WRITER’S NOTE: The names in this series are changed for discretion.
I had just arrived America.
Yes, that same ol’ fucking America that was the major prayer point at every prayer meeting, devotion and vigil I attended. Apparently, some “forces of darkness” didn’t want me to arrive safely this last time, and my mum, who was already in the States, went on full prayer mode, instructing me not to inform anybody about my exit. I had always gone back and forth in and out of the States towards the later part of my final year in a Federal Nigerian university, and this trip was to be my final exit, hence my mum’s fear.
As I stood there in the airport, I wondered. So, this was the America that had people crying and wailing at the embassy when their visa application got rejected. Some even resorted to begging, kneeling down and pleading their case to the officials. One memorable occasion was of a woman saying she was going to meet her fiancé only to be informed by the lady behind the glass that her “dear fiancé” was on record on their system as “Married”. The woman went berserk! Wailing and screaming till security was called in. This was the America she earnestly wanted to enter and I was standing in JFK Airport, New York, with my luggage that had less clothes and more Nigerian spices and leaves, as requested by my mother.
After – surprisingly – going through security without having my bags checked or any of my Nigerian ogiri okpe trashed (Mum’s prayers was really working; according to my uncle, he had never had anyone come in with such putrid foodstuff), I decided to make my first call on American soil with my last Nigerian airtime.
“Hello,” I said to the person on the other side. There was a lot of noise and commotion in the background, a clear indication of the difference in locations we shared.
“How far, Duke?” answered my friend Miguel.
“I dey oh. I just land for New York.”
“Eh! When?!” he exclaimed, genuinely surprised.
“Just now,” I said feeling, feeling some guilt that I hadn’t told him I was leaving, due to my mum’s instruction.
“Nawa oh! You no dey tell person when you dey comot.”
“It happened too fast and I was busy running last minute errands.” That was partly true.
“I hope say you dey wear bum short now oh. No tell me say nah trouser you wear so, because you suppose dey sell market from that airport with that your big nyash,” he jested.
I laughed so hard, mostly because we had suddenly moved on past the topic of me not informing him to one that was quite lighter and less guilt-tripping.
We said our goodbyes eventually and I inhaled the cold air that was a mix of coffee, cigarettes and the fast paced life of what was going to be my true American experience.
Fast forward months and months later, Dear Diary, and I was finally settling down. I was halfway through school, gotten my driver’s license, finally getting to know the right buses and trains to use to get home, their routes and their schedules. Finally being quite an American, drinking coffee while wrapped in wads of clothes and jackets under unbelievable cold temperatures. I signed up for a fitness center and I downloaded Grindr.
And a new world broke open.
Eric Stonestreet on Modern Family called the gym “a bar with dumbbells”. This wasn’t exactly true about my gym as there was no gay action going on as I would have expected. No one bursting into the shower to French kiss me like the porn movies, no sultry winks, no slaps on the butt… Nothing! I was almost going on two years with no action because prior to my exit from Nigeria, my mum’s premonitions got me all paranoid and I didn’t hook up with anyone. Now I’d moved to the US, and I was too out of place…or so I thought.
I was still playing around with the Grindr app and still being in the closet. My profile picture was a bunch of bananas (I swear this wasn’t done on purpose; I needed a profile pic and I took a picture of a bunch of bananas in front of me). For some reason, this got some folks interested. I started getting messages like “Imma eat your dick like a banana” and “Come put your bananas in my ass”. I proceeded to engage some. I ignored many. But I made no plans to meet anybody.
However, one person never stopped hitting me up. His messages came in endlessly and I finally engaged him. When we exchanged pictures, he said, “I have seen you before. We go to the same gym, and you are the guy with a fat ass.”
Instantly, I felt defensive. I looked at his pictures and I couldn’t recognize him. He carried on with how he has a huge crush on me and how he had seen me go into the steam room with my briefs and my fat ass. I was bothered by his revelations, bothered and also interested. There was also something about the way he chatted with me that felt familiar and I couldn’t place my finger on it, even though I felt it.
He wanted us to meet but I kept procrastinating. I was really nonchalant about meeting anybody, especially with combining school, projects and assignments, a job at a restaurant, gym, obligations to mum and church, it was difficult for me to create time to meet anyone. However, after endless pleas from him, we set a date and time. And I was standing on the porch of his house one rainy Friday afternoon.
He opened the door and immediately I knew why his chat felt so familiar. He is Nigerian and his name Isaiah.
We got into what was his room. It was cozy, small and had the feel of a room of one of those students that stay off-campus for the simple reason of having fun. There was a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of strong drink in clear view, and I cussed silently at myself.
Just great! My first hook-up in the US is with a fucking Benin guy! Really! What happened to all the black Americans and Latinos? Fucking Nigerian!
I almost denied I was Nigerian when he asked, but that felt stupid. And after I identified my nationality, he hailed, “My Brother!” and proceeded to hug me. This for some reason pissed me off greatly but I gave him a tight smile. Apparently he’d thought I was Caribbean or Jamaican, and I found myself wishing I’d lied that I was one of those.
He took off his shirt to reveal tattoos around his chest and upper arm and some weird tribal markings around his belly which sent me into superstitious mode.
Fuck! I swore silently. He was offered to idols as a kid or some shit. He’ll probably transfer some evil spirit to me when we fuck.
I almost left the room but my horniness wouldn’t let me. I needed this konji out of me and when he proceeded to kiss me, nothing else mattered.
We kissed like our lives depended on it, taking each other in passionately. It was intense as hell. He groped my ass tightly and squeezed and groaned. Our hands started pulling each other’s clothes off and he broke the kiss and knelt down to suck my cock. We proceeded to the bed in a 69 position and sucked each other hungrily. It was wet, sloppy, and deeply passionate. I loved the way he groaned passionately and deeply against my dick. I went in on his dick and he went deep on mine, returning each lustful slurp with a more intense suction. This pleasured me deeply and the pace of our oral action kept intensifying by the second. I could feel his dick throb harder in my mouth, but I was too far involved to stop myself. It was so passionate that his cum shot out deep into my throat. I couldn’t stop myself from swallowing. For some reason, this turned him on (a reason I would later learn in this my new journey of sexual experiences), and he in turn blew me harder till I had the most convulsing, head-spinning ejaculation I had ever had! It was so intense, I held on to him for life and support.
As I lay face up, slowly recovering from what was a shattering session and with my head banging lightly with dancing colors before my eyes, I continued holding on to a now limp dick. I felt him turn over to his side and pulled me close. He kissed me and said “Wow” and moved his hands to towards my ass and jiggled the cheeks, saying, “This your big nyash sef.”
I burst out laughing and he joined in, saying as he laughed, “It is true now.” I shrugged and looked down at my body that was now a mix of sweat and cum (I’d pulled out my dick so he couldn’t swallow, yeah I was that paranoid). He got the message and went over to get some moist wipes. He proceeded to try to wipe me clean but my paranoia set in again and I collected the wipes, preferring to do it myself. I muttered, “Thank you.” He nodded and kissed me again, before proceeding to wipe himself.
I called the cab company to send in a driver and they said the cab would be at my location in five minutes. After getting dressed and going to the porch to wait for the cab, he pulled me close, right in full view outside, and attempted to kiss me. I tried to pull away but his lips brushed mine lightly, and he laughed, understanding then that I wasn’t used into PDA.
“I really like you,” he said smiling. “Let’s do this again.”
I responded with a smile. Just then, my phone buzzed with a call. My ride was here. I dashed out under the rain that had started to fall and into the backseat of the taxi. Then I told the driver my location.
As he started to drive, I pulled out my phone to text Isaiah.
Have a nice night. Thank you, I wrote.
The driver’s phone buzzed and he turned in his seat to say to me in his Spanish accent, “Er…did you just send me a message?”
I looked back at my phone with a little embarrassed smile and apologized. I had texted the last caller in my contact by mistake, which was the driver. He laughed and said, “No problem.”
I laid back and closed my eyes as the cab moved in the pouring rain, half grateful that I didn’t write, “Thank you, let’s fuck again soon. I like that dick of yours in my mouth.”
Body count: 1
Written by Duke