One of the problems of being single and with a high libido that you have to satisfy is you get to meet guys with different sexual characteristics. Absent would be that one guy who shared a sexual compatibility with you which made him Bae, and in his place would a roster of guys who alternate between taking you to heaven, running out of gas halfway there, or leaving you disgruntled on earth, feeling like ‘WTF was I thinking hooking up with you sef?’
But no one has ever left me with a vague feeling of amusement until I met Kelly.
In this book of Hoe, the chapter of the Kelly sexperience began on a sunny Facebook afternoon. I can’t recall whose request was accepted, but I do recall suddenly happening on the pictures of his semi-clad, well-sculptured, gym-friendly bod every now and then on my News Feed.
And so, as is the norm with every self-respecting hoe with a sudden thirst for a hunky drink of water, I checked out our mutual friends. Nothing – absolutely nothing – guarantees the French citizenship of a Facebook friend more than the number of fellow Frenchman friends you share in common. (This is why it used to surprise me that my ex-boyfriend, who I met on Badoo by the way, shared not one mutual gay friend with me when we became acquainted on Facebook. I later got to understand why that was so, but that’s a story for another day).
Anyway, with Kelly, there were a handful of shared interests, enough to have me strolling over to his inbox to drop a ‘Hi’. His response, a ‘Hello’, was swift. And before long, we were having a proper platonic chatversation. We soon relocated from Facebook to Whatsapp, and carried on with a chat that was largely unstimulating intellectually. Quite frankly, Kelly was all brawn and very little brains. But that was okay; his pretty face and muscled body, which he simply loved to flaunt in profile picture after profile picture, kept my interest, an interest I knew was purely physical and would quickly get extinguished once I’d had him.
Speaking about having him, I quickly got impatient with the platonic tone of our chats, and hurried things along when I bluntly asked him if he was into men.
His response, while coy, was a dead giveaway. He said, “Why do you ask? You, are you into guys yourself?”
A straight man’s reaction, when posed with such a direct question of his sexuality, would be to fly into a vituperative denial or firm disaffirmation.
When I answered Kelly in the affirmative, he said, “Yes, me too.” This created a shift in our conversations, from platonic to wanton. The messages back and forth got suggestive and lewd, and the hint of sex hung heavy over us.
However, during our chats, he asked me one question that gave me pause. He said, “When did you start?”
You see, that question is typically asked either by late bloomers or those gay guys with a hint of internalized homophobia who believe that being gay is about the sexual act, one they turned on at some point in their past and which they believe they can turn off whenever they’re good and ready to walk the straight path of righteousness societal acceptance.
When Kelly asked me this, I paused because I wanted to know which category he belonged to. Inwardly, I was praying: God, please, don’t let it be the latter. He can’t be pretty, uninteresting AND internally homophobic as well. That’s just an absolute deal breaker for me. Nothing kills me konji faster than when a potential hook-up thinks what we are about is an abomination.
Fortunately, when I replied his question with one of mine: “Why do you ask?” his response identified him as a late bloomer. His answer was a narration: “Well, for me, it’s not long I started, like six months ago. I was in school, and I was very broke. And I was looking for money to make up my school fees. So I called one guy who me and him have been talking on Facebook, and who said he likes me. And he said I should come to his house in Ikeja, let him give me some money. So I went, and then he said that before he will give me the money, we have to do stuffs. I asked him what stuffs. And then, he began to touch me. And before you know it, I was hard and I was touching him too. And we were just touching each other until he poured. Then he gave me the money, and I left. And since then, I’ve been doing it.”
In other words, Kelly believed he became gay when, six months ago, he began engaging in gay sexual activities. I nodded with absolute understanding.
Then he added, “Also, since then, I’ve become a baba in the game.”
Now, that line captured and held my interest from then on to the end of my acquaintanceship with Kelly. No, it wasn’t the kind of interest that had a sexual thrill to it. No. It was one of amusement. I remember the first thought that came to me when I read that message was: Really? Six months of gay sex and you fancy yourself a don? Well, well… (in Maleficent’s voice)
A couple of weeks passed after this chatversation before we were able to settle on a date. It was going to be an evening hook-up at my place. It was a hot evening, and he came over clad in jeans and a wifebeater that clung to the bulges of his pecs and abs to sinful perfection. As he began pulling off the wifebeater, I told him to do so slowly; I wanted to finally satisfy my Magic Mike striptease fantasy. As he stood half naked before me, that sinewy body looking even better in real life, I died and began my journey to heaven.
However, that journey hit a roadblock and I was instantly resurrected when I began to reach for him and he mumbled, “I don’t kiss.”
Instantly, that line dropped into my mind: Since then, I’ve become a baba in the game.
Usually, when a potential lay tells me those three words: “I don’t kiss”, I’d calmly pull my thighs shut, pull my boxers back on, and close up shop for the day. These motions would usually be accompanied by extreme irritation.
But in Kelly’s case, because I was thinking about what he’d said, I wasn’t irritated. I was amused. I was thinking about how one can think he’s a sex god when he doesn’t observe the rudimentary pleasures of making out. Whose report was he buying into sef, that of the sexual partners he’d had or the devil?
My amusement made me curious, and I shrugged. Okay then. You don’t kiss? Fine. Let’s see what you got.
He peeled off his jeans and shucked his underwear, and out pranced an impressive erection. Very impressive. What would very much qualify as a big dick. I began to get a picture of why he believed he was a baba. A number of power bottoms may have mooned over his dick and bounced enthusiastically on it, hence giving his impressionable, late-blooming mind the idea that he was simply the best.
At this point, my curiosity turned to boredom. First of all, I’m not even a fan of getting ploughed by big dicks, let alone hooking up with a guy who believes his sexual prowess lies in merely having one. I was about done with Kelly, and my disinterest showed on my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t like big dicks,” I simply said.
“No, no, it’s good,” he began to protest.
“I’m sure it is,” I cut in. “But it’s just not for me.”
“I promise I’ll be gentle –”
“It’s not how you think, I promise. Just be patient. I’ll show you. It won’t even pain you.”
And so my curiosity was reawakened. I told myself to go ahead and engage with him, to see what he had to offer. Perhaps his dick possessed some Hogwarts magical ability (what’s that shrink potion Hermione Granger and co dabbled with in class?) to penetrate without causing pain. I wanted to know, so we got into bed. We were completely naked. And he went to town on my nipples, nibble-bite-licking his way from one teat to the other. He wasn’t bad at it, but he didn’t exactly send me into gasping throes of passion either. And while I usually, actively give as good as I get during sex, in this case, his declaration that he doesn’t kiss had made me thoroughly unwilling to give anything. For once in my sexual history, I lay like (how did Ken put it again?) a slab of wood on the bed and watched him slobber his way from my nipples to my belly button. I wanted to know what he’d do about my erection; it is my belief that he who does not kiss does not suck. And Kelly didn’t disappoint. He nibbled at my navel for quite a while, and instead of progressing southward to my dick, he came back up to my nipples. I chuckled inwardly. Yep, I was back to being amused. Baba indeed!
When he was done depositing his saliva all over my midriff, he straightened and began angling his erection toward my mouth.
I quickly put a stop to that by shaking my head decisively, not even bothering to come up with an excuse why I didn’t want to blow him. He looked crestfallen, before he began moving my hip around, hi intention to gain access to my ass very clear.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I obliged him and turned around on my stomach.
“I’m ready for the main thing,” he grunted.
“So should I get the condom and lube?” I enquired, looking over my shoulder at him, wearing a half-smile on my face.
“No, I won’t need them,” he replied.
Hian! Who doesn’t need lube and condoms to have gay sex bikonu?
I said nothing. I merely watched him, my buttocks tense, ready to push back if he tried to pull a fast one. He slapped my ass cheeks a little, grabbed them, kneaded them, and sighed with pleasure. Clearly my ass had met with his approval.
I watched him.
He placed his dick on top of the mounds and began to move the shaft over my ass this way and that.
Still I watched.
He proceeded to insert his dick in between the cheeks and began sliding back and forth.
I was still watching.
Back and forth he went, back and forth, just sliding back and forth, his dick zipping to and fro between my ass cheeks, never once attempting to turn and dive inside my asshole. I thought this was just preliminary. Before long, I realized it wasn’t. He was soon panting and his muscles were clenched and his body had stiffened and he was sliding faster.
In his mind, the dude was fucking me!
“Oh baby, oh yes baby!” he began to grunt as he slid faster, the stiff friction of his moving dick against my ass cheeks causing me some discomfort down there. “Oh fuck yes, baby… Oh yes…”
I could not believe what I was experiencing. Laughter bubbled up inside me but remained unreleased by my incredulity. Seriously? This was happening?
Finally, I’d had enough. I raised my hand to push those well-defined pecs of his back. He resisted at first, so intent was he on his rush to his climax. I pushed harder and my purpose finally communicated itself to him. He wheeled away from my body and dropped on the bed, grabbing his dick and proceeding onto a vigorous masturbation. The wanking lasted about fifteen seconds before he was groaning and shaking and spurting his semen all over his body and my sheets.
I lay there, watching him as he finally climbed down from the top. His breathing gradually normalized and he turned to me. “How was it?” he asked in a tone that was flush with satisfaction. “Did you enjoy it?”
At this point, I couldn’t help it. Looking at him, seeing on his face that he actually, genuinely expected praise from me, made me lose control over my hilarity. A giggle worked its way up my throat and came out in a short laugh.
He started frowning and said in a voice that sounded hurt, “Did I not try?”
The question undid me. I just kept laughing as I rose from the bed, was still laughing as I pulled on my boxers and T-shirt, and was just barely winding down as I showed him the door.
Written by Pink Panther