THE OGBANJE YOU SEE

Well, this is a first.

A hookup comes over to my place. I go to meet him at the junction, and as we walk back to my house, he glances at my arms and sees my tattoo. He points at it, saying, “Is that a tattoo?”

“Yes,” I say with a nod.

“Let me see.”

I stretch out my hand to him and he takes it, squinting at the drawing on my skin. But the calligraphy is too stylized for him to grasp the word and he stumbles through his pronunciation. “Be-Bey-Bey – What is it?”

“Beyhive,” I say promptly.

“As in, fans of Beyoncé?”

“Yes.”

He makes a sardonic hmmph sound. “This is serious. So you people are now tattooing your cult name on your bodies.”

I chuckle, because I assume he is joking.

I soon get to realize how wrong I was with this assumption.

We get to the house. Moments after some small talk, we start making out. The foreplay is heavy and intense, and soon, the clothes we are wearing become a hindrance. So, we part breathlessly and long enough to start yanking off our clothes. Tops, bottoms, undies – everything goes flying off.

Then we tumble back into each other’s arms. And that is when he catches sight of my second tattoo, the drawing that is nestled on the left side of my chest, right above the nipple he is just about to claim with his mouth.

He pauses. “You have another tattoo?” he says, staring at it.

“Yes.”

“What is this one?” he asks.

Seriously?!!! You want to start talking about tattoos when we have embarked on the journey to my orgasm?

I am exasperated, but respond nonetheless. “It’s a picture of two men seated on the ground, with hands crossed around each other.”

His eyes widen. “You are announcing your sexuality like that to the whole world?”

“Well, anyone who gets close enough to my chest to discern what the drawing is must also be a homosexual,” I retort. I am honestly becoming a little annoyed.

“Wait, there’s another one.” He has found the third tattoo on my upper arm. He adjusts my hand to get a good look at it. “This is… this is an animal, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“A tiger.”

“Well –”

“Wait a minute,” he interrupts my correction. “Didn’t you say you don’t go to church?”

He has clearly remembered the chat we had on Sunday, when he asked if I went to church and I told him I’m not a churchgoer.

“What has that got to do with anything?’ I ask.

He starts to pull back, away from me. “All these tattoos you have on your body… Cult things and loud homosexuality… And on top of that, you are a pagan.”

Pagan? It’s been a while since I heard that word.

Then he shudders.

I kid you not. He actually shudders.

I see the shiver run through his body as what was once desire begins to morph into distaste.

“Wait, what are you implying?” I ask, incredulous, not knowing whether to be amused or outraged by the direction I see his thoughts going.

“You know exactly what I am implying,” he bursts out. He is getting up from the bed and fetching his clothes.

“Are you serious?” I stare at him, my incredulity mounting. “Just so I’m clear, you think that me having tattoos and not going to church means I’m…I’m… What exactly do you think I am?”

“I don’t know.” He is pulling on his boxers. “But I’m no longer comfortable with having sex with you. I don’t know what you are involved in and I don’t want you transferring it to me.”

“Ah.” Amusement is winning the war over my outrage, and my lips are starting to quiver with suppressed laughter. “Unto the mami water succubus that I am, abi?”

He shoots me a glare, sees the amusement on my face, and snaps, “You think it’s funny? Of course you think it’s funny. Your type is always thinking things like this are funny.”

“My type?”

Wawu!

I pull on my boxers and wait for him to finish getting dressed. The silence is strained and unfriendly. He is clearly one of these peculiar homosexuals who take their faith and religion as seriously and as righteously as their heterosexual brethren.

“I’m ready to leave now,” he announces moments later.

“I hope you’ll understand that I am not in the mood to walk back with you to the junction,” I deadpan. “I mean, since I failed in my mission to trap your soul for my mami water coven, I have to report immediately to my Spirit Mother to beg for her forgiveness.”

He scowls at me, looking like he is not sure whether to be outraged by my confession or dismiss my joke. Then he turns and stalks out of the room. I walk behind him until we get to the gate.

As I unlock it, I give him a more serious look as I say, “As you go, think about this, if you will. You are gay and Christian, which means you have been exposed to all the homophobia that thrives in the church. How then am I a danger to you, when you go every Sunday service and Wednesday bible study to a nest filled with vipers hiding behind their bibles? You saw a few tattoos and concluded I must be evil, and yet you fraternize with those who will sooner strike you down with their righteousness. Think on that, will you?”

As he stomps past me through the gateway, I suspect he won’t waste his time thinking on the things I said. Or maybe he will. Either way, it’s time for me to find someone else more invested in getting me to my orgasm.

I whip out my phone and swipe over to Grindr.

Written by Pink Panther