waka pass thinz. I was quite disappointed. How does one give good sex one time and then move on? Sex, good sex, ought to be savored, enjoyed, spread out into multiple experiences to slake the thirst it evokes.

Anyway, when I got the message, I moved on. Life went on. And the years rolled by. Because my interaction with Carl didn’t move beyond Badoo (we didn’t even exchange numbers or BBM pins), we very quickly dropped out of touch.

Until last year ending, when I stumbled on his Instagram account; I followed him, he followed back. And that was it. We went back to our lives, only encountering each other on Instagram with the odd like of a photo. There was no attempt at reacquaintance in the Direct Messages, no innocuous exchanges in the comments sections of our photos, no comments dropped in fact. It’d been nearly three years, too much sex in between, and not enough interest left to reignite things between us.

However, all that changed some mornings ago. I’d been perusing my Instagram timeline, liking a picture here and commenting on a picture there. Then I came across a photo updated by Carl; it was a workout picture, and it seemed like he hadn’t worked out in awhile, because he captioned the photo with a lamentation of how it’d been so long since he did this.

However long it had been, he still looked good. And suddenly feeling cheeky, I navigated to the comment section to let him know how appreciated his body was. My comment was a compliment, purposed to be tongue-in-cheek, without any suggestive intent – something about how good his body still looked if it was anything like what I remembered. (In hindsight, maybe it did seem suggestive, but totally undeserving of the fuss that arose from it).

I moved on from the picture and continued with my idle perusal of my timeline. A few minutes later, I got a notification of a message in my DM. I navigated to the DM icon and clicked it open to see I’d gotten a message from Carl. My involuntary reaction to this was a small rush of surprised pleasure. That quickly evaporated when I began reading what he had to say to me.

Basically, he was indignant over the comment I’d dropped on his photo. The first few lines of his reproachful message showed that he considered the comment suggestive. I was nodding my head in understanding, deciding that I’d go and delete the comment if he hadn’t already done so, when I got to the rest of his message, a blistering set of words which went thus: Move on already from me. And kindly keep your intellect and drama to yourself.

At first I was stunned.

I should move on already from him?

I should keep my intellect and drama to myself?

All this because of a lone comment, a singular compliment?

On the heels of my astonishment came an instant surge of anger. Who did this fucker think he was really? Someone I hadn’t interacted with in three years, hadn’t lost sleep over since the night we shagged in 2013, was scolding me to move on – was he serious?! How self absorbed could one person get? And seriously – my intellect and drama? Just how intellectual was ‘you’ve still got a good body’? how possibly dramatic was that?

I was so pissed, and riding the flames of that irritation, I set about to dress him down in my response. I heaved up my intellectual shotgun armed with very dramatic bullets, and proceeded to waste him with an overweight clapback. What a self absorbed prick! When I was done, I went to the block button and raptured him from my social media presence.

Still feeling restless with annoyance, I went over to my BBM Private Message (pm) where I updated a caustic post about people over-inflating their importance to other people who don’t even care.

Now, here’s where the devil perfected his work.

Following my pm update, a BBM contact of mine named Chisom buzzed me with a laughing smiley and a message: ‘Abeg who was that sub aimed at?’

Now to give you an idea of how this story ends, here’s a bit of background information. I happen to have two contacts named Chisom in my BBM friend list – one’s a fellow gay man and the other is a straight female. However, the gay friend has just ‘Chisom’ as his BBM profile name, whereas the female friend has both ‘Chisom’ and her surname put up on her profile.

When I looked – the barest of glances really at the profile – the contact currying up to me for gist was named ‘Chisom’. So of course, the gay friend. And without further prompting, I dived into my narration.

It’s one stupid moron like that, I began typing furiously and sending each message after its full-stop.

We met and shagged like a gazillion years ago.

The sex was good.

I wanted more.

But when it became clear he wasn’t into that, I moved on.

I was typing my next line when a message was pinged back to me. It was a simple, startled question.

He?

The moment I saw the message, I froze. At first, I was confused by it. Why would my gay friend be clarifying the male pronoun in the gist I was giving him? Then a dreadful realization began nipping at the edge of my mind as I took a proper glance at the contact’s profile. Yes indeed, the name was ‘Chisom’, but a look at the display picture caused the ground to drop away from under me. It was the same display picture that the female Chisom had had on for days. A quick search of my contacts confirmed it: the female Chisom had edited the surname from her profile. Basically, I had a ‘Chisom’ and another ‘Chisom’.

While I was busy making all these discoveries that had my insides churning with shock and apprehension, a few more messages dropped into our chat. I went over to read them. She’d followed up with:

Oh wow, I’d always wondered. I mean, with your firm LGBT stance on Facebook, and some of the pro-gay posts you put up on your blog, I’d always wondered.

But it never occurred to me that you could really be gay.

Kai! And I’d been eyeing you all this time.

Just imagine how you have ruined my future ambitions with you.

The last line she accompanied with a wailing emoticon.

As I read, I felt my lips twist upward with smiling appreciation of her humour. And then I found myself querying within me: Now what?

I had two options. I could either own my truth (*side-eyeing Max for no reason at all*), or I could do a quick damage control. It would cost nothing really; my mistake had being in typing the wrong pronoun – he. I could easily convince her that I’d meant to type ‘she’ but in my frenzied haste, I’d missed the ‘s’.

Then I found myself thinking: What the heck? Piece by piece, my life is already serving as a revelation to my friends and family. Everything I say online is unapologetically pro-LGBT. Most people familiar with my online persona are clear on my sentiments about marriage. I pull no punches in any online or offline debates I get pulled into concerning the LGBT. My adoration for Beyoncé is a documented unhidden fact. And on my other, more mainstream blog, I update LGBT posts so frequently that a female reader once commented: It seems this blog is pro-gay. Say one bad thing about the LGBT here and the voltrons reading this blog will use sarcasm and bad mouth to finish you.

I chuckled when I read that comment. (*side-eyeing the guilty-as-charged Mandy, Max, Colossus and Pete*)

I also remembered a conversation I recently had with Colossus, when he informed me of how a close mutual friend of ours, who’s female, had let on to him that she believes I’m bisexual. In her opinion, I speak online about LGB issues with the kind of fervor reserved for those acquainted with the community. Plus, she’d noticed that I wear really tight trousers. Lol. I laughed when he told me that. Me, Pink Panther – bisexual?! I thought about the resident sexuality police here on KD and shuddered.

And so, bearing all this in mind, I typed my response to Chisom, the female.

Yes, he. Do you have a problem with that?

She typed back: And then, what now come and happen after the good sex?

Written by Pink Panther

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