The (Almost) Final Discourse

My name is Cole. I'm the owner of a beautiful mind, a seductive sense of humour, a challenging but fun (and a beneficent) personality. Two and a half years ago I embarked on an expedition. I am not certain why. To find self? But then, I wasn’t lost though I know I have done some pretty disturbing things for my time. Entertain mayhap? Get fucked? Er…don’t even get me started here. I still can’t sit on ‘it’! (such a prickly affair really) Feel relevant? Well, I met a need occasionally and I’m proud of that.  To… just have a great time? Boy, didn’t I learn shit!

From down the Cape of Good Hope through  the fine men of the North, the balcony of men’s hopes and Tacos, right into the Fap’ Depot, Reke Marie and giving the Eiffel Tower to Cole, I must say I have had the time of my life in these streets. Oh, please don’t remind me of that heifer who got screwed at a cemetery or even that time when I was told that if I can’t swallow cum then I should consider getting sprayed  by the same occasionally as it is good for the skin! Yes, it all went down on C.D.R.  Interesting times huh? *Sighs*

I am standing here with a huge smile across my face looking at the imminent sundown beyond. The black folder that bears my new assignment rests on the stunted glass coffee table next to a cold cup of Twinnings English tea that I couldn’t finish due to the queer peculiar taste it left in my mouth. I momentarily reflect that giving fellatio is still better but then I notice it is me seeking a distraction. I mean, I have been on pins and needles for the past six months – postponing the inevitable.

The Situation Room (whose first post generated ninety views in seven hours) created circumstances that I had to contend with as a gay man. Good, bad, awkward etc. but I finally did find a raison d'être in discourse. I have not only met very fascinating people but also had experiences that will be etched in my wits for a long time to come. As a fellow pleasant person, I  say:

For reading my rants, for suggesting topics to address, for bearing with my moods, for trolling me, for the judgment, for just stopping by, for …I don’t know. For whatever made you give this blog traffic inevitably nudging it to thousands of hits in the shortest period it has subsisted.  Endings… Let me rephrase. I am proud to have given you a reason to stop by here, be it by your religious eye on new posts by accident or naught.

 “Blogging changes you,” an astute friend and fellow blogger I tremendously respect once opined to me. I thought it was his idea of being profound at the time but his words totally resonate with me at this moment in time. With all the 88 posts herein, I completely address my mind to the mundane, amusing, raunchy, bold and also the untold stories that the publish button had to interact with under my dexterous fingers. Wait, that reminds me, isn’t it here that I announced to the world how I hate being fingered! 

I digress. Baring real life experiences can be an arduous but fun task. Along the way you make enemies, treacherous friends; meet both real and edited people…it’s a struggle really but sometimes one has got to do what they have to do.

Endings. They are imperative and any reasonable discourse must be honored with one. I gaze at the sun drift away and I am oddly at ease. Perhaps it’s the fuzzy morrow I have appreciated never to dwell on much or maybe it’s the dignified interest(s) that awaits pursuit. Or maybe, just maybe, a story is after all honored with an end. And so folks, a fitting time has come when I have to put my pen down, stash away my little book of scribbled notes – largely abbreviated due to the naughty words therein, I would never have risked misplacing it lest a soul found it and made it their daily obligation praying for me – and say it’s been real. This is required of me as I humbly hang up my boots to pursue among other things a passion that just like the Cole’s Discourse Room (C.D.R), is of great import. 

This, ladies and gentlemen marks my final discourse. It is not my best but it is definitely not my last. 

P.S 

In addition to you my loyal readers, I am particularly grateful to Tamaku, Cuppatea & the Gay Nairobi Man, three of the queer bloggers whose works first spurred my blogging. I also thank Identity Magazine through Denis Nzioka for giving me a forum where I wrote my first queer article. Never looked back. Thank you Charles Baraka for making me inject emotion in my writing and getting out of my comfort zone. I am also proud of having met and treated with other respectable queer bloggers in Kenya. Sharing in their fertile minds, I strongly believe we have a place and a need to meet. In that regard, I do encourage the emerging writers to take up this therapeutic rendezvous, Godspeed!

Babylon: Where a Crotch gets Grabbed!

"My love life is like a piece of Swiss cheese. Most of it is missing, and what's there stinks." – Joan Rivers (1933 - 2014)

December 2006

Friday afternoon or thereabout; The Church is quiet as the preacher hammers final words of scripture to the folk on the pew – I included. The sermon has largely dwelled on the book of Job. His associate pastor, an attractive Caucasian man probably in his late twenties is perched on a seat in the dais his hands occasionally in the air when his principal hammers something profound. The church’s senior pastor even earlier reached for a microphone and said “Sometimes God disorganizes you in order to reorganize you!” a remark that was received by cheers and ululation with some members of the congregation even giving a standing ovation their hands suspended in the air in some sort of surrender with their heads up looking to some higher being.

They are guests who have been thoroughly marketed in a local Gospel radio station for the past fortnight. Anointed evangelists from the USA they said. Having just finished secondary school recently with nothing to do but while away time watching movies and playing games, I requested my uncle for bus fare to go for this convention of great import. Perhaps it’s my saving grace from the jaws of homosexuality I have been battling since I was 8. The church chorister urges us to pick the hymn books conveniently located in front of us and start singing. I notice I don’t have a copy but the screens will do. “Onward Christian Soldiers marching unto thee…” as the speaker makes an alter call for anyone who has strayed and needs prayers. The associate pastor brings two unlabeled bottles of oil and places them on a glass coffee table next to the main speaker. He removes his coat which an usher is too swift to collect from him and conveniently places it in a hangar next to his now vacated seat. He folds the sleeves of his blue cotton shirt. I notice he has a very broad chest and the fitting shirt accentuates his masculine features. My eyes make for his groin but I instantly curse myself for such unholy thoughts towards a man of God. Focus Cole, focus. This is the your big day. The pastor is powerful and will from now on give you a license to fuck cunts…

Women are writhing on the floor chanting unintelligible words, some are still falling upon the pastors touching them with oily hands but the ushers hold them so that they don’t meet the impact underfoot. A dark woman in a bright coloured dress is prayed for, the pastor’s hands lightly on her bosom. For a moment she’s asked to go to the washroom at the back of the church. My wandering thoughts are interrupted by a scream from the washroom. She comes out chanting like the rest who are now rising and heading back to their seats. The main speaker announces that she had a lump and the woman confirms it’s gone. She bursts out in tears of joy, oily hands are laid on her head and she goes down gracefully the speaker holding her until she’s on the floor muttering words only her lump less self can understand. Maybe this is my cue. The associate speaker approaches my seat, an usher flanked on his right carrying the bottle of oil. I am the only one standing on the edge of the bench as everyone seems to have gone for the oil treatment. The closest that oil should come to me is unless you are lubricating me and your rod for the ensuing action. Fuck, focus Cole! “What’s your name?” He asks. I notice he has a pair of striking azure eyes! “Er…I’m Co..le” I stammer, smitten. “The Holy Ghost directs me that you came here for a solution in your life…” Silence. “Do you want to see the hand of the Lord, Cole?” I nod. The usher pours a portion of the oil on his hands. He rubs them lightly, placing them on my head and starts praying. His words move from his nice Texan drawl to some language not comprehensible in the common tongues. So we are the Dothraki now? I raise my hands hoping to hasten the deliverance. I open my eyes; his eyes are closed as he energetically chants things I don’t comprehend. I shut my eyes. Am I feeling light-headed? But I am still aware of my surroundings. There’s no way I’m falling lest I mess my white jumper. He gives me a slight tip backward. I easily give away but the usher is swift enough to hold me in place to ensure my head doesn’t meet the ground. I am on the floor, my eyes stare at the roof of this Church blankly. I feel even emptier than I came. I feel a tinge of regret. I even feel fucking horny!

*******

Behind The Scenes

1. Boy, haven’t I missed you! Now where do I start? Let’s see. Joan Rivers passed on. I felt so sad over the loss of this comedienne old girl. I think we all need to have a tinge of sassy like her. She will be missed, indeed. 

2. Don’t get me started on that Anaconda Video by Nicky Minaj. Whoa! One of you opines that he has been scarred for life and that the Israelites didn’t go through the wilderness for 40 years for this. Well, I have personally been playing it I think almost for the twentieth time now and the only thing that the same seems to have informed me is that I am getting better by the day in this twerking business. Of course I only twerk in the house. Too bad I still have to do it against an object (Now don’t get any ideas, I’m talking about the couch, the door, the sink et al) Another thing, if you twerk and notice there is no ‘that brief bounce’ aftermath on your buns, I think you ought to go silicon if not for relevance in this volatile ass market but in the memory of Joan.

3. Dead Beat Kenya – another first from Kenya! So women have now taken to shaming dead beat dads online. I swear get out of this country even for a day, you come back and you’ve missed some very vital grapevine. That our social media habits reputation precedes us world over is not in doubt. The only thing I would say at this point is, if Dead Beat Kenya and roasting states and individuals through our #SomeoneTell hash tags is what it takes to unite us as a Country, then let it be.

*******

 The ferry ride to Kigamboni was great despite having an argument with some port officials for taking photos. Kinondoni is just so vast that I now understand why Lady Jay Dee couldn’t find “Yahaya”. I mean it’s a whole municipality and here I was thinking it’s some place like Zimmerman or Ruaka. The Dar es Salaam morning traffic was appalling even though we had managed to leave our kind host’s residence at Masaki at 6.30 in the morning. Got to love the standard and stable bus fare prices. Shit, now was it Msalani or Msasani Peninsula? You know what? It’s never that serious. This is the same land where all the Swahili I have ever learnt was trashed in a minute and the rest of the days I was resolved to speak English and extremely fast to prove disassociation. 

A view of Dar while heading to Kigamboni

The day was somewhat redeemed by a Bajaj to sea cliff and the walk along the clean Coco Beach where we embarked on an amateur photo shoot, climbing cliffs, stripping half naked (to take photos), just watching folk swim. Stumbling into couples in very coital positions within the caves created by large coral reefs and having to smile as a gesture of apology even though I approved; What? I strongly support anything that leads someone into getting an orgasm and if crabs biting your butt and disappearing in the sand is what gets you moaning, go for it baby! That reminds me, the other day I was on this date and the guy was telling me how he’s proficient when it comes to sex on the beach. The best I could muster in rejoinder was that I love anything that gives me pleasure down there but sand is definitely not one of the things I would want down the length of my gut.

I digress. There were also those two young guys smoking weed and stole looks our way as we passed them. We fortuitously got on a cliff above them and the moment we saw one of them ass (sic) halfway out of his boxers we sought our leave to a more “viewer friendly” photo position and that included bending under some thorny shrub and a cactus plant all the while stepping on used condoms, thongs, panties, boxers, sandals…Chile, the things that happen on a beach!  

The budget Fastjet Boeing plane taxis to a halt at a chilly and overcast Kilimanjaro International Airport around four minutes past seven. Mungai and I had nursed serious joint pains after the 10 hour bus ride on Dar Express two days ago. We are literally sleep walking from the plane towards the Airport complex because we had to wake up in the wee hours of the morning to get to Julius Nyerere Airport on time. It is all sleep and crawling until this family decides to request me to be their Camera man, a responsibility I acquiesce only because of the size and sharpness of the camera handed to me. (Kindly note my _^th birthday is fast approaching) As the large Caucasian family recite me their thanks, a lone traveler hands over his Tablet for me to do the needful. It is a lackluster piece of gadget that I have to struggle to find focus. He raises his tone of voice as he tries to explain to me its machinations. I intuitively gather he’s from Uganda going by his brogue who probably thinks I’m being crass.

I wake up as the driver pulls up the driveway. My phone picks up the Wi-Fi signal as soon as we are in the warmth of – our host – Bernard’s residence delivering a one day old miserable Grindr message from the Australian I canceled on at the Bay Leaf the evening before heading to Dar. Seriously though, why do guys catch feelings when you tell them you just fancied a conversation when they’ve planned an elaborate “getting some” scheme that you were totally clueless about! Online dating and its intrigues, SMH!

A view while abode a fixed fare dala dala

It is a dim lit club bustling with little activity, the deejay occasionally making a jest or two to a patron as he continues playing the predominantly Swahili Playlist.

“I’m Alfred”. This tall, slim, chocolate complexioned guy twink announces as he joins our table flanked by a dark, middle aged guy with a thick local accent who is a mutual friend of Mungai’s. Let’s call him Mishono for purposes of this article. I introduce my name to Alfred over four times and shortly give up in my efforts reluctantly adopting my new name “Koli”. Bernard whispers in my ear, “Koli, welcome to Tanzania.” He then bites into a saucy chicken leg still grinning.

Chips Mayai - Mungai breaking his fast at Kariakoo

As the waiter scurries about for drinks, I make an observation on the walls and notice the suggestive art in one section of the walls. I should remember to get a topless woman portrait too for my bedroom. We dance to the music that ought to be danced to. Mungai twerks getting us instant attention on our table including a plus size lady seated next to a man who looks like he has endured a lot in the hands of women who raises a bottle to us. I raise mine up and smile. She returns the smile. Mungai’s attention seeking frolics are shadowed by two skimpily dressed women who were only a peek shy of their wares underneath and had buns of booty trailing behind them. All the men including myself escorted them with ogles. “Damn, now those are twin futures behind them”. I state loudly one of my eyebrows instantly up. Alfred and a guy in a blue sweater and a scarf hovering around our table smile as he walks on. Mishono asks whether I know him, I instantly tell him I know no one in this place.

Mt. Meru, the daughter to Mt. Kilimanjaro

Having been notified prior that Babylon is a cruising spot, I remove my coat and stand to dance. You never know, the love of your life may just be found in this place. I make a mental note of two very hot guys who have been sitting together like forever since we joined the club. You know the hot you really hope to report on Dead Beat Kenya just to showcase how fine your offspring are? Then there is the trio on the high table that faced the portrait of the topless woman looking at a waterfall from a patio; career men probably in their mid thirties who had been staring our way the moment they entered and part of my dancing was in the spirit of impressing one. The one with a good smile and very sharp eyes and it is good I did, he made good audience – Not the buns though. I think they were largely bisexual and/or bi–curious because all the gorgeous women who went up to them begging for a dance were politely turned away. The object of my dreams walked towards the washroom. “Bernard, can you escort me to the washroom?” “Koli, you’ll be safe besides my gift to you is there.” Shit! Wading through this crowd will be a nightmare. What if I’m raped in there? Not that I have a problem with it, I mean, I don’t have condoms. “Koli, ntakupereka (Cole, I’ll take you)” the twink who had been chatting animatedly on his Smartphone since he got here (that I later learned was bought by a man) offers.  Just Great!

“How do I find you when I come to Nairobi?” Mishono asks. He has since been abandoned by Alfred who has since traded numbers and is more excited chatting to Mungai, their conversation somewhat involving Mungai going to his radio show to talk about Love and such other topics. While heading to the washroom, he had delayed us making me lose my object of the night as he flirted away with a tall attractive man with unkempt hair and all the while I was wondering why he was being shy yet he was looking at the outline of the guy’s dick! The ladies’ was signified by a red thong and the men’s a checked pair of boxers so I left him to his devices to go take a leak but he was waiting for me outside when I came out. He was glowing. 

“Just talk to Mungai. When you find him, chances are that I’m in his vicinity and only a phone call away.” I respond to Mishono. I have since gathered he is a Kenyan. “Where do you live?”  He asks and I belatedly notice he’s actually flirting with me and may be scheduling a date as he can’t host (Mungai has surreptitiously indicated his family obligations back home). In the words of the late Joan, my b*gina has been dry but there was no way I was going to spread my legs for this man.

The night urges us on. Somebody is wrestling with a crocodile on Natgeo in a screen next to the doorway, at some point Mungai and I are outdoing each other on Dar Mpaka Moro by TMK Wanaume making homies wonder why we are so excited about the song. At some point everyone is standing animatedly singling along to Kigoma, leka dutigite… The guy in a scarf fervently trying to emphasize for me the words. He knows I am foreign. Damn, have we really painted this place Pink! A tall, slim man approaches Mungai from behind and just when I am having nefarious thoughts, joins this voluptuous woman whose ass was literally on Mishono’s face and in a tiny black and white outfit you wonder how she stuffed all that meat in there. Chris Brown’s Hoes Ain’t Loyal starts playing almost immediately. I swear in another life, Babylon is a den of whores. This girl was just one masterpiece to behold. Oh, and her boobs were so far apart, I guess they talk to each other via Skype! 

The deejay decides to involve patrons to sing for some chic Happy Birthday making some of us depart our makeshift dance floor. I have never been more than convinced to explore my deejaying plans after my postgraduate studies. Seriously though, isn’t that why we have cake houses! The object of my dreams smiles when he sees how irate we are throwing our arms in disappointment making for our seats waiting for the subjected agony to end. Just as I’m about to sit, the scarf guy grabs my crotch. Fuck!

Bernard explains that maybe I should ‘get friendly’ tonight with the crotch grabber citing among other things that the guy may have a trust fund. I disown his wild thoughts and tell him, trust fund guys rarely grab pretty boys’ crotches in clubs. I see him being led out by one of the Club’s well built bouncers. Maybe he grabbed a crotch with a trust fund. I smile to myself. The bill is soon brought by the curvy waiter and it’s of several thousand Tanzanian shillings but Mungai and Mishono settle it promptly with wads of bills. When I get my calculator to do the crazy currency conversion, I am surprised and even the waiter smiles. Nairobians would be hangovered daily if they were ever to set foot here.

 

Mishono and Alfred beg to leave shortly thereafter. Alfred, being the chatterbox he is, intimated that they were meeting for the first time and we had been a positive distraction. At least Mishono would be getting some tonight. I think to myself. As soon as they leave, the crotch grabber is back and walks to our table to shake hands. The heifer makes a sexual indication with his middle finger against the palm of my hand. I notice he is a handsome guy but not a person I would ordinarily notice. So much baby fat here and there. If he has a trust fund he should probably treat the entire club, may be then most people would be willing to allow their crotches grabbed. He bows his head respectfully and leaves to join a group of young men dancing at the far corner. I notice the two hot guys are leaving. Hmm.

Bernard consults us on whether we want to stay or  should we also depart considering the Manyara road trip on the morrow. We settle for the latter. I raise my head up and notice the object of my dreams patting the shoulder of his inebriated light skinned friend as he stands facing the direction of the washrooms. Our eyes momentarily meet but we each look away. He has all the features (physical of course except the…) I’m looking for in a man but… I excuse myself to go to the washroom. Ben smiles at my pristine confidence. Mungai sashays to the dance floor his hands up in the air like me and those members of the congregation at NPC eight years ago in some sort of worship when Davido’s Aye starts playing. He’s half crazy that one. 

The Lake Manyara Experience...

The washroom is abuzz with activity mostly men making phone calls and some in the urinal. I go to the one next to him. He looks up. He has dark eyes and is pleasantly buffed. I notice I’m an elfin in his presence. I give a wry but official smile with a slight head bow to express geniality. A guy known to him walks in and they exchange a loud banter. Lord, his voice! For a moment I think I hear a voice ask me “Do you want to see the hands of the my loins…” I wash my hands and face at the sink and pat it dry on the mirror next to the doors just to linger a while, of course overhearing the conversation. When I’m done and ready to exit, I notice he’s also at the door. He opens and holds the door and in that deep Tanzanian Swahili accent says, “Baada yako (after you)… ”

*******

I guess I was delivered after all.

Cole

Headlines – Part 1 of 2

“Why live as someone’s hidden secret when I can be making it in someone else’s major headlines?” – Unknown

Prologue
♪♪ You know what to do with as big fat butt, wiggle wiggle….wiggle ♪♪ And Boy didn’t I wiggle! His ass accidentally brushes against mine. He hastily apologizes and resumes his jig, the skimpily dressed girl’s ass with a dangling weave that could use some upgrade still gyrating endlessly against his groin. The deejay’s playlist soon shifts to some mind-numbing Techno music and that is my cue to leave the dance floor and go take a seat on one of the previously vacated cushion seats in the middle of a badly lit area of the club’s lounge. 

In blue jeans, a purple T-shirt and brown Timberland boots whose laces are loosely tied and a red sweater that he had on when we were heading to the dance floor but is now perched on his right shoulder, Tom soon joins me all sweaty and fanning his face with his large hands. The scarcely dressed lass whose lilac thong was visible from her taut jean shorts has now moved to a soaring and well built biracial lad who I’d spotted smoking shisha earlier with a group of Caucasian folk who are equally sprawled on the dance floor either jumping, shaking or just plainly dancing moving. She’s either negotiating a dance or a fuck. I don’t know but she be damned if she doesn’t accept the latter if offered.

He is a bastard born to a woman (who then owned a vegetable kiosk in Makongeni) and a man whom he had never met but had recently heard that he is nowadays a clamping supervisor at City Hall and had sowed similar seeds of bastards on other women. This had informed his resolve not to reach out to him as he’d initially planned. At least that is his story so far – in my version. This was our first date and by –my– dating standards he was doing so well though at some point he had asked whether I had any condoms on me but I’d made it clear that I don’t have penetrative sex with anyone. He smiled somewhat pleased. The last time I ever pulled this card on someone, I got feedback that I guard my boy hole you’d think I have gold in the river between my butt cheeks. 

We had had dinner earlier in a restaurant where the waiter hovered around to ensure we never lacked anything (maybe it’s because we were the only ones present); we had painted the town Pink by going to at least three Clubs and now here we were at our fourth one and he was in no hurry despite the text messages and the calls streaming to his phone but he kept on ignoring. See, I generally love dates even the one I had at a National Park and I had to nod and broadly smile at the guy’s jokes (including the dry ones). What? You have to be far-sighted in these things lest you are thrown out of the car and left stranded for a lion to make a supper out of you!

I digress…

To be continued…

Cole

C.D.R Special: A little glimmer of light in the darkness…

Four or five months ago in the beautiful city of Cape Town, I did get to interact with Boniface* a native from Uganda. It was the first time I actually got to speak Swahili in a foreign country and felt fucking good about it. Well, of course I am not that proficient so it was a bit broken. I digress. Boniface fled from home as soon as his family back home found out he was a homosexual. He was in dire straits until an opportunity availed itself and he found himself in the Cape where he stays with some of his fellow countrymen who were faced with such similar circumstances. He has no contact with anyone back at home and is not keen on heading back there either. This was shortly after the time H.E President Museveni had signed into law the Anti Homosexuality Bill and lest we forget, while at it gave us a lecture on how oral sex is disgusting making me question how some people really spice it up in the bedroom. Oral sex to me is like a greeting, no? Oops I digress again.

While at O.R Tambo International making my way back home, I also got to meet this delightful Airport official (a white South African queen) who was enchanted just by the sight of my passport and he said one thing, “Aww… I love your country, it’s not like Uganda where they don’t like people like me.” I do remember intimating to him that Uganda can’t be anywhere in my travel itinerary even though it’s like a stone throw away from my homeland. He smiled.

A while ago, one of you told me that Uganda will be the case study on the clamor for LGBT rights in Africa. He emphasized that despite her problems where the Government is policing among other things bedroom affairs, it would be an authority for the rest of us who think we are liberal in these things. Of course I rolled my eyes and sipped my smoothie telling him. “In your dreams”.

 

So earlier today, the Constitutional Court of Uganda overturned the harsh law by declaring it null and void and all that came to mind were the aforesaid gentlemen. I thought of Boniface’s family back in Uganda who definitely feel this Judgment is a slap on their faces. I thought of us, who have continued to boycott Uganda, I thought of sanctions enforced by some members of the international community, I thought of the Ugandans who fled their country to Kenya. I thought of the activists who have put their lives on the line to fight an Executive popularly viewed as despotic. I thought of a fucking lot of things…but a few things are clear, it’s a beautiful day for Human Rights activists; the journey has just began and (to play for the other side a bit) whichever way you look at it, just on the strength of this decision, the Ugandan Judiciary has struck a first for Sub Saharan Africa! I mean, we live in a continent where such bold “activist” decisions are frowned upon by the Executive and of course it’s likely to attract consequences but be that as it may, it will be interesting to see how this fight escalates to the Appeal Court. 

I am in high spirits as an LGBT identifying person, I feel like it’s my own battle. I tip my hat to the petitioners and say, Godspeed!

Succinctly put, this is a welcome little glimmer of light in the darkness…      

Cole

Do you love me, or do you love the idea of me?

AFTER CLIMAXING INSIDE HIM, he retreats to his side of the bed his tumescent manhood still wet. He had always insisted on fucking him raw. He reaches out for his phone and resumes a WhatsApp conversation(s) with some of the resident hoes he continues to buy drinks hoping to get some (by the way) ass or dick but they seem to take long to impress. He smiles to himself upon receiving some nudes from one of them. Some progress at last. Benson on the other hand reaches out for his boxers and heads to the living room slightly limping. He has fulfilled his daily duty to this man. His man. Deep down though, he has always wanted to know who the people on the other end, who keep his man smiling after their copulating sessions are. He constantly asks himself what he needs to do to make him smile just for him. Maybe it would make their love life better. But it’s too late. I will be leave tomorrow. He thinks quietly to himself as he mixes some vodka and coke for him.  That’s the plan. It is Friday; he’ll be hanging out till late. I just need to take charge of my fucked up life. Did I just call my life fucked? He smiles at the thought. He drowns a shot of tequila down his throat and squeezes a lemon piece in his mouth…

*****

So I’m writing this while sitting on my living room’s window. It is so overcast outside. I always know shit is real when I can’t make out these masts on Ngong Hills.  Is it just me or it’s been cold like crazy! Blessed are those who have a stay in boyfriend or man for they are adequately ‘catered’ for. Shit, I just felt religious. The rest of you all (me included) need to get our hot water bottles, room heaters and all other winter related shenanigans out. And sweetie, getting it down with some random bloke isn’t part of the solution to this cold weather especially when you’ve been trying to bag that man with a southern etiquette, a west coast attitude and an east coast trust fund, no?

I digress.

This weather outside strikes a chord with me and gave me a nudge to scribble something. I’m particularly reminded of myself before starting this blog and all. I was simply a twink who just wanted to get laid (with some good dick while at it) and in the process find love a man, period. There was really no strategy around it, so going on a date(s) was done on a whim. Maybe this next guy is the one. Permission to speak freely? I got ‘serviced’ well! Chile, those were days where I used to prefer some of my men just like the lemons I take every morning to detox – raw.

There's also that evening I was meeting a bunch of homosexuals for dinner at the CBD and one of them gave me quite a dressing down that I peculiarly still recall. “Is that the only shirt you could find?” He asked, his tone condescending. The rest of the guys laughed it off as a joke. I made a mental note of it. I would need it someday. Fine, I was pretty skinny then considering I was a mere clerk who was barely a year old in employment but for Christ’s sake, it was a Denver Hayes! That experience is what made me realize I don’t really auger well in those commonplace homosexual circles. Besides, in this business journey of pursuing dick, we are always alone. I digress again.

Then there is my friend Benson. Tall, pretty, a strong character, intuitive et al. who walked out of an abusive relationship on a whim and has never looked back. The genesis of this article on this cold July afternoon is something he told me while we were having buna in Piassa District, Ethiopia in 2013 that has set the dictum for any subsequent romantic interests he has. Wait for it. “Do you love me, or do you love the idea of me?” Deep, right?

*****

ANTHONY RISES UP BUTTONING his brown corduroy blazer as I walk towards him at the far end of the bar’s patio that overlooks the Lang’ata suburb below. He’s definitely not as brief petite as I thought from the pictures on Facebook. He has an amiable smile and urges me to take a seat despite me being over fashionably late for this coffee date. He unbuttons he sits down. I instantly like him. He had asked for this meeting two weeks earlier opining that we’d been friends for over two years and meeting over overpriced coffee wouldn’t hurt. I considered him more of a fan. By the way, I’m trying to make it a habit to interact with at least one of my readers in person every month. It gives me a perspective and in some cases positive criticism on my writing. One of the questions he asks me really gets my faculties working. “Cole, I know you are one of the strongest characters in our circles but what’s your story?” Wait a minute. Just the other day while sitting in an interview panel, I asked one of the candidates, what’s your story? See, you just don’t get to turn it round on me but maybe it is the fucking Universe’s way of achieving balance. His question is valid. One of the things I remember intimating to him was my self–esteem issues. Opportunely, I have never had daddy baggage going on. “But you cute, why would you have esteem problems?” He asked.

There’s that phase we (young) homosexuals go through. Personally, I was around 22 or 23 thereabout. You’ve just come to terms with the fact that your gayness is here to stay and so you put yourself out there with all these major expectations. You idolize the folk who are openly out –Aunty Elton, Michael Sam, More power to you – the homies in the Pulse Magazine who graced a party in wigs and someone apparently showed up in heels! For a moment you envision being in their place but hope to show up in Gucci instead. You try to fit in into some circles just to look cool but when they are roughly whisked out of the club for gyrating their ass against a clueless white man’s groin; when some heifer thinks that your clothes ain’t that cool yet you are putting yourself through college; when all some asshole wants to know is what car you drive yet he used a motorbike to get here; those bitches who when you walk into a club, they give you a body check you’d think they own the place, then you begin to question yourself and the intrigues of the gay community. 

So, my friend Benson walked out on an abusive boyfriend without notice. The guy who had made him ostracize friends who tried to help him and foes that his man occasionally banged. When I come to think of it, venturing into a blog was in a nutshell my rebellion towards the gay community. For not giving me a man, for not finding a guy who wants to go out on a movie date, for not giving me a reliable friend, for making me feel inferior because of the house and area I lived in, for making me a cum dumpster bucket for reminding me how insufficient I still was thanks to some bitches that had more drama than a matatu full of drag queens on their way to a wig sale. Reality is, the gay community didn't owe me, but I sure as hell fucking grew up! It's called Tough love.

Anthony seems almost content with my response but I can tell it’s not satisfactory. I prod him to tell me about his life. He looks like the nice boy man, the calm type but whose intentions you can’t straight away place. I mean, he has title before his name, Single. A man of means and going by the fact that he speaks so much about sex, who knows what action he brings in the bedroom. Why the fuck is he still single and isn’t looking to date! Cole, Focus! My conscience reprimands me.

Do I love (using it as a term of endearment) him or do I love the idea of him? Benson’s words ring in my fucking head!

Most of us gay people deserve Grammies for the quintessential life we map out in our creative minds way before we meet a guy. You know. A trophy, his equally approving family (scrap that, it’s unrealistic), moving in together, adopt purchase a Chihuahua, start a joint business, go on vacation once a year, celebrate anniversaries with only close friends etc. Then you meet the actual guy and the sequence is not exactly as you had anticipated. ‘What do you do?’ You ask. ‘Student,’ he responds. You struggle to construct the next question to ask him considering he has already indicated he is a thirty something year old man and is being shady about which college he’s in, you are ambushed by a question, “What do you like in bed?”

 

Oops, I’ve just looked up and noticed the masts on Ngong Hills are a bit visible. A section of the clouds on the horizon on my right are also opening up. I need to splash some moisturizer on my face, put on my jacket and leave for an interview. It's gonna be a sunny afternoon I guess. Look, I have no idea of what I have been yapping about for the last forty minutes. I could be fapping for all I care but Benson’s question sums it up for me, “Do you love me, or do you love the idea of me?” 

Cole