Wednesday 2 July 2014

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

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