A DIFFERENT KIND OF SCUM

There was a time, awhile back, on Twitter, when a lady asked other women to send her DMs of the worst hookups they’ve ever had with men, and she would in turn share their stories in a thread. That thread went viral – because of the very nasty stories these women had to tell; about how absolutely dirty, disgusting and hygienically-abominable these men they’d had sex with were. From horrid stories of the man whose ass she would grab and scabs of fecal matter would drop from his ass-crack to those whose bedrooms and kitchens were so overflowing with dirty things, rodents were scampering about as they fucked. The men in these stories redefined the term “men are scum”.

These stories were unbelievable, and with each one I read, I remember thinking, “Oh you poor woman. I can’t relate, because gay men can never!”

I remember talking about that thread and my conviction that gay men are an exception with two friends, and they both laughed. One said quite sagely, “Leave that thing abeg. Saying gay men are not dirty is a generalization; it’s just like saying that gay men are all fashionable or that gay men all know how to decorate.” And with a pointed look at me, he added, “Or that all gay men can cook.”

I felt attacked by that. But I digress.

The other friend said, “I have it on good authority that gay men can be just as equally dirty as straight men. You know I love to rim during sex, and a lot of noise is made about how Bottoms take excess time to get ready for sex. But I have encountered assholes that, when I bent down to rim them, I hated myself. As in, these Bottoms would know they’re going to have sex, and still bring an ass that looks like it’s barely encountered a wash or a toilet roll for me to rim and fuck.”

I laughed at that. I thought he was exaggerating. I mean, come on. Dirty assholes is the heterosexual man’s department. I was yet to meet a dirty gay man, so to me, gay men understand the assignment when it comes to the words: “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

This I believed until very recently.

We’d chatted on Grindr. Pictures were exchanged and information shared. He was a very cute, dark-skinned guy, with red lips and a full head of hair that he had done up in thick, black curls. He wanted me to come over to his place, and fortunately, he lived just close enough for me to agree to that.

So, a little under an hour after we got acquainted on Grindr, I was on my way to see him. He lived so close, that I just needed one quick keke ride, and I was at his estate. I walked in, looking out for the Redeemed Church he said was on the left side of the road. When I saw the church, I was lifting my phone to call him, when his call came in. He was standing on the verandah of his house in the block of flats opposite the church, looking out for me. I answered and he gestured, getting my attention to where he was. I walked into the compound, climbed up one flight of stairs, and he was opening the door for me.

The first sign I saw that told me that this guy was a dirty man, his good looks notwithstanding, was the mounds of dog shit that were scattered about the floor of his verandah. As he opened the door for me, he told me to watch my step. So I looked down, and there they were: dog shit scattered all over the floor. From those that looked really fresh, like the dog had shat them that morning, to those that looked quite old, like they’d been lying there for more than twenty-four hours.

As a dog-owner who is always rethinking his decision to get a puppy because of how much I detest seeing his shit in the house and how quickly I like to get rid of it, I felt horrified by what I was staring at. THIS GUY HAD DOG SHIT ALL OVER THE FLOOR OF HIS VERANDAH!!! I had to gingerly pick my steps as I made my way to the door that led into the living room.

“You have a dog?” I asked as I went inside.

“Yes,” he simply answered.

I nodded and didn’t say anything more. I didn’t even want to meet this dog that had converted their verandah to his toilet.

Then, there was the living room. It was large and spartanly furnished, which led me to believe that this guy probably has a flatmate, and that all the furnishings probably takes place in their individual bedrooms, and that this living room is maybe more like a common room than a parlour. But I couldn’t help but notice three empty sachets of pure water that were lying on the tiled floor close to one of the sofas, and the empty, used dish that was on the stool next to the sofa.

Somebody finished eating and didn’t have the decency to take out his trash to the kitchen?!

I was starting to judge this man.

He led me to his bedroom, and I was right. It was in there that the plasma television was hanging on the wall, next to the enlarged portrait of him. That was as far as I got, before everything else got my attention: there were mounds of clothes scattered everywhere, heaps of them on the floor, tumbling out of the wardrobe, settled comfortably against the foot of the bed, and even commanding a section of the bed itself. Clothes everywhere!!! Those that looked dirty and those that looked like they came back from the laundry, and their owner was basically putting them on straight from the wrapping. He must be a smoker, because there were small heaps of ashes scattered all over the vanity table, next to the ashtray that was overflowing with cigarette butts. I had taken off my palm slippers at the doorway, but when I stepped into the room and felt the underside of my feet meet with a film of sandy dirt on the tiled floor, I recoiled, slipping my palm slippers back on before entering the room.

My whole skin was crawling. Goose bumps were racing all over my body as I tried not to think about the last time a broom had come into this room. I felt like an alien who’d been dropped into another planet.

“Do you have lubes and condom?” he asked as he made his way to the bed.

The bed whose sheets I was now staring at suspiciously. How many men had he fucked on those sheets? When was the last time they were changed? How many people’s sweats and semen and anal juices was I going to put my body down on top?

The thought of that made saliva rush to my mouth – usually an indication that my stomach is pushing something up for me to vomit. I panicked and told him I needed to use the bathroom.

The bathroom adjoined the bedroom, and as he was pointing to its doorway, I was already fleeing inside. I had to spit out the saliva in my mouth, otherwise, vomit would surely follow suit.

But what I encountered in the bathroom worsened my case. Those dirty clothes were occupying a corner in there, there were toothpaste markings all over the white marble of the sink, and –

THE TOILET WAS UNFLUSHED!!!

Not only was the water yellowed from unflushed usage, but there were dollops of shit floating around in the toilet bowl!!!

Disgust rushed through me. My stomach churned aggressively. And the vomit heaved upward. I bent over that toilet bowl and threw up right on top of all that shit.

MY GOD!!!

I looked around for water to rinse my mouth. But then I stopped. How could I ever trust anything in this house enough to put inside my mouth?! I couldn’t even bring myself to touch the lid of the plastic water drum in the bathroom. What would I contaminate myself with if I touched that? What would I find inside the drum if I open it? And if it is water that is inside, how am I sure it is even safe to put inside my mouth, even if it’s just to gaggle?

I stepped out of the room to see this very handsome guy already spread out on his bed, naked, his dick standing ramrod-straight.

“Come suck this shit, babe,” he said with what was supposed to be a seductive tone.

I glowered at him, thinking: I couldn’t put your water in my mouth; is it your dick that you think I will put inside my mouth?! Imagine this nonsense of a human being!

“I have to go,” I said.

“What!” he spluttered, sitting up.

“I feel sick,” I said, gesturing to the bathroom. “I just threw up in there. I think I’m coming down with something. I have to go please. We’ll see later.”

He looked crestfallen. He looked sad. He looked disappointed.

Oga, that’s your business. I just want to get the heck out of here, back to the outside where I can breathe in clean air.

And two minutes later, I was doing exactly that. I was outside, walking back towards the estate gate and breathing in cleansing lungfuls of air.

Gay men are men. And men are dirty abeg!!!

Written by Pink Panther