My phone beeped on the first of January 2020, and I checked to see what text was, believing it was the usual disturbance from my service provider.
It was a “Happy New Year” message and the sender wasn’t registered on my phone. So, I checked the number on truecaller, to discover that it belonged to a guy I used to have sex with, whom I’d cut off from for almost a year.
His name (for the purpose of this story) is Fidel.
I texted him back: ‘Thanks, Fidel.” Then I swiftly saved his number. I’d deleted it all those months ago because I was making the effort to get him out of my life. I’d also blocked him on Facebook and WhatsApp.
But on that first day of January, Lord knows I was very glad to get his number back, because some time ago, I’d unblocked him and tried reconnecting with him and he didn’t respond.
Fidel was my friend’s older brother. Back when I was in secondary school, I used to visit their house a lot as my friend’s entire family knew me well. And I got on along with all the members of her family – all but her older brother, Fidel. He rarely spared a word for him whenever I met him at his house. He was the kind of person who would breeze into the house with a straight face, into the living room where my friend and I would either be gisting or watching a movie, and then walk past us without acknowledging my greeting. I used to not like him very much for that; I thought he was a snob and not a nice fellow.
Years later, I was in the University of Lagos when Fidel sent me a friend request on Facebook. I accepted, but that didn’t change our relationship. Our chats inbox never got past the “Hello, Hi, How are you doing? How’s school? How’s your family?” phase. Since he was the one who often chatted me up, it was apparent he was making an effort to establish an acquaintanceship between us. But I never really warmed up to him; I still thought of him as that snobbish, not-nice fellow who never responded to my greetings.
He was probably a follower of my posts on Facebook, because on this day, after I’d just rounded up my youth service and was back home where I barely had any friends left, I’d updated something about being bored at home. And then, I got a beep on Messenger, and there he was with the kind of greeting that had me doing a double take.
“How are you, dear?” he’d typed.
I didn’t spare much time to ponder on the odd familiarity; I was just too grateful for the distraction. So, I typed back: “I’m fine, Fidel. And you?”
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he asked if I was around. I said yes. I asked why he wanted to know, and he replied by asking if he could come over to my place. This was even odder than the “dear” in his greeting. We weren’t friends, barely even acquainted to the point of him visiting him. But I needed the company, so I said it was okay. We exchanged numbers and he signed off the chat.
I didn’t expect him to come over right away, because it was a weekday and I figured he’d be at work. It was about 10 AM. But surprise, surprise, he was soon calling me to let me know he was at the junction I’d directed him to stop at. I found myself wondering what workplace lets its staff to take off during office hours, and in the morning for that matter.
I went out to meet him, and was pleased to see how well he was looking as an adult. I hadn’t seen him in many years since I was in secondary school. I brought him back to my house and we soon got settled in the sitting room, gisting like we’d been that close for a long time. I brought up the time when I used to come over to his parents’ house, and he wouldn’t respond to my greetings, telling him that I thought he was a snob because of that behaviour. He hastened to assure me that he wasn’t a snob; he was simply mostly preoccupied with his studies back then (I suspected he simply saw me as his younger sister’s friend who he was much too senior to relate with). When I asked him about work, he said there wasn’t much going on at work, and as a supervisor, he had a certain level of freedom.
He also told me that he’d married a pastor’s daughter and had children too.
All through this, I kept on wondering why exactly he was here, even though I was enjoying his company.
I would soon get my answer.
As we chatted away, he moved his right hand close to my left hand, and with studied nonchalance, he took my hand in his. I was startled by this move but acted like I didn’t notice it – which was easy to do, because I actually froze when he took my hand. My heart had started beating fast and I was going through a whirlwind of reasons mentally why this man who I’d known most of my life and yet only just knew today would have my hand in his. We had never said anything to each other about which way we swung – and yet, here he was running his fingers through mine.
And just like that, I began to really notice how very attractive he was. And he was very attractive. Beautiful face, well-kept afro, pouty lips, perfect dentition that flashed every time he opened his mouth to speak or laugh, and a lean, lithe body that was too comfortably lounging on my father’s sofa.
And he was playing with my palm and fingers with his own slender fingers, saying things I was no longer paying attention to.
I suppose my lack of resistance encouraged him to make his next move. He made to stretch his body, only for him to slant my way and without warning, planted his lips on mine. He kissed me, and I automatically kissed him back. It was beautiful and passionate, and felt like we’d been kissing each other for a very long time. It lasted a minute, and then he broke the kiss.
My eyes fluttered open as he leaned away from me. He was looking at me and I was looking back at him. For what seemed like a long time, I didn’t know what to say.
Then I asked what made him think I’d be receptive to his advances, and he said he’d done his research. And here I was thinking I was very discrete; I hardly ever hooked up because I am a very paranoid fellow. He didn’t say who had told him whatever he knew about me, but he mentioned that we had a mutual friend on Facebook and who went to Unilag with me. I didn’t think much on this; I didn’t pursue it further either. I was just suddenly possessed by this need to have his body on my body in my bed and right away.
The rainbow gods were listening, because I can’t recall how we got naked right there in the sitting room, but we were soon staggering the way to my bedroom, in between kisses and caresses. In bed, he was good. He was sex. He had an energy that gave me a serious high. He was beautiful to hold everywhere; I just couldn’t get enough of his kisses and his touch and the way he teased my nipples and sucked my penis. We were so fired up with desire, that I didn’t have a care in the world – which was reckless, considering anyone in my family could have walked into the house that morning. I was gasping my way to heaven as he ate every part of me and ate my ass like it was his breakfast.
We were both versatile, and so, I matched him energy for energy. We ended up taking turns to fuck each other. His ass was forever soft and receptive, and yet, I loved how he recoiled often as I fucked him. For me, I’d never been skilled at bottoming; I had tried a few times and failed at most. My wins were only at the times when my partner was skilled enough to give me intense foreplay; that relaxes me. And Fidel was simply fantastic at foreplay, so I was able to take him in – though not for long, because he was very big, three times the size of my cock. I honestly did not envy his wife.
That day was the start of a fuck-lationship with Fidel. And boy, did he like to fuck. He would always holler me, wanting to come over and fuck. Dude was always horny, and would show up two or three times a week, sometimes on Sunday evenings. He showed very little disposition for anything romantic; he simply gave great sex. And I was fine with that.
Until I wasn’t.
I started wanting more.
I wanted to know where he lived. I wanted us to fuck in his house. I wanted to know who else he was hanging out with, who else he was fucking. I knew he was fucking some other guys because of certain things he let slip during our conversations. When I playfully accused him to doing other guys but me, he neither denied nor defended himself.
I also worried about our carelessness. That first day we had sex without condoms could have been excused as a result of the high that comes from two lovers discovering themselves and their passions for the very first time. But we continued not having protected sex. He never suggested us using condoms. Whenever I complained, which wasn’t very often, he’d kiss me and somehow charm me into forgetting my unease. I never insisted, because he was married and I naively thought he wouldn’t endanger his wife and family by being this careless with any other person.
In retrospect, I have to wonder why I would ever think so foolishly.
We continued to have frequent sex, and then during one visit, he had this bad cough, which I advised him to get treatment for. Even with the cough, I didn’t resist when he made the move for us to get naked. I was horny and needed to feel his dick inside me. And so, we got all the way down as usual.
The next day, I was at the outsourcing office where I’d started frequenting for a job, when the side of my lower lip started itching. It was a persistent itch that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much I scratched.
By noontime, I had developed rashes and swellings around my mouth and body. Before evening, I was feverish. I self medicated, reasoning that I just had a curious case of malaria. The next day, my throat turned into a warzone of pain, and I couldn’t swallow food without gasping. It became so painful at a point, that the only thing I could get past it was water.
On the third day, I Googled my symptoms, to see results suggesting I had tonsillitis. I was scared and pained. Google also proffered homemade remedies to try that would take care of the problem with time. I purchased all that I needed, and also visited the hospital for some medication. While I was in the hospital waiting room, a girl took a look at me and said with a laugh, “You kissed the wrong lips.”
I chuckled along with her, all the while thinking about how right she was.
For a couple of days, as I took care of myself, I didn’t hear from Fidel. Eventually, I buzzed him on WhatsApp and told him he’d given me tonsillitis.
And Dude simply replied me with “OK.”
I tried to stifle my resentment of that, and instead went on to remind him about that bad cough he brought over to my place, about the symptoms I developed and the treatment I was giving myself. I also advised him to avoid infecting anyone else by staying away from kissing his wife until he was fully treated.
And after my entire sermon, what I got was another “OK.”
I was mad! What was this guy’s problem!
I had to dismiss him and focus on my health. For two weeks, I was in pain. It got so severe that I found myself tearing up at the mere thought of eating anything. Putting anything past my throat was pure torture.
And for those two weeks, Fidel never once bothered to check on me. The guy who was coming to my place to fuck three, four times a week disappeared.
As I recovered, I got bitter. And without making any effort to communicate with him, I blocked him everywhere and deleted his number.
And for the longest time, I missed his heaven of a dick.
It had been almost a year since that traumatic period, and here he was, out of the blue, sending me a “Happy New Year” text.
From New Year text exchanges, we were soon on WhatsApp, chatting again. He was the one who brought up how we left things, with him apologizing and saying he knew I’d have a lot of things to say to him. But I didn’t. It had been so long and my bitterness had waned. Plus I really did miss him. And his dick!
We talked about the upcoming nuptials of my friend, his sister. She’d be getting married sometime in January. We talked about reconnecting at the wedding, and I was excited.
But the wedding turned out to be a really rowdy affair. It was crowded and the food was insufficient. The much time I spent with him was during the couple’s dance, when he answered my questions about the groom, while he bounced his baby on his knee. (Clearly, he’d scored another one for his family)
I eventually left the wedding without spending as much time with him as I’d have loved. But I was back to being smitten by him; seeing him again brought back memories.
A week later, I was asking for us to get together. He agreed, but said he had gotten extremely busy with work and didn’t have as much time as he used to have. I said okay. I wasn’t going to push it, because the thought of my tonsillitis crisis would often creep into my mind to cool my ardour.
But I know that las-las, Fidel and I will fuck again.
Written by Tariq