NIGHTMARE ON SILK SHEETS

Failure to plan is planning to fail – by some pretentious motivational speaker

I like to think of myself as a comforter of some sorts. Newlyweds or about-to-be-wed couples have their marriage counselors, addicts and the traumatized have therapists, and the sadly heartbroken and shattered have, well…me.

Of course, this isn’t a natural gift of mine though. As someone who has seen enough sour endings to a relationship to last a lifetime, I had so many times been comforted by close friends, so much so that I incidentally picked up on a few pointers that seemed to work in getting over the situation and applied them to instances where I was the one doing the consoling. It’s a daunting task, honestly, especially when dealing with our rather dramatic brothers (and sisters every now and then) with the tears and the tantrums and having to walk them through the various stages of grief (aka, the valley of the shadow of death).

Anyway, I was at this friend’s place sometime ago doing the Lord’s work. He recently had his heart smashed to smithereens by some scum of the earth, and I, the good friend and comforter, was more than willing to lend a shoulder for him to cry on.

I’d always known this friend (let’s call him Benji) to be a tough nut; so hearing him try to hold back sobs as he recounted the events of the breakup was a new experience for me. If this dude was downcast over something like this, then he must’ve really been broken.

Normally I wouldn’t switch up my schedule for something so troublesome if I’d earlier known the person to be an established drama queen. But this was different. Heck, I had to leave work early, hoping he wouldn’t do something stupid in a fit of misery.

In fifteen minutes, I was knocking on his front door, unconsciously praying that I wasn’t too late. It took a few more knocks before he eventually dragged his lethargic self to the door and lazily undid the bolts. Christ, he was a mess! His hair and clothes were disheveled, eyes red and puffy with a countenance that suggested meditated suicide (okay maybe not, but he looked really bad sha).

So yeah, this was worse than I thought.

At once I began to put my experience in action by first allowing him rant about the whole ordeal to his heart’s content, then assuring him that none of it was his fault, letting him know how much of a douche his now-ex was. (To be clear, it wasn’t entirely the guy’s fault. There was some blame that belonged to Benji as well, but bruthas before mistas, right?). Then I attempted to inject some light-heartedness into the situation by talking about my own failed relationships, which for some reason makes anyone who hears about it laugh or suddenly feel better about themselves.

Anyway, it was around the phase when we were talking about his ex’s sexual prowess and his seemingly inexhaustible libido, which Benji boasted that he could match. They could have sex any day and anytime, sometimes even calling on each other from work for a quickie at a hotel or some mutual friend’s residence.

Benji must have noticed the look of astonishment on my face, because he was like, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

I was stricken with both amazement and a bit of envy. I couldn’t imagine for the life of me that I’d go for any sexual encounter without due preparation…you know, douching and all that. Like, wasn’t he ever worried about painting? All that mess and foul odour? What if he spilled his guts during one of those unscheduled hookups? Abi, was the smell of pooh-pooh now a designer scent for some lovers?

He just stared amusedly at me as I talked, before shaking his head and laughing.

At least, he was in a better mood. Progress!!!

He said that he of course knows that accidents do happen and he does wonder about it every now and then, but for some reason, it had never happened to him (staining, that is). Even when he had eaten hot beans or some food that’s almost guaranteed to be a recipe for disaster during sex, to him it’s always been a case of mind over matter. Whenever he is about to get laid, he’d somehow will his bowels to a standstill and that’d be it. He said that there were instances where he’d leave a speck or two of fecal matter on the tip of the condom, but that was only if he was thoroughly dug out or the dick was too long (from pre-relationship experiences), but he’d never gone all Picasso on the sheets before.

I just can’t! Like, I can’t even begin to can.

I let him know how averse I was to the thought of sex without proper prior preparation. I’d even lost evolving situationships because I wouldn’t let them have at me whenever they pleased. Not like I wouldn’t let them have at me o; just that their body would be scratching them and they’d want it then and there, as per no time to waste things, and me, I’d know that my body wasn’t ready for their instrument. So, I’d say no and things would go awry between us.

Now that I think of it, there was this accident that happened recently that reminded me why I’d always stayed away from impromptu sex.

There was this guy I met not too long ago. We’d been on and off for a while, with offers from him for the both of us to get acquainted in real life. I couldn’t be bothered, as his schedule always seemed to clash with mine, and the timing was never right. On this day however, I was a bit free. Things weren’t so hectic at work and he’d texted me, wanting to know if we could meet up that afternoon. My first thought was to decline and suggest another time, but then, the day wasn’t so tedious and I was beginning to feel bad for constantly rebutting his requests.

Meh, fuck it… Let’s do this.

Several minutes later, we were on his bed, facing each other and talking about the mundane things of the world. He definitely was more talkative in real life than online. Then, he went to the door and locked it, before returning to the bed and slowly leaned in for a kiss.

Before that day, I hadn’t had sex in a bit, with the last booty call cancelling last minute sometime two weeks ago. And although the sounds in my tummy clearly warned against going any further than necessary, the ruckus was quickly silenced the moment our lips touched. What I liked about the makeout session was that he wasn’t desperate or hungry like most guys who just want to fuck. No. Boris (that’s what we are calling him) took his time with it, making sure to savour every part of my body that he kissed as though the nectar of life was hidden somewhere there. The fire that flared from our passion wasn’t the kind that consumed woodlands or raged like an angry volcano, but one with the ambience of a thousand lit scented candles.

Our clothes were off in quick succession as we continued with our passionate lovemaking, jerking and sucking each other’s hard dicks. His was very thick, long and startlingly veiny. It was both a frightening and beautiful sight to behold. He laid me back down on the bed and scrambled off to fetch what I presumed to be a condom and lubricant.

The thought of having sex with him was thrilling yet petrifying. On a normal day, I’d ride this nigga like Lil Nas X rode that pole to Hell. But this wasn’t a normal day. I was as unprepared for this tango as the biblical five foolish virgins were unprepared for the bridegroom. Did I ever tell you guys how much I’m scared of painting? The mere thought of it mortifies me.

Naturally, I told him that I hadn’t prepared for sex and how this wasn’t a good idea since my tummy was giving me signals. He didn’t seem to mind (even though I’m sure it was his penis speaking at that point), saying that he’d try not to go in too deep in order not to stimulate… You know.

Half of me wasn’t having it, while the other bought into his story. I mean, never had I heard of a guy who wasn’t turned off by the possibility of brownie diving or one who has a way of making sure said brownies aren’t spilled out the oven. Obviously this guy knew his stuff, right?

Wrong.

A few kisses and caresses later, uncle was fingering away with what I think is the slipperiest substance I’d ever fucked with. Permit me to do a bit of salesmanship. I don’t know about our bruthas and sistren down south, but if you happen to find yourself up north, there’s this local wonder of a lubricant they call mai ayu. It’s not sold in stores; you’d most likely find it amongst roadside vendors. I don’t know exactly what it’s made out of, and as a medical practitioner, I know that it’s not the healthiest idea.

But meeeehn! It is a lubrication wonder! It was the way Boris’s monster of a dick slipped almost painlessly into me; that’s how good this stuff is. And that’s not even the best part. Unlike most water-based lubricants that wear off after a few thrusts, mai ayu is a gift that keeps on giving. Just wet your palm and rub over the once lubricated surface, and GBAM! Instant slip and slide, baby.

And it’s inexpensive too. You don’t even need that much to get you going, just a small amount and you’re good to go for God knows how long. Look, I can’t exhaust the accolades that should be accrued towards this lubricant. A trial will convince you, that’s all I can say.

Now where was I?

Ah yes… So uncle was busy beating my bussy with his manslayer, his strides getting deeper with each thrust. It wasn’t long before my insides began to growl violently in retaliation. This shit was literally about to blow and I didn’t waste time in apprising him of the situation.

But Oga didn’t stop. He continued with renewed energy, muttering something along the lines of “it’s fine”, “it’s okay”, “don’t worry about it”.

I was on my end asking him to calm down a little. In hindsight, I should’ve pulled away so he could catch his senses from wherever they flew off to. I tried o, I honestly did. But I just couldn’t, because mehn, his strokes were on point.

But my alimentary canal was not here to be disrespected like this. It wasn’t long before disaster struck, and the earlier scent of incense that filled the room was soon being replaced with the foul odour of a Bottom’s worst nightmare.

I can’t continue in detail from here on abeg. It’s way too traumatizing to do so.

We came eventually and I scurried off to the bathroom where I proceeded to scrub myself harder than an iron sponge on a burnt pot. Funnily, he even asked for a second round and although I wanted it badly, omo, I was just too downcast to even think on it. We ended up scheduling for some other time when I was better prepared, and I continued to apologise profusely for the ordeal even though he’d said it wasn’t a big deal.

Since then, I don’t even think about the notion of unprepared sex. No matter how horny I or the other party is, whenever my insides didn’t feel like being prodded, I wouldn’t dare provoke it lest I fall under the afflictions of the wicked.

Anyway, my friend Benji is doing much better now and has even gotten back into the dating scene. He has even mentioned something about being interested in someone. We’ll see.

In other news, there is this story I’d been working on for a while now, a real piece of work, you know.

And then, I deleted it by mistake!

I nearly cried, honestly, even swearing off anything remotely concerned with writing. And yet, here we are. This is something I soon discovered is a passion of mine. I wasn’t an Arts student because of my fear of Literature, what with it being an extremely hard subject to ace and me being a Maths nerd.

But being on Kito Diaries has helped me learn to convey my thoughts and ideas through literary expressions. Heck, even the way I address people has changed to some extent. Not like I spoke gutter trash or anything, but grasping for words to appropriate instances or opinions is gradually becoming a thing of the past.

I’m very excited to be a part of all this and I encourage readers to take advantage of any and all benefits this blog offers.

With love,

Danté