The Balcony of Men's Hopes

Reader discretion advised due to the explicit language used in sections of this discourse.

Previously on C.D.R

I feel horny. I feel pain. I feel the blessing of bottomhood. I feel fulfilled. I feel Marky…

As I bend to pick it, I notice the guy on my right is massaging his uncut cock while watching something on his screen. He winks at me.  Holy Shit!

…I’d forgotten to witness what heterosexual climax sounds like. Must be a quiet affair I think. How lousy.

…our bourgeoisie Kenyans are under siege going by the agony most go through blowing on that thing. Unless they are feigning it, some folk’s blowjob expertise is highly wanting.

I’m hesitant to sit on the black dilapidated seat that reeks of a dry concoction of cum and sweat. I closely inspect it for any creepy-crawly stuff…

…we are all whores, the only difference lies in our availability and where we go for it.

…He picks the empty Sprite bottle and rushes to the tank to draw some water then returns with it full and sits as though he’s just ordered a new drink.

He’s singing some Taarab music. He reaches the next table, hugs selected people and smiles at Mungai and I who have been caught staring…

‘Itina ti rĩagũkombora’ – this ass is not for rent – He tells him...

…young men have in the past sneaked to the bathroom with half glasses of beer, jerk off in them and then bring the flavored mixture to the old men who say it’s a good cure for cold or an old man’s throat

… they live up to one unifying melody: Let them talk!

… Whoa, Kumbe Role si muscle!

*******

A NEAT STAFF BADGE is perched on his left breast pocket above his branded and fitting pullover that gives a chimera of his sturdy arms underneath. He’s a tall, dark and fine-looking man on the other side of the VISA collection counter and has been interestingly smirking at me in some sort of familiarity since I got here. Except kissing, he could take me over this counter anytime. 

While scanning the right side of his chest for any nipple protrusion, he interrupts my wandering mind in some sheng, ‘Collo manze, yaani haunikumbuki?’ (Cole you mean you really don’t remember me?) I swiftly embark on digging my man archives (the computers at the fap’ depot would resent me) and I’m soon convinced we’ve never fucked. I mean, he just looks like a slave for pussy so macho. Two, I just don’t remember him. Just then, a petite gentleman walks to the next counter for his documents to be scrutinized. Our eyes meet and I immediately remember it is ‘Belly’ from that night at club. I remember giving him an alias and the GoTV Customer care number as my phone number (What? Citi Hoppa got common) so I sense trouble. I struggle to ignore but it’s too late. “Hey Derrick, I’ve been trying to reach you.” Silence. 

I notice the familiar scar just above the VISA guy’s left eye. I remember Eastland’s Umoja II in 1996, the garage with old cars that aspiring mechanics used to train in and stray dogs used to howl uncontrollably at night and mate next to the playground in our Raonda (hood), I remember the sand fights made possible by construction sites, hunting nyonis (birds) using catapults that make me responsible for almost making this man lose his left eye. I got some serious spanking from Mrs. Mutahi though. I remember the uniform heavy wooden gates in almost all plots whose hinges occasionally came out and the strong men lifted and placed it in the water meter room until its repair was achieved thanks to all the five neighbours in a plot contributing some money in the guise of security.

After the devout deacon’s son (who gave me my first ever prick) and his family (House No.3) moved houses, it is in this meter room at dusk, behind the unhinged gate that the VISA guy’s older brother occasionally made me suck his dick. One day he accidentally peed in my mouth and I had to spew out the contents on the mtaru (drainage) below. This sealed my fate for the adroit blowjobs I’d be giving in future. “Collo, so you are Derrick nowadays?” He asks in a very deep voice adolescence rewarded him generously. It’s now so clear; it’s my childhood friend and neighbour Jariff.  Fuck!

*******

Behind The Scenes

1. The feedback I got from some of you after that cyber story! And one of you must have sent Marco a link to the story because the text I got from him on Sunday evening! Colerians, really? And here I was thinking I’m the crazy one. One of you also raised a reasonable point asking me to clarify my rendezvous with him. I feel it’s fair to comment on it. You better get some water, have a bookmark of sorts and have a seat. This may take a while.

It was December 9^th 2011 when we were slated to head for a post graduation party my friend Sage had arranged for his beau and family out of town. It was not a nasty break up. Dude didn’t show up and his phone went unanswered. That day was my last attempt to reach him. Although I secretly hoped that he was lying dead in some dingy street in Nairobi’s river road. Maybe that would have made reality easier to sink. It had become a norm anyway which made me learn that the moment a man changes his routine, honey you better marshal your strength for the downhill roller coaster. It is very easy to start blaming yourself for e.g. being lousy in bed, he’s probably landed mkundu ya gorofa (a storeyed ass) or in the worst case scenario consider suicide by deliberately overdosing on Piriton like someone I used to know. Then there are the usual ones who pretend that they move on after a day yet deep inside they hurt. Some who took to full time whoring and are still doing well in that department. Never underrate the clout a broken heart has on a gay man. It defines or ruins him completely.

How did you handle your last heart break?

Singing Carrie Underwood’s ‘Before He Cheats’ during karaoke off key was fun especially when those two tipsy ladies with wine glasses clasped in their well manicured hands joined me on stage for the chorus: I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up four wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seats…Why I never sung Beyonce’s ‘Irreplaceable’ or Celine Dion’s ‘All By Myself’ is still beyond me. I mean it’s not like he cheated on me, he just dumped me without any elucidation. It is during this Karaoke that I also met the curvaceous Ms. Nice Githinji – Ladies, I don’t have her number, she was the host – Does the Hilton still host Karaoke Fridays on 1^st Floor?

Then there was that period of getting fucked by anything horny and needed a boy hole to drain its milky content. In one of those occasions, I almost got raped raw by some dude in Ngong but I overpowered him and left at the wee hours of the dawn, a dude soon after cumming left brusquely leaving me feeling cold, ashamed and naked and then, there was that wet Sunday morning (7am) I found myself at Githurai for the first time. Dude couldn’t even come to collect me from the bus terminal but advised me to board a bodaboda (motorbike). It was so muddy and I would not be surprised if my face kissed the ground and for the first time I asked myself, “Cole, son of Mutahi, what the fuck are you doing?” I asked the rider to stop. I turned back and boarded one of those multihued Thika road buses and headed back home. I’d finally received the memo to get a grip of myself and have a perspective. It is around that time Identity Kenya stopped the monthly magazines and I found solace in a blog. T.S.R (as it then was). I took that leap of faith to ruffle up my life a little bit. I finished that undergrad, made a major career change and currently on the brink of resigning.

Gosh, the number of times I was tempted to board a shuttle to Narok  to go cause a scene or even walk up to his boss at the golf club!  Class is what makes one restrain from acting in the heat of the moment yet to move on, you just need to forgive them. Power reverts to you and the string of men that the universe sends with that attitude change! Well, of course you’ll run into a few jerks here and there but for me, I was like, why the hell did I waste my rectal muscles on that asshole man? It is this that kept me collected when one early evening after a Chinese dinner late last year, I got a 3-page text from the Ex apologizing. I called him back (I don’t like leaving trails) the following morning to tell him we are at a good place. I also thank Jamleck, Izaak, Jochem and Sage who stood up to me to ensure I didn’t drown. In this time and age, as a gay man you need to clearly define your friends. One of my friends opined the other day over Rosé, ‘We can’t be friends if the only thing we have in common is our orientation.’ Do take that road trip to Sirimon Gate or the Aberdares (Oh the sprinkles on your face as Chania Falls meet the base!) So out of this world but very therapeutic. *Sighs* succinctly put, I don’t believe anyone should pull their hair out just because of cock. They’ll never go extinct. You feel me?

2. Lupita briefly aside. So, the other day at the mall I ran into someone. Whoa! Is it just me or NFL Indianapolis Colts’ KENYAN linebacker Daniel Adongo one fly jamaa! That height and build! Only God knows how many times I’ve had to cross myself, kiss my rosary and recite the Apostles’ Creed just to thwart any wicked thoughts e.g. the darker the berry…. *Drops Mic* Still on matters NFL, on Tuesday morning while dressing for work, I also got to catch the AC 360 exclusive on Missouri’s defensive end Michael Sam’s coming out. In as much as it has sparked yet another discourse on the much lauded locker room culture, it’s another high point the LGBT movement needs to embrace in her quest for progress. Any of you with a locker room janitor or bathroom cleaner job opportunity? I’m asking for a friend.

3. So, Yes. I finally succumbed to pressure and signed up for this WhatsApp thing this past weekend. It was all fun and games until I got a message from the first guy I ever met for a hook up from social media. Whoa. Now I’m seriously warming up to it.

*******

*Looks at his wrist watch* Oops. Let’s see whether we can still achieve today’s business:

_______

In another life, I have decided that I want to be a mixologist. This is because my burlesque plans are not practicable. Then hopefully grow into a connoisseur of cocktails.

HIS WARM BLACK SUV REVERSES from the Brew Bistro parking to the deserted Ngong road at 3 a.m. His phone is on frenzy with calls and texts from his wife. He ignores the phone and says he must drop me home. He pulls over at my gate. One of the verses from Marc Cohn’s ‘Walking in Memphis’ plays in the background as I plant a soft peck on his cheek making me realize it’s actually Sunday morning.

I am not an ardent partaker of the club scene but I have had my fair share of the intrigues that come with it. In Eldoret’s 411 for instance a whore was flirting with Izaak’s Caucasian boo, she saw me and tipped her head backwards. I did the same and we instantly became allies. She respectfully walked away making my respect for hoes rise to another level. In the same place a strange Caucasian man complimented my shirt and I said thanks of course briefing Jamleck later because I’d actually got it from him for the evening. Poa place is an okay place for a married man in the guise of bonding with his kid(s) asks you to tag along but while going down the stairs from Irish Well’s restaurant, ‘You have a nice ass,’ this brief short varsity guy tells me as he puts his hands around my waist. He was on our table and had been checking me out the whole evening even as I demolished a piece of lasagna for the first time. ‘Thanks love, you can look but you can’t touch.’ I told him removing his hand from my waist. Then there is Bettyz where I’ve been stopped for being underage boosting my ego even further, kept a married man out until 2 a.m. If this Alco blow thing was present that time, I wonder what I’d have done with his huge automobile considering I was the sober person. It is also where a dude told me that if any man asks me out and he’s seated with me, then I shouldn’t even dare struggle to pour the drink for myself. 

Then there are the two Casa Blancas: Coast and the Kilimani. In the former I was propositioned by a hooker (female) in front of my former boss. Mercury at the junction have got some great dirty martini and chilled Apple Juice for a Sunday afternoon especially while on a date with a tall mwalalalo (Somali origin) smoking brother and all the time you hope he shall stash away his phone and stop sending text messages to The White Widow’s operatives. Remember the one who had a ring on his nipple? Oops TMI. Then there is Sherehez, Ozone lounge, Bella Vista, Hidden Agenda, Sylk, Kosewe (great live band as you have fish), Cedars (a great spot to meet and network with government bigwigs), the defunct Tacos and Club Sounds to the moribund Armed Forces Canteen next to the University of Nairobi where my date had to bribe the watchman with 50 shillings to gain access past the KBC rear gate. Then came Club Envy.

I arrive at the establishment at around 8.30p.m. I sit on a stool slightly next to the circular blinking signage facing the entrance. Did you know it blinks all the seven colours of the rainbow? Hmm. The balcony is still filling up. “ Can I have chilled tonic and separate lemon slices. A short glass please.” I tell the down to earth waiter that has maintained a steady eye contact the whole time. He smiles as he takes his leave. Manners approved. Just opposite me are two men sharing a table of beers. One is the Somali-looking guy I saw at the Fap’ Depot and his companion in a beret is seemingly from Ethiopia. I think the former tells him something because he turns and looks at me. I smile broadly at him and he looks away. 

 

Mungai sends me a text that he’ll join me in at least 30 minutes as he’s having dinner at the fast food restaurant below. The waiter brings my order. “Karibu.” He tells me as he walks away. A tall glass with a slight crack containing the lemon slices has been brought in addition to the short one. I embarrassingly use a toothpick to collect at least three pieces but abandon the last two. An average height gentleman in a fitting purple T-shirt, a disheveled Mohawk that needs to be redone and a leather man bag walks to my table. He asks if I’m alone. I tell him my friend is having a bite downstairs but he can share the table. “Can I?” he asks showing me a pack of Dunhill cigarettes. I think I hear a twang. I nod in approval and thank him for his offer of one curtly informing him I don’t smoke. We are quiet for a while as Nikki Minaj’s Starships plays on the screen ahead of me. He deposits the cigarette ash in my tall glass without asking me about the slices. “Do you think I can recover a phone I lost here two weeks ago?” He asks me matter-of-factly like I’m some sort of the policeman on duty or in-charge of the lost and found desk at this club. “Sorry?” I ask. He thinks that I haven’t understood his accent which upon my attempts at placing it, is a mix between Manchester and Georgia but largely improvised having been obtained by unsuccessful trips to respective local embassies. He further explains it’s nothing to worry about as his insurance will handle it. Then why did you ask me in the first place? Really guys, you mean this is how bad we are doing with pickup lines? The Ethiopian guy in a beret behind him looks my way again and I smile back. The dude gets the memo and excuses himself, a choice I gladly acquiesce. 

A TALL SUDANESE MAN WALKS IN and I’m instantly reminded of how lucky he is to be here going by the mayhem back in his country. We look at each other briefly and when he asks whether the seat is available, I tell him my friend is just on his way. “Oh, I’m sorry.’ He says in a Nilotic accent. Just following him is Mungai. He’s so formally dressed and spots a gold chain that glitters against the club’s dim lights. He’s oblivious to the group of young men at the corner just next to the balcony’s ingress regarding him intently.

After a casual exchange of pleasantries, he sits down. We start discussing the dangling light sticks comparing them to the size of cock we can handle. Mungai even touches one and the Ethiopian man and his friend can’t help looking. I ask Mungai to move his seat slightly to give us flirting space. A lady waiter in a small white coat, matching shorts and black stockings that go up to her…walks up to our table. Mungai engages her briefly before placing his order. Just before she reaches the entrance my friend and bitch Izaak walks in. We squeal as we hug each other attracting some attention from the patrons around us. After making small talk and scheduling a lunch date, he walks to a group of men at the far corner who immediately make space for him. ‘Cole, it’s not an orgy.’ Mungai interrupts my brief reverie. I take my seat and brief him on the guy with a twang who was asking me about his lost phone. Mungai chastises me saying that that would have been my permit to salvage a horny night. I roll my eyes.

A couple seated on the lower table is brought a whole bottle of wine. Mungai shakes his head and tells me how that chic will have serious bedroom gymnastics tonight. She later got so high and started exchanging words with an equally drunk homosexual who I kept on wondering how he would get home. 

A man in an agreeably fitting black corduroy jacket walks to our table and is engaged in an extended vivacious greeting with Mungai. Let’s call him “Belly” for purposes of this article. He pulls a free seat from the next table and their greetings extend involving ‘broken’ wrists and pulled words like, ‘Wewe mama. Sema kupotea, kwani unaziuzia wapi siku hizi?’ (Long time girl, where do you sell your wares nowadays?). A short light-skinned waiter walks to our table to take his order. The waiter throws shade while taking the order. Without naming names, I can immediately tell he’s fucked with someone on this table.  

Mungai’s friend later orders a drink for me and then leaves to go say hi to some twink he’s seen on the next table. I notice a young guy with shades on and immediately start wondering what gaylebrity he is with no one going to ask for his autograph. Why do guys put on stunners in a club though? Mungai informs me that Belly never buys anyone drinks and reiterates I’m definitely one of his hopefuls tonight. Belly soon returns to our table. He removes his nice jacket revealing just how tubby he is. If he had just kept it on, I would have considered recommending him to Pato. He looks at me with those eyes that say, let’s go fuck baby. I then feel some movement on my legs and upon checking to confirm whether it’s a cat, I notice Belly’s legs trying to creep up my crotch. ‘Stop’. I warn him. What’s with some Homosexuals and self entitlement! As much as he had taken off his shoes, even if he had Pierre Cardin socks on, there was no way he was going to mess my bright blue Levi’s jeans…hata kama ni za Toyi Market. 

I seek solace from the Ethiopian guy who has now been joined by some young man I’ve seen before and the Sudanese guy from earlier that Belly said he can’t imagine drilling him even though he hears they are endowed down there and that when they screw, it just goes straight in. Basically, all the interest has shifted from our table Shit.

Belly leaves to go and mingle again. Mungai is still reeling from the shock and pride of how firm I was. Before he asks, I tell him, unless Belly drugged me, there is no way I can ever be caught in bed with him even if we are alone in the Sahara. He almost falls from his chair with laughter. It is at that point and for the first time I notice the two girls from inside. Personal space already breached with an imminent tongue action, the butch looks at her partner the way I would want a man to look at me before foreplay. This is some fucking hot lesbian dyke love!

Belly comes back, a cigarette butt in his hand. He shoves it my end but I take it and throw it on the street below where I notice street kids are dancing. He’s tipsy. He collects his jacket from the empty chair and asks for my number. I lie to him I’ve left my phone in the car but offer to feed it on his phone anyway. He’s surprised at my compliance. In the meantime, Mungai is engaged in conversation with a civilized twink in a black T-shirt and red pants carrying a bottle of beer that he’s been bought for by a stranger due to his venerable dancing skills. In fact, I hear he can shake with a beer bottle balanced on his head or even just above his booty. Bitch is skinny but as he sashayed away from our table, he clearly had that future behind him following instructions.

I come back from the washroom where the tall janitor therein was kind enough to help me reach for the tissue above one of the lavatories to help me dry my hands. I run into the Ethiopian and the Somali man leaving. They are holding the young man whose eyes are bloodshot and has the former’s beret on. The Ethiopian stares at me fleetingly, stepping aside to allow me pass. I slightly tip my head in acknowledgement deep down wondering what bad things they are going to do to the poor thing.

The balcony is now filling up with random and edited guys dancing all over the place. A Caucasian man walks in with a chocolate-skinned guy and requests to stand by our table. Mungai and I agree simultaneously. The chocolate guy smiles to us as a gesture of thanks as his Caucasian man goes to the counter inside to get some drinks from them. The mzungu comes back carrying two glasses of Jack Daniels. 

The dancing is now on cloud nine with Mungai standing to dance to Diamond’s Number One. The Caucasian guy has since abandoned his date and is grooving with a short dude who’s been shaking her his bum the whole time to Bumaye's 'Watch out for dis'. One of the bouncers walks up to them to separate the looming boy on man twerk action.

It’s about midnight and the balcony is getting cold. I inform Mungai I’m moving inside. He equally supports the idea and we soon leave. Some lesbians behind us are in some sort of line holding each other’s waists dancing. The butch has spooned his beau as they dance alone in a spot. They are in absorbed in their own world. It is in that moment I notice her comely beau has six inch heel fucking Christian Louboutin red bottoms! Wow!

A drunken guy is seated alone in a table that borders the balcony just directly opposite us. We are seated next to the amplifier. I go to the counter to place an order for some warm Sparletta Stoney soda. It is at that point I run into one an old friend. “Kumbe hata we hukuja kanisa?” (So you also come to this church?) He introduces me to his friend who has a humble disposition. “The guy seated with your friend is a pastor with a big dick. Please don’t ask me more. I am just sharing some useful information.” Mungai tells me when I return to our table. He sips his wine and nonchalantly rises to dance to Lady Jay Dee’s “Yahaya” which I’ve since come to learn is someone’s name and not a Tanzanian vocabulary. I make a reminder in my head to pray for him for misleading a man of God next time I have my rosary.

A huge bouncer in a purple shirt with that polo trademark that reveals biceps the size of my thigh hovers around our table. Mungai and I burst out in laughter visibly confusing him and when we finally ask each other why we were all laughing, we even laugh more as it dawns on us we had thought of that ‘Kumbe role si muscle’ phrase after Pato’s admissions at the fap’ depot. This has since changed my nefarious fantasies with rugby men.

IT’S NOW 3A.M. The small boy in Maasai tailored shorts, a matching half coat and Ankara shoes with a white T-shirt underneath dances vigorously as Mungai's so-called pastor watches. Even with my intuitive abilities, I can’t read his face. The guy in Akala (traditional rubber sandals) that was fighting with the lady who’s boo had bought her a whole bottle of wine is now at the balcony and has grabbed a friend to the twerkee from earlier. The guy who had come with the mzungu is now with a short muscular dread-locked brother. Upon further survey, I notice the Caucasian (mzungu) and his twerkee are gone. 

The cute one is throwing tantrums and in the process of seeking the interest of his friend in a red shirt and brown khaki pants who is literally dry humping another dude to my chagrin (even the muscled bouncers are no longer stopping them), he spills a whole bottle of beer. The previously dry humping man stops and joins him to ask him what is wrong. They step out briefly. The other guy sits on the table carefully avoiding the spilled beer. I notice Belly chatting with a petite gentleman. He’s probably the one he was waiting for from Westlands. We rise up to leave when the deejay starts playing some Taarab Music and I’m somehow reminded of that coastal lad from Reke Marie. I pass the bouncers at the main entrance and bid them bye. I notice the khaki guy pleading with the cute one on the stairs to give him more time. I smile and leave both content and happy about this space.

I depart with a tinge of optimism of sorts and note it as a possible Valentine’s Day indulgence because I’ve finally deciphered why it is the balcony of men’s hopes!

Cole