THE FIRST AND LAST TIME

He slid into your DM.

Before then, he was someone you’d noticed on social media. He was a writer, and you were sapiosexual enough to appreciate him for that.

But you’d never really interacted with him beyond the occasional comments dropped on Facebook posts. Which is why you were surprised when he one day sent you a message on Messenger, enquiring about something. You can’t remember what he asked, but you would later realize that that was just a ruse to mask the fact that he had in fact slid into your DM.

A conversation ensued – an engaging back-and-forth that charmed you very much. As far as you knew, he was heterosexual, but you were smitten by him.

You liked him, and you dropped hints. You flirted. You made veiled propositions. At first, you were careful, but the more charming your interactions with him got, the more attracted to him you felt, and the bolder you got with your advances.

And when he finally got what you were serving, he turned you down.

It was the most crushing thing you’d ever felt, that rejection. He let you down gently, but you bruised still. However sensitively he said the “No, I don’t do guys”, it didn’t save your heart from the hurt that wreaked its way through it.

And then, that day passed, and another day, and another, as all things given to time and nature – and you healed, albeit slowly.

A promise you made to yourself following what happened was that you would never go back to the chat with Mofe, never to re-read all that heart-pouring and soul-baring, the intentions you had reluctantly but fearlessly made known to him. You especially couldn’t bear to go back to that chat to see the rejection that came as a response to your vulnerability.

And you kept to that promise.

Your friends encouraged you to maintain your distance from him, and let any move at further interactions be up to him.

“If he wants to talk to you after what happened, let him,” a friend sternly said. “Stay aloof. Let all that he sees of you be that you are unaffected by his rejection.”

And you listened. Your pride helped stiffen your resolve. The hurt you were healing from was also a driving force.

It helped that he never messaged you again.

Then you got a call.

It was an unknown number, one you didn’t have saved on your phone. You were in a taxi, and as you reached your thumb to press the Answer Button, you were also winding the glass up over the window to cut off the strong breeze that was whipping across your face.

You placed the phone to your ear and waited.

There was static coming from the other end. Then background noises of children, before a strained, intentional voice said something that was faint, made hard to hear by the static. You heard something that sounded like an introduction, but you didn’t catch the name.

“Hello? I can’t hear you,” you said.

The caller was speaking, but you still couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Exasperated, you said, “Can you call me back in, like, an hour please? I’m currently in a taxi. Maybe then, I’ll be somewhere where I can hear you well.”

There was more static, and you hoped he’d heard you as you disconnected the call.

About an hour later, he called again. This time, you could hear him well as the caller apologized for the last time he called.

“Okay… So, who –” you started.

He barreled on with, “So, yeah, it’s Mofe. Sorry, when I called you earlier, you were…”

But you had stopped listening as your entire system seemed to go into overdrive with a surge of emotions.

Your mind was alive with perplexity.

Why is he calling you?

How did he get your number?

What game is the universe playing?

WHY IS HE CALLING YOU?!

“Why are you calling me, please?”

Despite yourself, your tone was polite. You blurted out the question, but your voice possessed a peculiar calmness that you didn’t feel.

“I just want to see you,” he said. “Is that possible?”

Yes!

“Umm, no,” you said. “Wait, why though?”

“I heard you’ll soon be traveling out of the state and I feel like we should see before that happens,” he said.

You like to think of yourself as a self-schooled person. Evaluating yourself by yourself, unlearning, chastising, correcting, learning, approving, implementing – all by yourself. And in one of those lectures, you were taught that to be done with the past in its totality, when this past resurfaces, you have to tackle it with no bias, sentiment or malice.

So, you said, “Okay. I’ll let you know how that will work, Mofe. Thanks for calling.”

“Thanks for giving me a moment of your time.”

Then the call ended.

You were grateful he hadn’t tried to turn this into a phone conversation. You dropped your phone and buried your face in your hands that you now realized were trembling.

Why does he want to see you?

What does he want to say to you?

Are you sure you want to see him?

Can you handle facing him so soon after he rejected you?

WHY DOES HE WANT TO SEE YOU?!

You exhaled as your mind roiled with confusion, indecisiveness and a host of other intangible emotions.

Mofe came over to your place the next day.

He was looking youthful. Too youthful. You hadn’t expected this look as you had always associated his online persona with seriousness and an elitist debonairness. Most writers, especially the ones who are published, have that sophistication about them – a sophistication that was very absent from the young man clad in a loose, long-sleeved shirt, tight black pants and Fez cap.

He was also smiling dashingly at you as he paid the bike that brought him to your place.

He looked pretty…regular.

And you like regular.

Damn!

You sometimes hate your honesty. People lie to themselves, but not you. You could not deny the immense attraction you felt for him as he walked, smilingly, toward you.

You had to struggle to hold on to your resolve not to play yourself a second time. This person had turned you down. He’d said that he was heterosexual, and could never be into boys. He had further patronized you by cajolingly telling you that you will find someone who will reciprocate the attraction you feel, but that that person just isn’t him.

And for three months, you had endeavored and had eventually gotten to the point where you forgot all about him: his intelligence that drew you in, the halo of mystery about him that had you yearning to know the man inside, that very full smile that was at that very moment causing you to –

No!

Remember he is straight!

For your sanity, you decided to recall your anger and hurt, and hold on to them. They would keep you from sinking into the madness of your lust.

But you didn’t expect that when he got comfortable on your settee, he would begin to outrightly flirt with you, engaging you with that familiar effortlessness that reawakened those initial attractions. He was even more outgoing than he was on social media, and you were finding him very irresistible.

Why is he here?

Why is he doing this to you?

Does he have no clue how hard he is making this for you?

WHY IS HE HERE?!

You fought it. Tried to ignore the innuendos he threw. Especially when he started the utterly confusing conversation about how you are his type of guy, before going into a detailed narration of one or two sexual experiences he had had with guys.

So, he is…not straight?

You never got around to asking for that clarification, as you two were soon caught up in the throes of passion right there on the settee. Grasping, clutching, caressing, lips locked in a frenzy of tongues and moans.

What is going on?

How did it get to this?

WHAT IS GOING ON?!

But you paid no heed to your mind. You were absolutely possessed with passion for this man. You kissed him back just as fiercely as he was kissing you, your hands groping all over his body as you reveled in the pleasure of being this close to him.

Then he stopped kissing you and pulled back a little before saying, “You know this will be the last time you’ll see me, right?”

It took you a few seconds to process the origin and import of that question, especially in a moment like that, and when you did, you replied, half-angry, half-confused, “Why do you say this?”

“Because it’s true. You’re leaving. We just may never meet again,” he said matter-of-factly.

He leaned forward to claim your lips again, but you pulled back. Those freshly-kissed lips of his were beckoning to you, wanting you to sink yourself into their essence, but you weren’t done getting clarification.

“You sound like you do not want to see me again,” you said. “Like you’re happy about that possibility – No, wait, like you’re in fact positive that you will never see me again.” As you talked, you uncoiled yourself from his arms, feeling a different kind of heat surge through your body. “Is this some type of game to you? Am I a–”

You never got to finish. He grabbed you and kissed you, the connection with his lips reigniting that passion that swallowed your ire.

For the next several minutes, you were consumed by your desire for him. After an intense making-out, he wanted to go all the way, but this was borrowed time. Any moment, your uncle or aunt or cousins would return home, and the thought of that intrusion, that fear, made the rest of your sexual relations a fumble. He dry-humped you; his erection rubbed up against your bare ass. But he seemed too preoccupied with the fear of your relatives suddenly coming home to be able to cum.

And so, with both your desires frustrated, he eventually left.

As you sat there, on the settee, inhaling his scents and still tasting him, you slowly came to your realizations about him.

He had lied to you.

When he turned you down in your inbox, he had lied to you about who he was. That he didn’t like boys, when he very clearly did.

He was also as attracted to you as you were to him.

That was why he came here today, why he’d wanted to see you. He’d heard that you’d be leaving town soon, and wanted to come take a piece of you before he loses his chance to. Just a first and last taste of this…this thing that he has forbidden himself from indulging, a complication he would never have to deal with because it would be the last time he would ever see you.

You started to feel used.

He had used you.

Your phone rang just then, and even as you answered, you saw what he could only be calling for: his neckband. His favourite accessory, he had said over and over all through the time he spent in your place. You saw it lying on the floor.

And you wondered, with deep empathy, just how many other people like you that Mofe is going to ruin with this fear he seems to have over accepting his reality.

Written by Delle