It started with an online flirtation, from instagram to Facebook to WhatsApp. He was a man who looked to be in his forties and he had grizzled good looks that qualified him for a Zaddy.
He told me: “When I fuck you, I don’t want you to say my name. I don’t want you to call me baby. I just want you to call me Daddy, because I fuck to own you.”
He talked a lot of talk that always turned me on.
He was also based in London, and so most of our chatversations usually ended with me navigating to my porn stash and putting my right hand to task.
Eventually, last year, he gave me good news. He was relocating to Nigeria. I didn’t know why anyone would want to move from the UK to this Giant Mess of Africa, but hey, I was not here to argue the imminence of the promised fuck.
He settled in Abuja but had lots of engagements that had him traversing all over a few parts of the country. I waited him out. I was patient. After all, I’d been waiting for the D for a year plus. A few more weeks wouldn’t hurt.
Eventually, I had to be in Abuja, and fortunately, he was in Abuja at the same time. We communicated details of our different our itineraries to each other and realized that we had a window of an opportunity of two days to get together before he had to jet off to Lafia while I cool my heels a little while in Abuja before taking off to Enugu.
So he booked a hotel room and I went over. The moment he opened the door, I felt my man-pussy do a little clap of delight: for the man standing before me was just as Zaddy-licious as he looked in his pictures.
That was when I knew that I was going to thoroughly enjoy shagging this man.
He must’ve come to the same conclusion himself too, because as I stepped in, past him, affording him a view of my denim-clad derriere, he said, “We have the whole day, baby. And I’m going to fuck you all day long.”
Now, even though his words set a flutter of small desires racing across my skin, I felt a stab of apprehension. You see, I’m not the “let’s fuck all day” kinda Bottom. I don’t do hours-upon-hours of sex. My man-pussy is not a mine and I object t o any kind of sex that goes on endlessly like the Top is digging for gold.
And so, when this gorgeous Daddy told me he was going to fuck me all day long, I glanced at my wristwatch, saw that the time was 10am and swallowed hard as I tried to calculate when exactly “all day long” ends. 4pm? 5pm? 6? Did “fuck me all day long” literally mean we’d be humping all the way from 10am to, erm, say 4pm?
Jesus, father of Mary, Joseph and Beyoncé!
However, my apprehension promptly disappeared the second my Daddy took me into his arms. This guy had a certification in lovemaking, something that became evident the moment his lips meshed with mine and the fires banking in our naked bodies crashed together. Every stroke of his fingers, every place his mouth and tongue travelled to, left a trail of fever that perpetually threatened to consume me. He finger-fucked me to my first orgasm, an occurrence that strangely didn’t leave me too weak or make me resistant to his cock when it was ready to go in after nearly an hour of foreplay. I was made to feel alive, in control and submissive all at the same time. And we zestfully fucked all over the room – the bed, up against the wall, in the bathroom, under the shower, back to the bed. When we came up for air and I checked the time, I could not believe it was 2.30pm.
We eventually left the hotel room by 5pm, with Me, myself and I coming to the undisputed agreement that I’d just had the best sex of my life.
Now here’s a detail about me that you should know. I am a lover of sweet things. This is why I do not drink, because I can’t stand the taste of alcohol. This is why I faithfully ingest milk, even though I’m lactose intolerant. This is why I recoil from sexual sadomasochism, because I can never understand the pleasure of that much pain during sex. And this is why I’m a hoe, because, well, I love sex.
And like everyone who worships at the altar of sweet things, I believe a good thing should have continuity, carry on and never stop, at least not soon. This was why I could not believe it when after that memorable day, my Daddy suddenly stopped being available for a repeat performance. We’d agreed to see the next day to hook up again, but he had to meet with his sister. Then we rescheduled to get together after his return from Lafia, but he had to meet up with an important appointment. I’d been around the block long enough to recognize the signs – that what we had was a daytime one-night stand.
But I couldn’t believe it. I never had. I’d never been able to understand why good things don’t often last in the sexual interactions of gay men. I am quick to assume that if any two people are able to generate great chemistry in bed, they should stick around for at least 3 or 5 times to explore the chemistry further. If there’s good sex to be had from one hookup, why are we in a hurry to close the chapter and move along in search of another hookup? I’m not talking about starting a relationship; I’m talking about longevity in the hookup scene.
This naiveté of mine had often set me up for some major stressing when good sex always left me with expectations of more that was sometimes never met. Guys just wanna fuck and keep it moving.
When I realized that that had happened yet again with this Daddy of mine, I found myself making a New Year Resolution – and actually taking it to heart – for the first time in years. And that is: to be a better hoe in 2018. To be a more soulless man whore. To recognize when good sex means there’s more to be had or that’s it for this segment.
Until the right man comes along, 2018 is the year to stop stressing over good D.
Written by Pink Panther