FOREWORD: So, following that first time post, someone has sent in a non-fictional narration of his first sexual experience. He dedicates it to the dude who made it happen. Read and enjoy.
I’d been in your place that Saturday afternoon you referred to, going through your stack of photos. You said, later, that you’d wanted to kiss me. But weren’t sure.
Months later, while I hoped that the next item on the news about the ASUU strike would be its call-off, you asked me my role. It was past one a.m., in the days XtraCool was a thing.
Versatile, I said quickly. And slapped my arm – fucking mosquito. Did it matter that when I watched Diego and Paloma kiss back in the day, I actually saw myself as a kinda male version of Paloma, swooning but for Diego’s strong arm propping my spine? Uh, no. I didn’t think so.
I was versatile, I said again, in case you hadn’t heard the first time.
Nice, you said. You were versatile too.
I said, Oh nice. And thought that what was actually nice was how lucky I’d been to – only the Tuesday before – stumble on an article online about Tops, Bottoms and Versatiles. Imagine the naivety I would have displayed if you’d asked this question, say, Monday the previous week! Good pupil that I was, though, I listened when you taught me to measure my dick with a ruler and a piece of string.
Then came that October night. One week after school resumed. One week after I’d thrown away my nylon bag full of beans, because every grain had been poked through by weevils during the strike.
That October night, I stood in front of my hostel, waiting for the cab you were in to arrive. You’d been travelling all day from Lagos and I’d thought of you all day, from Mass to afterwards. Wondering what it’d be like to finally look into your eyes and say I loved you. Like I did over the phone throughout the strike. What would the words taste like on my tongue, with you physically present? What would you taste like?
At your place, we had dinner – spaghetti – by candlelight, because your part of campus had electricity problems.
When we lay down to sleep I was quiet, knowing what’d happen. Wondering how it’d happen. Who’d make the first move. Your roommate was asleep, dead as an unread book.
I reached a tentative hand across your tummy. Sighed. I had touched you now. One step done. I whispered something about my hostel to you. I doubt you heard. It didn’t even matter; I was just trying to still my pounding heart, talk the anxiety out.
Then I kissed you. A smack. No lingering. Like your lips burned. It was my first kiss.
And I waited to faint.
* * *
I’d turned twenty that year. Dad called it a “landmark birthday”. I smiled, not particularly keen on finding out what he meant by that. I guess two decades of life must be a big deal somehow.
It was a big deal. The kiss, I mean. Were I the crying type, I’d have held your face and cried into it, let my tears of release splash onto your lips. Cried for all those years in secondary school when I was always – always – afraid. Afraid to think It. Lest It showed in my eyes. Afraid to touch the boys I wanted to touch. Lest I got caught, like it happened once before. The years I counted down to JAMB, knowing that, one day, university would come and I would meet a guy and finally do It.
I had told you these things the night you asked me about roles. You sympathised, you’d had it easier, you’d had fun.
* * *
But I’m not the crying type.
I merely smiled in the darkness and, feeling your breath fan my nose, kissed you again, this time deep and toothless, hoping I was doing it right.
* * *
The chaplain in our church had been right. And I had lied at confession.
It happened the previous session. The week I paid my fees and got my matric number. After reciting my usual sins – masturbation and thoughts about boys – to the chaplain, he asked if I knew the second sin was an abomination.
Yes, I said.
Had I done it before?
How many times?
Once, when I was twelve. And another time when I was fifteen. I didn’t tell him it’d just been my and the guy’s hips grinding. No clothes had come off. No kiss. No orgasm.
How old was I now? he continued.
Yes, Father, I said.
So you have come to university to continue practising your dirty acts?
Now you are free to do as you like—
No, Father, I sighed, knowing I was lying. Knowing ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers would not stop this impending sin from meeting me at my point of need. Only a matter of time.
I genuflected at the church exit, determined not to wank for the next two weeks. Two weeks is my limit. After which I go crazy, feel so full I’m ready to burst – actually burst when I work myself vigorously, begging God to, please, not take my life before the next confession on Saturday.
* * *
Your roommate hadn’t stirred while we kissed and whispered in the dark.
I lay on my back, without thinking. I wanted your weight on me; it felt right that way – I didn’t know why. I didn’t know why I had refused your invitation when you turned around and asked me to fuck you.
And now, I didn’t know what next to do after lying down.
But you did. Your hands were steady as you raised my legs and pressed them back, until my knees touched my ears. It was a necessary evil, I’d learn later, this lifting of legs.
* * *
Years ago, one idle day in SS2, I’d locked myself in the toilet, reached behind and inserted a finger up there, down there. It burned. I quickly took out the finger, suddenly understanding why my classmates equated this kind of sex with breaking in; and why they figuratively installed burglar bars around their assholes, padlocked them, and wore “iron pant” for good measure.
You were pressing against me now. Trying to enter.
I waited, relaxed. Nobody had told me about relaxation, but I was fucking relaxed! Too relaxed, in fact. Until searing pain made me spring up from the bed. Like I was about to attack you. You caught me in the dark, our heads nestled against each other’s shoulders. Sweat tingling from my every pore.
It was okay, you said, sorry. We could stop now.
But I was who I was – ramrod-stubborn, unused to vulnerability; I lay back down and said: No. Try again.
It was over in minutes. I wanted to shit, the room was too hot, my hips ached, and inside – down there – I felt grated.
I was sorry for wasting your time, I whispered, feeling terribly inadequate.
You clamped my lips between your fingers. You needed me to shut up. It was o-kay. And we could switch, you didn’t mind. I said ok.
I pushed against your hole, the way I’d felt you do to mine. I pushed, really tried that night, willing my brain to cooperate with my blood flow down there. Collapsing on the bed when I finally had just my limpness in my hand.
* * *
I shuffled into my hostel the next morning, feeling changed, fluffy and possessed. Like you’d entered me and not come out. We – you and I – had spent the rest of last night kissing, licking, sucking, kissing some more and cuddling. We did not sleep.
I was grateful my roommate Geoffrey had filled my bucket; it was time saved, I thought, as I hurried to the bathroom. Our first lecture, like many of our lectures since we got into Second Year, was at 8.
While at your place the previous night, I’d told Geoffrey I was at my family friend’s – in the staff quarters. As we walked to class, he asked how my family friends were. I said they were fine, my attention on our faculty building beyond the stadium ahead. He didn’t ask any more questions, he didn’t seem to need any special answers.
Throughout classes, I floated between half-asleep and nonsensically happy. I do not remember anything that happened in class that day save that every two minutes, I lived the previous night all over again, grinned a lot, willed myself to control my emotions, grinned and grinned some more – and, in-between, feared that you were the beginning of my problems in school. I mean, it’s a common trope in Nollywood movies: lose your virginity, then lose your head, then fail half your courses in school, then become “useless” and give your parents hypertension.
During Conflict Resolution class, the lecturer caught my head bobbing intermittently.
You, stand up, he said. The class burst into giggles. I shrugged, eyes barely open. And chuckled. Right there in front of the lecturer. I’d lost my mind – who cared? – fuck this shit. I wasn’t there there, you know… That night, after evening Mass, I knew I’d see you again and we would go to your place and I’d hold you and we would kiss and I’d be naked in seconds, without feeling like it was a new thing anymore. Two days, twenty years – who was counting? I was getting used to this. ■
Written By Absalom, For M.