It started like most hookups do. Fine guy said “Hi” on an app. Or I said “Hi”. I don’t even remember anymore. The app was sha Facebook.

This man was fine. Like suave-suit-and-dashing-smile kinda fine. (Forget that the beard gang is the 21st century prerequisite for fine, a fitting suit is forever.)

The chat progressed beautifully. I complemented his dress style and that suit. He complimented something of mine. I was too entranced to internalize it.

I cannot remember much of what we talked about that night. I do remember leaving the chat feeling remarkably upbeat at the prospect of unearthing a gem as well as a little downcast at the geographic distance. Let’s just say I live in the middle of nowhere and he at the edge of everywhere.

My Village People must have been peering into their calabash and laughing amongst themselves as they occasionally chanted, “We don catch am.”

But I had an ace up my sleeve – My leave!

I was on leave from my “drain your mind, steal your soul” brand of employment for a week and I told him I would come by to see him.

Then the permutations and calculations started. What if we start with shagging and everything ends after? I might want to build something with this drink of warm chocolate. How best to seem not too eager? See me attempting to win the gay physics Nobel Prize with equations and shit springing up in all corners of my head.

Well, I decided to bring up the fact that we should first meet at a neutral place to chat and only go back to his place if we both liked each other in person as much as we did online. He seemed very much up for it. Cool!

We kept chatting. Excellent conversations. Voice like warm butter spread over a croissant. I know a couple of things I thought of spreading whenever I heard him speak. (Yes, I’m a pervert. Sue me.)

Then, Leave!!!


That short stretch of time when you’re not working for the Matrix but it’s not because you’ve been fired, so you don’t have to worry about food and other basic necessities.

Leave came and I ran down to Lagos. I had lots of things to do there anyways. I just hoped that he would be one of them.

We kept in contact. His work schedule was threatening to mess things up, but them no born am well.

Then, finally, the day came.

I dressed up, left on time and got to the pizzeria right on time. Work had him tied up. Village People were probably peering into their calabash intently at this point like it was a world cup match.

And then, Boom! He showed up. Vhagar 1: Village People 0. (That distance thing at the beginning doesn’t count).

He looked just as fine in person. He looked disheveled after a long day of work, so I didn’t get to see the suave dressing I’d been gawking over. We made small talk over pizza for about an hour and then someone said, “Do you wanna get out of here?” It seemed like an hour too long. Then there was a little Lagos traffic, just small sha, enough to steal 30 minutes.

We got back to his place and the small talk continued, all the way to his room. I swear, I cannot remember a single thing we talked about. Maybe an excellent series he wanted from me, but that’s it.

And then from nowhere, in the midst of all that small talk, came his lips. Damn! I needed that shit like I needed oxygen. And there was tongue. Forget Buhari. I would vote that tongue for President.

There was something to the fact that this was someone I liked on a very physical as well as on a much deeper level. I thought I was going to find a balance of home training. But home training deserted me. The way I misplaced it ehn…

We took off our shirts as the kissing continued. I pushed him to the bed and took off his singlet. Trim bod. Nice. I went for the nipples. More mountain than molehill, just the way I love them (No offense to people whose nipples have to be found by an electron microscope loaned from CERN, Switzerland right in the middle of making out).

Next, he went for my trousers and I went for his. There was an awkward period of entangled hands here and there, but I pulled down his boxers first and the angels came out in drag for that one swansong where they line up and sing Beyoncé covers.


The D was fat, juicy, already erupting precum like an active volcano. I wanted to adopt it, take it home and take good care of it. Probably name it Dickson.

However, since we probably have laws against that sort of thing, I settled for wrapping my mouth around it and praying fervently to Mount Dickson. I mean, there’s something about sucking a good dick that just temporarily makes the world okay. No wars, no famine – Just you and that dick.

The rest of the evening went beautifully. We took turns giving brain-splitting blowjobs and then kissing like army vets that have been apart for ages. We let our tongues trail our bodies like it was Coldstone Ice-cream.

Damn! It was some good stuff!

And then I had to do oversabi and check my phone.

Shit! It was past 9. (There’s this unspoken rule in my place that you have to get home before 10 or else!)

It was past 9 and we had somehow eaten the appetizer and dessert but not the main meal.

I wanted the main meal.

Even though I could’ve made bad decisions and stayed back, home training suddenly emerged from wherever I’d flung it earlier in the evening and started coaxing me to better decisions.

“I have to leave,” I said.

He looked shocked.

I went on to explain. Past 9, wahala people. It was imperative I get back home before 10. Lagos traffic.

It was probably a tad more detailed than that, but who knows? My brain was still on hold from the make-out session.

He tried to get me to change my mind. I wasn’t willing to take the risk. We resumed small talk as we slowly dressed up and I made to leave. Small talk interspersed with the occasional “Imagine if we didn’t waste that one hour at that eatery.” I mean, the pizza wasn’t even that sweet.

He offered to escort me out to the bus stop.

Nice, I thought.

We stepped out and it was dark, with the exception of the stars and the moon that didn’t get the memo. He got a bike for us and the both of us got on it – okada man, me and then him. The bike started and began to zoom through the Lagos streets.

I could feel his semi hard-on pressed against my behind. But I wasn’t sure. So I tried to move back a bit to appreciate it, and suddenly I felt his lips on mine.

He kissed me, right there on that long stretch of Lagos road with the wind in our faces and the stars as our witness. His lips felt perfect as always.

He stopped for a bit. I could hear my heart beating. This is Lagos after all. And yet periodically, I would turn back and steal another kiss.

I leaned back and felt his body against mine as we stole kisses all the way through the ride (or at least until the road became really congested). I swear, with the stars and moon up there, the only thing missing was Sam Smith on a bike next to us serenading us with a live version of Him as our lips touched.

I spent the bus ride home replaying that bike ride and the gay Mills and Boon script we seemed to be acting out over and over.

I did eventually get home before 10.

Yay! Model citizen!

I however never did get a do-over. Our schedules won this time. Vhagar 1: Village People 1.

However, I’ll always remember that bike ride. Now, that’s a memory worth holding on to.

Written by Vhagar

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  1. Bee
    April 18, 11:31 Reply

    Creativity, art, wit, gosh. I couldn’t not comment.

    April 18, 20:31 Reply

    Awesome read. But those darned village people though…

  3. Melvin
    April 19, 00:08 Reply

    I couldn’t just get tired of reading this over and over again.. Awesome constructive story lines. Kudos?

  4. Mr. E
    February 27, 06:53 Reply

    All that kissing on the bike ?

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