ONCE UPON A HOOKUP

My name is Mike. I’m a programmer and a social media expert. I consider myself a bisexual; sometimes though, I have doubts about my sexuality.

This story begins the day I was chatted up on Facebook by an old friend with benefits (who we shall call Wes).

“Mike, could you please help me hack into someone’s account?” he asked.

“Facebook? Who’s that?” I replied, completely unfazed by the request. I got that all the time.

He told me the guy’s name (let’s call him Zed). “He’s someone I’m seeing. I want to know if he is cheating on me. I’m back to UNN now, and he stays in Abuja.”

I went through Zed’s Facebook profile. His account was secured: his email, phone number, etcetera were all hidden from public view. He didn’t look like someone who would fall for a phishing bait too. I think I might have clicked the ‘Add Friend’ button during this time; I can’t remember.

But I went back to Wes with disappointing news. “Sorry, buddy. Hacking him won’t be possible. His account is secured and I’m too busy to set up a phishing webpage now.”

Months passed. In that time, a lot of noteworthy events took place in my life. I got a job immediately I graduated from high school, as the social media manager in one of the biggest hotels in Aba, and thence bought my first laptop a few months after.

In four months, I had also dated six different guys.

When my stint with the hotel in Aba was done, I relocated to Owerri to stay with my parents, and there, I got a job as a content developer/writer for a magazine company. Two months later, unable to stand my boss’s suffocating and rampant homophobia, I resigned from the job. The man was too much of a prejudiced asshole, always glorying in reporting news of gay lynching and running the stories in favour of the inhumane acts. And I was supposed to pursue these news items and write them up to his satisfaction. It was too much of a discomfort for my peace of mind, so I quit.

But after that, it was difficult to get another job.

Then the Devil came home the time I went to visit an old friend in Choba, Port Harcourt. I’d planned to stay for a week at his place, enough time to catch some fun. But on the third day of my stay, his compound was attacked by armed robbers. That was my first robbery experience, and the last day I was relieved of my laptop and phones. I mean, there I was, staring down the dark, hollow barrel of a gun. A real gun, with the gunman demanding I produce the laptop I hid (because the laptop charger that I forgot in sight had given me away). When I handed him the laptop, my legs gave way and I lost consciousness. It was that serious. I woke up to realize I had peed on myself.

The next morning, I took an early vehicle back to Owerri. I was dead scared the robbers would browse through my devices, find out I hook up with guys and come after me. When I got to Owerri, I lied to my parents that I was robbed on my way from Aba to Owerri, because I had initially told them that I was going to Aba instead of Port Harcourt.

I stayed months without a mobile phone, or even internet access. I was desperate and eager to get myself one, or get a job; both seemed impossible at the time. A lecturer friend of mine promised to buy me a phone, but a few days after he made the promise, his mother died. It would have been a bad look on me to start reminding him of his promise then. Luck came when my mum bought a new phone. I took possession of her old phone, a Nokia 3208 device, and got back online.

Days later, after I uploaded a selfie I took with a friend’s smartphone on Facebook, lots of comments came trooping in. One of them was from Zed, who commented on my good looks. He of course slid into my inbox thereafter, where we chatted for a bit before exchanging contacts. At this time, I wasn’t aware this was the guy Wes told me was the man he was seeing who stayed in Abuja; the guy whose account he wanted me to hack. In fact, I’d totally forgotten Wes ever mentioned him.

Soon, as we got on with our acquaintanceship, Zed invited me to come visit him in Abuja. I told him it wouldn’t be possible because I didn’t have the means to travel that far. He offered to handle my transport issues. With a visit now imminent, we got personal in our chatversations.

Zed: So then, what’s your role?

Me: I’m versatile. But it’s been a long time I bottomed.

Zed: Me, I’m top. Can you bottom very well?

This irked me. Both I held back my irritation as I replied.

Me: I said it’s been long I bottomed. That means I cannot bottom very well.

Zed: OK. If you come, how many days would you like to stay?

Me: I don’t know. How many days do you want me to stay?

Zed: One week. You will come on Saturday and go the Sunday of the following week.

Me: OK. You will lodge me then, right?

Zed: Yeah.

Me: So please, could you help me with money to buy a laptop or a good phone if I come. I don’t want to lose my skills.

At this point, I narrated what happened in Port Harcourt, and explained that as a programmer, I needed a laptop.

Zed: No problem, till you come.

Before I meet anyone on the social media, I usually run some searches on them and try to gather information about the person. In Zed’s case, I soon discovered he was from Benue State, aged 34, and he was the director of a governmental firm, a subsidiary of the Federal Ministry of Health. So clearly, he was capable of being my financial savior. I’m not a greedy person. All I wanted from him was a laptop or a smartphone – or both, if possible.

The following day, Zed buzzed me.

Zed: I will book the transport for you tomorrow, so Saturday you start coming.

Me: Okay.

Zed: How many rounds can you carry?

Irritation blossomed inside me again. Where we still on this bottoming issue?

Me: I don’t know. I’m not good at bottoming. I already told you this.

Zed: OK. You will try two rounds per day.

Was this man serious?

Me: Hmmm. For one week? Lol. Oga, I am not a sex doll.

He laughed.

Zed: I mean it ooo.

And I didn’t take him seriously. This was my mistake.

On Friday, he called me and told me he had booked me a seat on the second bus of God is Good motors. My bus was set to leave by 8 am, so I had to be at the bus terminal before 8 am. Then he texted me the ticket code and address of the bus park in Owerri. That same day, he sent me N4000 I was to use to transport myself to the park, and buy myself food on the journey to Abuja.

I spent the better part of that evening walking the streets of Owerri, looking for where to withdraw the money. But the ATMs I came across were all cashless. It was Friday night, and Fridays are club-days in Owerri. The spenders had all made withdrawals, and none was left for me.

I returned home, stole a thousand naira note from my mum’s piggy bank, packed a few shirts and trousers into my small overnight bag, and sneaked off home. Nobody saw me leave. That night, I slept at a friend’s place in Nekede.

I was fast asleep when I felt a hand on my crotch, and I woke. My friend, Alex, had pulled out my dick from my boxers and was rubbing it into an erection. I propped myself up on my elbows, prepared to tell him to go to bed and let me have some sleep. But then he took my dick into the warm wetness of his mouth, and I didn’t want him to stop. After a while, when I had amassed a solid erection, he grabbed a condom from somewhere at the edge of his bed, tore it open and carefully sheathed my dick. He lubed up, and slid himself down on my dick, and proceeded to use me to assuage his konji.

When I woke up the next morning, it was already 7: 20-something. Alex had had me so exhausted last night that I overslept. I hastened to take my bath and get dressed.

Alex escorted me to the park, somewhere at Egbu road. When we got to the park, it was a few minutes past eight. And I was one of the two remaining passengers who hadn’t got there yet. Immediately after I arrived, the other passenger got there too. I bade Alex goodbye, and the bus made its way out of the park – and soon enough, out of Owerri.

My seat inside the bus wasn’t by the window. But I was comfortable where I sat; on my left, by the window, sat a fellow who looked to be in his twenties. He was humming Nicki Minaj’s Pills ‘n’ Potion. At some point during our journey, I took a long good look at him, and there and then, my gaydar tingled with detection.

The bus made its way past Imo, Onitsha, Delta, Edo, and some other states I can’t remember, and I just sat there, with no android phone to play music or videos with, and suppressing the satanic urge to listen to music with my Nokia 3208; I couldn’t risk the battery dying before I got to Abuja and keep me stranded and unable to communicate with Zed.

We eventually made a pit stop at a fast food joint. I went in, bought a plate of jollof rice, beef and a bottle of soymilk, and went to sit at the empty table close to the door, so I could watch our bus while I ate. Few minutes later, my seatmate walked in, ordered stewed rice, and as Rainbow Jesus would have it, he walked over to my table and took a seat.

I didn’t waste time starting a conversation. I’m that way, especially when I am certain of the results of my gaydar. “Is this your first time going to Abuja?” I asked.

“Me? No, I live there,” he said.

“This is my second time. But I’m not too familiar with the city. I don’t even have a relation living there that I know of. My name is Mike by the way.”

“I’m Kelvin,” he replied.

“So what did you come to Owerri to do?”

“I came to see a friend.”

Wanting to move things along quick, I said, “Your friend must be male, right?”

He looked at me weird, like he wasn’t sure how to answer my question. Then he nodded yes. I told him I was on my way to Abuja to see a male friend too.

And from there, we just kept on chatting as we ate. We also exchanged contacts. I was glad. When we got back into the bus, he let me have his window seat, and we shared his earphone as we listened to and watched comedy skits on his phone.

It was way past sunset when we got into Abuja. And Kelvin alighted somewhere in Gwagwalada. From my window view, I could see the sprawling sight of rocky plains and mountains scattered all over these outskirts of the capital. I called Zed then, told him I was in Abuja. He told me to get to the bus park, and take a taxi going to Nyanya Second Bridge, and that he’d be there to pick me up.

An hour later, I was at the bridge overlooking the famous Nyanya Park where hundreds were killed in a bomb explosion a few years ago. I’d called Zed severally, and he wasn’t picking. I began to panic. What could have happened? Was this some kind of set-up or something? I was scared and the helplessness of my situation – being all alone in a strange city at night – suddenly struck me. What If I got robbed and killed? Why were all these passersby staring at me like I had the word ‘Abomination’ tattooed on my forehead or something? I called Zed several more times.

About 30 minutes after I got to the bridge, he finally called and told me he was at the park. I didn’t waste time locating his car. He drove a Range Rover. I dropped my luggage in the back seat and got into the front seat. And he drove off.

I swept a quick glance over him as I said, “Good evening.”

He wasn’t as unappealing physically as he looked in his photos, but he wasn’t exactly Yusuf Buhari-good looking either. He had those kind of looks that having money made even more appealing.

“How you dey?” he said.

“I’m alright. I called you several times, you didn’t pick. What happened?” I asked, now letting my annoyance leak through.

“You don’t have patience, Mike,” he admonished lightly. “I was at the office when you first called. When I left the office, there was too much holdup on the road.”

“Okay…”

“And I won’t have to lodge you in a hotel. We will go to my house.”

This was certainly not what we’d agreed upon. What was this man up to? “Why?” I asked, feeling angry again.

“I live in a house with three rooms,” he said. “Why should I spend money on a hotel room for a week?”

I tried to be pacified. “Okay. You stay alone?”

“No. My younger brother and my boyfriend stay with me,” he said.

“Your boyfriend?” My brows shot up. What kind of fuckery was this?

“Yes. He is a cool guy. He doesn’t have any problem,” he said reassuringly.

I wasn’t reassured. “You have your boyfriend staying with you, and you invited me over? I don’t like the idea of going to your house please,” I protested.

“If we get there, and you don’t like it, I will go and lodge you in a hotel,” he said.

I tried to believe that, but somehow I doubted that would happen.

He drove for a long time, before we got to his house, somewhere on the outskirts of Abuja. A gate-man rolled in the gate, and he drove in, and immediately my eyes settled on three other cars in the front-yard, including a Ford Bausch. Clearly this guy was very well-off.

I met his boyfriend when we walked into the house. He – let’s call him Akin – was sitting in the richly furnished sitting room, tapping idly away on an Android device. He greeted Zed and me during the introductions, but from his expression, whatever Zed said earlier about him not having a problem with this arrangement was obviously a reach on Zed’s part. This boy had a problem alright. But that wasn’t my problem. I was led to what I presumed was Zed’s room, where I dropped my things. Zed had already told me I’d be sharing a room with him; apparently both his brother and boyfriend had rooms of their own.

Moments later, the four of us – Zed, me, Akin and Zed’s brother – went out to a bar for drinks. While Zed and I conversed, he talked about how he was dating someone who he truly loved, but the guy didn’t seem to love him as much. He said this someone would always pick up fights with Akin over him. I was flabbergasted. So he apparently not only invited hookups to be I the same house with him and his boyfriend, he also dated multiple guys at the same time – and he expected me to believe he loved them? I asked him why he would date two guys at the same time and keep them together under the same roof. What did he think would happen – that they’d all coexist as one loving happy throuple? He protested, saying Akin was from his village and that this other boyfriend (he never once mentioned his name) was an Igbo guy. I didn’t know how this was supposed to be an answer to what I asked – but OK. Apparently, dating two guys at the same time was OK, as long as one is from your village and the other from a different ethnicity.

Before we left the bar, I had consumed three cans of Black Bullet and a medium-sized bottle of Campari, and so, I was on excessive highness. We got home, I managed to have a bath, changed into my boxers and got into the large king-sized bed where Zed already lay.

Then he lay on me and began to suck hard on my nipples. The sensual act got me so aroused, that right there and then, all I wanted was for him to fuck me real hard. It must have been the effects of the alcohol, and the fact that I didn’t want to displease him so he would grant my wishes. He lubed me up, and was going to dig in without a condom. But I stopped him, and grabbed a roll of condom and sachet lube from the side of my bag. I had come prepared. He strapped on a condom and moved on top of me. There followed a few awkward moments of him attempting to gain entry into my asshole, but he finally got in with a thrust that had me swallowing a gasp of pain. I realized then that I should have done some bottoming practice before coming here; maybe it’d have been easier.

I lay there on my back, teeth clenched, as he pounded away with abandon, digging the entire length of his dick in and out. After a while, my anal muscles adjusted and I didn’t want him to stop. Something must have possessed me, because I soon told him to pull out, then made him lie on his back and sat on his dick. A few minutes of riding his dick later, and his face became pinched as he convulsed his way into his orgasm. I went on bouncing up and down his dick as I stroked my penis, and after a short while, I came too, all over his chest.

Thereafter, we cleaned up, and went to sleep.

It was early morning when I woke up to the cold touch of his hand on my backside. He was pulling my boxers down to my knees, and then was smearing lube on my butthole. He began to insert his erection inside me. It was hot and painful down there, but I tried to endure. But when he began pounding with vigour, I couldn’t endure any longer. I tried to pull myself away, but he held me close to him in a vice grip and went on pounding. I began pleading for him to stop, trying hard not to raise my voice so nobody outside the room would hear, but he ignored me, focused on his pleasure as he thrust in and out of me. The pain got so searing at some point that I couldn’t help the tears that began dropping from my eyes. I was crying and he didn’t care; he kept at his pounding. I put up a struggle, trying to get away, but he was bigger and stronger. Then he convulsed on my back and pulled out.

Weakened and dizzy with pain, I rolled off the bed and dropped to the cold floor, lying on my back and breathing heavily.

“Baby, you’re so sweet and tight,” he said as he leaned over the side of the bed to look at me. He reached out his hand to stroke my chest and I felt nauseated by that.

I also realized that I was capable of hate, because I suddenly hated this man who had used me so brutally.

But my problems were only just beginning.

TO BE CONTINUED

Written by Mike