The bar cum restaurant in Yaba where Jonathan had us gathered was already becoming full of life at about 5pm the next evening. It was a public holiday, and so, none of us who had jobs were here after a hectic day at work. So far, we were all present except Adebola.
And Bryson, a little voice whispered inside my head, as my heart picked up a slightly faster beat at the recollection of his name. I craned my neck around to the entrance of the joint, but there was no sight of the two guys that were yet to arrive.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Ekene said beside me, “he’ll be here.”
“Who’ll be here?” interjected Paschal as he leaned in toward Ekene and I from my other side. He looked at my face and continued with a grin, “Oh, you mean, Bryson, Mr. Straight-guy that Madam Slut here says fucked him.”
“Hey, he did fuck me,” I snapped at Paschal.
“Right,” drawled Paschal, “I believe you.” His tone implied heavily that he didn’t.
“This is not fair, I’m saying the truth,” I protested.
“Honey,” Biola cooed from further beside Paschal, “what you need is a boyfriend, to fuck all these fantasies you keep having about Bryson away from your head.”
His voice carried, and there was a thrum of laughter from everyone at our table. I felt a surge of irritation at them go through my body. The idiots. Was it so hard for them to imagine that a straight, pussy-whipped guy such as Bryson had actually had sex with me?
Because he had, goddamnit!
You see, Bryson is Adebola’s friend; he’s this absolutely hot dude with a whipcord lean build, a face that is all angles and planes – a photographer’s dream – complete with high cheekbones and a full, pouty mouth, and a Mohawk he perpetually wore which seemed to enhance his sexiness. The guy is a walking, talking, breathing turn-on for all of us who were Adebola’s gay friends. And it didn’t help that he was also gay friendly; he knew about Adebola’s – and our – sexualities (something that pissed Jonathan off to no end; ‘Who sent you to go and tell him I fuck ass!’ he roared at Adebola the day he found out Bryson knew about him). But Bryson doesn’t judge; he loves hanging out with us so much that some time ago, Yinka and Biola had gotten into a spat with Adebola because they believed Bryson was a closet homo, against Adebola’s adamant negations. Biola actually pursued him for some time, and got a curt rejection for his efforts. He needn’t have bothered. Adebola had lamented several times of trying to seduce Bryson and having no luck. And when a whole Adebola can’t get a guy to bed him, no one else can. With cherry-red lips and a well-rounded backside that has been driving all ages of men – gay, bi and straight – crazy for years, my friend had quickly earned a reputation which made us say often: If Adebola can’t gay him, then he must really like pussy.
As for me, I was also not immune to Bryson’s good looks and sex appeal. But my own was to die in silence. I responded to him only when he talked to me, I laughed at his jokes during our hangouts, and I tried to control my hard-on whenever I saw him in Adebola’s apartment, bare-chested and oozing all that careless gorgeousness that guys who don’t know the power they have over other males have.
That’s one tasty kporo I’m never going to see or have, I told myself awhile ago, and made my peace with it.
All that changed, however, several nights ago during Adebola’s birthday. He threw a bash in his Festac apartment, and invited people. Lots of guys, and quite a number of girls it didn’t take me long to realize were lesbians. His place was jamming, drinks and conversations were flowing, and bodies were rocking both to the music and to the frenzy of hook-ups here and there. At some point in the night, I came out of the house, escaping outside to soak in some fresh air. I’d intended it to be a quick one, but somehow, I got seduced by the chilly feel of the nightly breeze and the separateness from all the party noise. And so, I located beside the house a tattered upholstered futon that Adebola had thrown out, intending to discard; I sat on it and stared out into the night.
Minutes passed before Bryson staggered out. He looked flushed and elated, and called my name boisterously as he leaned toward the wall beside me, fingered out his penis and started urinating.
I swallowed hard as I looked at him. I was wrong. I got to see the kporo. And boy, was it lovely. Even in the dimness of the evening, I could make out the sloping arch of the shaft which ended in a cap that seemed a little disproportionately larger than the rest of the dick. I gulped again, and my fevered gaze went up and clashed with Bryson’s. He was watching me.
“You like it?” he murmured.
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard, but I nodded, my head going up and down like an Agama lizard. He turned, and without zipping his dick back inside his fly, he faced me. The kporo faced me too. The temptation was too much to ignore. I moved swiftly to him, and with no hesitation, I leaned forward and started sucking him. For several minutes I sucked and sucked, doing my best to work the dick into an erection. The process was gradual, but it happened; finally, the kporo began to respond. It swelled against the inside of my mouth, and the erection gave me joy. I sucked harder, bobbing back and forth on the thickening dick, while Bryson started breathing heavily in a clear indication that my oral skills were getting to him. Placing his hands on the top of my head, he panted harder, even as I fondled and fisted my own dick. I moved my head and lathed my tongue on the underside of the cock shaft, and the move made Bryson’s body jerk, and he hissed, “Oh shit!”
All too soon, it was obvious that he was close to coming. But I wasn’t ready for that to happen. I released his dick from my mouth and led him to the futon. I motioned for him to lie on it, which he did, with his legs spread so I could slowly sit down on his thick cock. It was a hard and somewhat daring position to start in, and I was so caught up in the moment that the thought of protection came and went fleetingly. What was I supposed to do, ruin this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity by telling the straight guy everyone wants but can’t have to wait so I could rustle up some condoms from the merrymakers inside?
I don’t think so.
So I sat on his dick, feeling it slide all the way up into my ass. It hurt, what with just saliva acting as lubricant. And then, I started to ride that dick like a pro. With one hand braced on the back of the futon, steadied by Bryson, I rocked up and down on his laps. I huffed and puffed until my knees were about to give out, and then I wanted to lie down. We scrambled into position, with me bent forward over the futon, my trousers collected around my ankles and my ass arched up toward him. Bryson stood behind me and rammed his cock home. In this new position, he was able to set a hard and fast pace while I stood there and took it. As he started panting hard, gaining momentum with his thrusting, I gave out stifled moans, remembering at one point to hiss back at him, “Please, don’t come inside me, please, don’t come inside me…”
He grunted in response, and continued going at me, his dick pistoning in and out of my ass. And then, all of a sudden, with a loud groan, he pulled out of me and started jerking off on the part of the futon beside me. Running his fist in fast agitated motions over his engorged dick, he soon splattered cum all over the tattered surface of the seat. He didn’t say anything to me after that; he simply cleaned his penis off against the futon, secured his trousers over his hips and walked back into the party.
I didn’t mind his bad attitude; I was too elated. I was wrong again; I’d finally had the kporo. I couldn’t wait to spread the good news. I started with Yinka as he drove us home. He didn’t believe me. Yinka later told Ekene who roped me into the gist just so they both could tease me for what they thought was my delusion. Ekene told Biola; Biola ‘flipped his weave-on’ and told me I was a liar. That made us quarrel for several minutes. The gist spread to my other friends; Paschal, Jonathan, Adebola, Edidiong – none of them believed me, preferring instead to treat the news with indulgent amusement. And none of them thought to verify my claims from the other person involved. Bryson. And I was too cowardly to reach out to him and tell him to corroborate my story, to inform all these idiots that he and I had had sex.
I hadn’t seen him since that night at Adebola’s party. This evening, right at the joint where Jonathan’s celebration of his impending nuptials had brought us all together, was going to be the first time I’d be seeing the straight boy I’d been trying so hard to convince my friends had fucked me.
“Speak of the devil,” Ekene said, his voice breaking into my thoughts, lifting me out of my reverie and back into the conversation that was eddying around me and the bustle that was thriving in the joint.
I looked up and swallowed hard. Adebola had just sashayed inside, his hand lifted in a limp-wristed wave at us as he acknowledged the chorus of voices that welcomed him.
And walking in measured steps behind him, looking ever so sexy, his Mohawk a permed sheath on his head, was Bryson.