WHO WILL GET YOU JUSTICE?

You are halfway through with making your plantain frittata when your phone dings. It is Twitter notifying you of one new follower. You scroll through his page, mostly gym-related content, a few nudes – ripped torsos, thighs, arms and abs, and a sturdy cock.

Another ding: he is in your DM.

That was fast, you think to yourself.

Your last photo update must have caused the men of Gay Twitter to cum all over your handle, making it so slippery for a fine man like this one to slide through straight into DM. You like your men ripped for sure, but you avoid them because the most you have met in the past were sleazebags. So, you do not respond to him that day, or the next, but you do on the third day when you are in the mood to text.

Appealing is the right phrase to describe Tamuno. His rich well-toned skin; long athletic feet that run all the way up to meet thick muscled thighs; and abs so well formed, the six of them are divinely partitioned. He stands at a height that is very pleasing to your eye. Your most favourite aspect of his features is the nice chiseling of his face, cheekbone running flesh lines down to the corners of his lips in a smile that exhibits shiny-white teeth with a mid-partition on the upper dentition.

You two have instant chemistry. He discloses his bisexuality to you. When it comes to guys, his preference is the buff guys with large nipples – although he is largely sapiosexual, which is the reason he followed you on Twitter after going through the contents of your page. The more acquainted you get with him, the thirstier you get about him. You find yourself swiping too frequently through his raunchy photo updates of his sweaty post-workout body day after day. Biting your lips and telling yourself that you are not that into him.

Due to your youth service, you are hardly ever in Port Harcourt. Then the day comes when you get a break, and you fly back to Port Harcourt from Lagos. You choose to stay at your friend’s place for awhile before going home, and so you text Tamuno, notifying him of your presence in town. You two go ahead and plan a date.

He doesn’t show up that first night. You too are caught up with something and do not bother much with his no-show.

You reschedule till the following night. This time, his phone is switched off.

Switched off? Who still stands people up by switching off their phones? You think in exasperation, after trying his number several times.

You are offended by this, and you let him know exactly how you feel on WhatsApp. He later comes online and apologizes profusely, promising to make it up to you.

He drives his Lexus ES 350 over to come pick you up that third evening and takes you first to the park, where you both lounge, while consuming shawarma and a medium-sized bucket of ice cream together. Then he drives to the red-light district in GRA, parks the car in a strategic spot that is away from pedestrian attention. You both relax with the windows down and doors locked, conversing over hot dodo and fried yams gotten from a roadside vendor, downing each bite with carbonated drinks.

By the time it is eleven o’clock, you two have been together for over four hours. The plan is for him to drop you off back at your friend’s; you are almost satisfied from feeling his abs, pecs and thighs while you were both in the car. You even reached out to fondle his crotch at some point during the date to discover he had no erection, and you were convinced that this was perhaps because of his preference for buff guys. Perhaps, he’s really not into you.

However, during the drive that you believe is headed to your friend’s house, he suddenly suggests, “How about you sleep over at my place?” You turn arched brows to him as he adds, “It will be a good opportunity to catch up on those movies you said you missed due to the absence of a decent cinema around your place of service.”

You smile. You had started thinking he’d never ask. You simply nod your agreement and fix your gaze on the road beyond the windshield.

You are almost drifting into a tired slumber when he eases onto a street that is flooded with the blue-and-red lights of security trucks. Police cars parked everywhere on the road. Your heart jumps at the sight, and you wonder, fleeting and irrational as the thought may be, if somehow someone had spied you two being too intimate during your date and reported you to the law.

Apart from the furrow in Tamuno’s brow, his face stays blank. He appears slightly irritated as he shifts the gear into ‘R’, reverses, and eases back out of the street.

“I am not going to have another sleepless night over yahoo boys and these police shenanigans,” he mutters under his breath to nobody in particular.

If he isn’t going on to his house, where then does he intend for you two to spend the night? You wonder. You don’t voice the thought out though. You are simply too tired and are sure he will handle the situation.

The drive continues in silence, except for the time he glances at you and asks, “Hey, lil man, are you okay?”

You want to tell him you aren’t. That the sight of the police on his street had had you ruffled a little. That you have never been comfortable with any brushes with the police, especially here in Port Harcourt, where every issue with them turns into a money case.

But you don’t say any of that. You say instead, “Yeah, big guy. I’m good.”

The hotel room he gets is comfortable. You are a sucker for soft beddings, and the bed is just that: soft. As you sit there, admiring the patterned duvet on the bed, he is playing around with the door. Then he grins, looks at you and says something about the door being soundproof.

Feeling suddenly incredibly exhausted, you sink into the bed and watch him with a half-eyed gaze as he walks across the room to turn on the TV. You watch him as he begins to undress. First, he takes off his wristwatch, then his neck chain, then his Polo T-shirt. An action movie comes on on the TV screen, and that captures your attention for a bit. Then you see him take off his jeans and walk into the bathroom. He remerges minutes later, dabbing his body and hair dry. You reluctantly pull yourself up from the bed and walk into the bathroom. You know now that you both may try to have sex, but you are not sure if you have the strength to go through with it.

“You’ve got a perky ass,” he comments when you step out of the bathroom.

You catch his gaze sizing you up with interest from the foot of the bed where he is seated Goliath-ly.

I might as well, you think to yourself, before you begin taking slow seductive steps toward him and then lowering yourself to plant a kiss on his brown lips.

You don’t know what you expected would happen next – but it certainly wasn’t what happened.

With startling swiftness, he suddenly picks you up from the ground and throws you onto the bed with a force that knocks the breath out of you. The aggression startles you so much and your brain scrambles to make sense of what is happening. Is this kito? BDSM? Or is this his exaggerated way of saying no?

You get your answer in the next moment, when he grabs at your underwear and yanks, the fabric ripping as he pulls it from your body. Then he peels his off quickly, his movements jerky and crazed. You are worried about that. You are also worried by the look in his eyes as he advances on you. Dark and unflinching, the whites crisscrossed with red lines.

“Whoa. Easy now, Tamuno –” you begin to say as you push gently at his shoulders.

WHAAP!!

He strikes you hard across the cheek with his right palm. The sound of several silver bells ringing in your ear disorientates you. The slap is very stinging and your eyes immediately well up with tears.

Before you can react to the slap, he is already flipping you around onto your stomach before burying his bearded face inside the crack of your butt. His mouth and tongue reach out to devour your hole, but you stay stiff and unyielding to the pleasure, because you are smarting from the slap. Sex or not, you are not cut out for that kind of violence.

“Get off me, Tamuno. I am no longer interested,” you protest, your annoyance over his assault gathering like clouds in your throat, tightening your vocal chords.

He stops his rimming and withdraws from you. You begin to gather yourself up off the bed, relieved that he at least has the decency to know that he has done something wrong, when he swings his hand again and –

WHAAP!!

The second slap stuns you. You are still struggling to draw in enough breath to process what just happened, when he grabs your head and shoves it into the bed. He holds your head in the bed and refuses to release it, causing you to struggle as you fight against the suffocation. But he is powerfully-built, his other arm and the rest of his body already forcing your body into a position that enables him to shove his dick inside you.

The pain slams into you in streams as he thrusts roughly inside you. You scream as much as your lungs can allow, and you feel like you are going to implode. You can feel his pummeling in your stomach, his dick jabbing, crushing, hurting. You try to adjust your mind to accept – and even like – what is happening, this kind of sex that you find no pleasure in. You begin to lose strength and then consciousness, your brain cells seeming to shrink from the lack of sufficient oxygenation.

He seems to realize this oncoming direness, because he stops to flip you back around. The air rushes in and fills your lungs. You are still concentrated on breathing well again, as he lifts your legs and grips your neck with his big right hand, choking you.

At this point, you no longer have any will to fight him. You just lie there, and for the first time in your sex life, all you are doing is tightening your tummy muscles so that he doesn’t impale you while praying that he does not kill you before he cums. It does not take long before your mind communicates to your body the reaction it should exhibit to this violent invasion. The tremors start, your whole body shaking like a vibrator. He does not notice, or does not care.

He is in fact not finished with extracting his pleasure from you, as he pulls back from you, and grabbing your left leg, pulls you from the bed. You drop to the ground in a heap, but don’t remain like so for long before he is maneuvering your body into a wheelbarrow position, you head and chest on the floor, almost under the bed, your legs spread open in the air, and him pistoning inside you. The thrusts in this position are difficult and painful; you even throw up your dinner all over the Bohemian carpet. If he sees this, he doesn’t care. He keeps jackhammering inside you, and it hurts.

It is however in this position that he finally cums. Inside you. He thrusts deeply inside you one more time with a long guttural groan, and then lies there on your back as he tries to regulate his harsh breathing. Then he gets off you and heads to the bathroom. You fold yourself up into a ball on the carpeted floor, battered and bruised, your butthole pulsating. You are still very much in a state of shock.

When he gets back, he moves over to you, making an attempt to help you up. But you recoil from his touch. He understands – or is simply unconcerned – because he leaves you and goes to his phone. Seconds later, he is on the phone, talking to someone whose call he missed.

As his voice rumbles on in conversation, you finally draw some strength from inside you, enough to pull yourself up. You look around the room as you struggle to your shaky feet. The bed is undone, and you can see strips of your blood on the sheets, some of the blood on the patterned duvet you’d earlier admired. And he is there, at the foot of the bed, acting like he has not seen the mess. You go into the bathroom and lower yourself into the tub, letting the water from the shower beat down on you.

You shouldn’t shower immediately after getting raped… You should go to a hospital to get samples taken for proof…

You remember seeing these tidbits on a rape awareness campaign on Twitter sometime ago.

But what proof would make any sense in a situation like this? You’d agreed to spend the night with him. You made the first move to initiate sex. And this was a homosexual hookup. Who was going to pursue a case like this to prosecute the man who raped you? The same police who you are very afraid of? The same justice system that had criminalized this situation you orchestrated with him?

Who would get you justice?

You hardly sleep that night, and in the early hours of morning, you are up and sneaking away from Tamuno’s slightly snoring body on the bed, out of the room, past the reception, through the gates and onto the street. The morning air hits your body, and travels over it to tickle your still-aching butthole, stressing your vulnerability last night.

Later that morning, as you are in bed, fighting a fever and a headache, his text comes through.

“Hey lil man, you were gone when I woke up. Hope you are okay?”

Did he just ask if you are okay? You do not respond.

He texts again: “You handled last night like a pro. I really underestimated you. I’d like to see you again sometime soon.”

Over my dead body, you think, mentally recoiling from the thought of ever again meeting him. As long as you are concerned, that psycho is some other poor guy’s problem.

Written by Peaches