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 9th 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 1st 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:
_______
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