Welcome Guys, Today we shall all be happy, hold hands, put flowers in our hair and sing Kumbaya because we are awesome like that. Feel free to wear your Skinny jeans and cry like Drake if you feel all emotional. It’s ok..lol
Talking about sexual decisions, preferences and what not, Please welcome…
I’d First read about them in the papers. A community for men who only loved men! Then a friend confirmed their existence and I soon got the address.
My mother is open-minded and extremely well read. She is more ‘with the times’ than I am. Social media, TV, movies, pop culture references. You name it. To be honest, it’s slightly worrying at times. You do NOT want a mother who talks about her sex life freely. Trust me, you’ve seen it on TV and Americans can make that seem ‘cool’ but two words you don’t ever want your very hot, single mother uttering in a conversation with your friends in attendance are: “violent” and “orgasm”… especially when those words come in that order and are accompanied by her closing her eyes and shaking her body as if to dramatize your pain for the world to see.
“Uggh. You prude,” she’d chided me once after she had expressed some similarly embarrassing sentiment in the presence of many. “How do you think you were conceived?” she asked incredulously.
“I was thinking stork? Maybe I was adopted? Alien spaceship dropped me off because I was too smart for their civilization? Or maybe I was a pimp in my past life and kinda got reincarnated into this age as your son as punishment for making millions of denarii off Roman hos? I have theories mom.”
She laughed. A long and throaty laugh. The friends in attendance laughed too. She reached up and kissed my forehead. We were cool. As always. Then she ruined it all by adding: “Before he became an ‘a’ hole and left us to go bang that underage, buck-toothed, karma sutra encyclopaedia that was his secretary, your Dad and I had a pretty good thing going. His name was actually Benjamin but I used to call him Big Richard. You figure out why, son?”
Yup, my mom is that cool. Which is why I can’t figure out why she has refused to accept the fact that I’m gay. Gay and proud and gay again.
When I first tried to come out of the closet, she turned her nose up and told me it was probably a phase that I would soon snap out of. I didn’t and a few months later – on my 24th birthday – I told her again after she’d prayed for me to marry a good wife. Once the guests had gone, I said:
“Mom, you know I like boys though,”
“Then how come I’ve never seen you with one?”
“I can’t bring them home!”
“Who would complain? It’s just you and I…”
“For a gay dude, you got no game son. Bring home a lover or I’m setting you up with Mrs. Akudike’s daughter.”
“Who? Clarissa? I once walked into our gest toilet AFTER her. And I can confirm that hell is real Ma!”
“Oh shush. Bring boy or I bring her…”
And therein lay the problem: I couldn’t get a steady lover. My woes are well documented.
The first problem I had with picking up men was that I inherited the ‘wrongest’ of traits from my Dad. I was sixteen when my Mom accidentally walked in on me changing. For the next year, she secretly called me “Really Big Richard.” Back then, I thought she was just missing my old man. Now I know exactly why. If I was straight, it would have been a thing of pride. Turns out Nigerian dudes can’t take it like they give it.
For example, third year in university. I was indulging in some rough play with this guy called Labi. He was pretty butch. All leather and hair gel. He was a bully too. Cultism came with boldness and he’d approached me one evening when I was gliding back to my hostel. It is true what they say about gay guys being able to spot each other. I never knew Labi could fake Princess Njideka Okeke’s (aka nchawa) accent with such proficiency until that fateful night in his room when we were ready to rumble and I pulled my boxers down:
“What?” I asked. Honestly confused.
“You no want make I take yansh siddon again abi?” he wailed,
“Why you no go take yansh siddon?” I could mix my accented pidgin with the best of them.
“Abeg oh… I no do. Small boy like you dey carry dis kind implement waka?” I sensed my hopes of getting some boy-loving slipping away. I had to do something fast. A raunchy uncle taught me a trick he used for getting gullible girls in the sac. I’d never tried it on girls – obviously – but it wouldn’t hurt to try it out now. I uttered three words:
“Just the tip…”
But I was lying.
A week later, I went to see Labi again. I knew there’d be trouble when I saw a sticker on his door: “Bruised and battered but not defeated.” Safe to say I had no further luck with him and his influence meant that word went round in the school’s un-straight community that I was bad news for sphincters nationwide.
I got off the bus and started walking. Address in hand, I started trying to locate my destination. It proved to be easy. I stood in front of the gate now.
Mick Shagger’s HOME FOR BOYS…
NAUGHTY NAUGHTY BOYS
You know your gay tushy is unsexy when you can’t get laid in prison. I mean…
Walking around computer village without a receipt for my laptop had initially seemed a mistake once the plain clothes officer had halted me and asked for it. I stuttered that I’d bought the laptop abroad but he would have none of it. Especially since my demeanour instantly told him that I was lying my supple butt off. I didn’t have any cash with which to sort myself out. Thirty odd minutes later, I was behind the counter at their station. I looked back and saw the cell. Angry-looking, buff males were snarling at those of us behind the counter. I was standing with four other males who had been nabbed receipt-less like me. One of the police officers now threatened us: “If you boys don’t behave in the next one hour, we will lock you up till tomorrow because we will soon change shift!”
I heard gasps of fear all around.
But my spirit soared with delight. Finally, I’d be getting some action.
I stuck my hands in my back pockets feeling myself up in anticipation. Then I felt a piece of paper: it was my receipt!
No way. I crumpled it and stuffed it in my mouth.
“Wetin you dey chew?” One of the officers suddenly barked at me.
I swallowed hard. If I was lucky, there’d be more gag-reflex activity before the night was out. “Sir, I wan enter jail,” I coughed.
“Jail? You this softie! When dem press you inside cell finish ehn, your yansh go dey leak water o…”
Somehow this officer thought he was doing me a favour by letting me stay outside. He liked my face, I guess. He also probably hoped I’d call someone soon. No sir. No cash for you today.
“Sir, I think you’re a bastard,” I spat, “You hopeless people will just be threatening innocent…”
A few slaps and a push later, the cell gate was locking with me on the other side … smiling.
“Ajebutter, come here,” I walked gleefully to the burliest of them all. He was sitting in a corner of the cell eating beans and bread. He was obviously the top dawg “I go make sure say nobody toush you inside this cell but this night, na me go sample you first. You hear?!” he growled at me like his ‘sampling’ would be the worst thing in the world.
“I hear,” I smiled. Another hour later, I was sitting quietly beside him waiting for nightfall when I heard the cell gates swing open.
“Randy Ekong… RANDY EKONG!” Why was the officer shouting my name?
“Yes sir,” I got up and approached.
“Somebody don come bail you out.”
I have never been more unhappy to see my mother!
So here I was, boyfriend-less and this close to a date with Clarissa. Soon after, I heard about the home for boys. I gotta get laid Ma.
I knocked, and smiling, waited for the door to open.
“Come in,” I was ushered in by a very well-dressed, effeminate man. I wiggled my bottom expectantly. This should be fun.
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