He snarled the words at me, pulling me forward to him and attempting to shove me on my knees before the small, turgid penis sticking out from his open fly.
I complied. I dropped to my knees. The small knife in his hand, its blade glinting dully in the evening, filled me with dread.
“Suck it quick!” he hissed. “Fa mu!”
I could not believe what was happening. I was seven. He was thirteen, the landlord’s son. He was my friend. We played together quite a lot. He liked to tease me about my effeminate mannerisms, good natured teasing though. He was about the only male friend I had. I was staying with my aunt, growing up as one of her own, amidst the six children she had. Five girls and a boy. The boy was older than me, and not particularly into befriending me. So his sisters were my friends and companions, the ones I had fun growing up with, while I waited for the differences between my mother and father, and their respective partners – differences over me – to be resolved. I had a great time growing up in my aunt’s household. I was happy, loved and carefree.
And now, I was being made to do something I had no idea about before.
“Suck it!” He shoved my head to his crotch.
The knife gleamed warningly nearby.
So I opened my mouth and took his small erection inside its moistness. He sighed with pleasure and began to grind his hip against my face, thrusting back and forth, his penis sliding to and fro inside my mouth.
His climax happened within a few moments. He stiffened and groaned as he ejaculated in my mouth. I recoiled from the salty taste of his semen and his penis slipped out of my mouth. He quickly wiped it against his trousers and zipped it in. then he turned to me and said with a very mean expression, “If you tell anyone” – he lifted the knife threateningly – “I will kill you.”
I was seven, and he was thirteen.
And the threat registered on my young mind, and sealed my lips. I never told anyone. Even though I began dreading having to go on evening errands when I knew I’d have to run into him, occurrences that would have him pouncing and dragging me off into an isolated corner to fellate him, I never let on to anyone what was going on. He did say he would kill me if I talked.
The molestation went on for about seven months, and then one evening, my cousins and I returned home from a church carol night to see my bags packed and my father waiting.
It was time to go live with him. And his wife. And his three other children.
That night marked the beginning of the next three hellish years of my life. My father’s wife was the very definition of the ‘evil stepmother’. She’d met my father when he was dating my mother, and he cheated on my mother by sleeping with her. He impregnated her, and she had a son. But my father loved my mother too much to leave her for another woman, so he rejected both mother and child, somehow managing to keep them a secret from my mother. She eventually found out three years later, when she had conceived me and was on the verge of marrying my father. The knowledge of his betrayal however ended their relationship, and I was born out of wedlock. Both my parents eventually moved on into different marriages, mother to a new man and father back to his baby mama.
But my stepmother could never get the fact that my father once rejected her because of my mother out of her mind. And it didn’t help that marriage didn’t make my father love her. So she unleashed her bitterness on me. At eight years of age, I began to know the hardship that Cinderella endured in the hands of her stepmother. And as though she wasn’t satisfied with her evil, she always managed to get my father incited against me over fabricated offences I’d committed, causing the naturally hot-tempered man to lash out at me with beatings.
Several times, I lamented to my mother, and each time, she tried to console me with encouragements for me to endure, that I was being disciplined for a future of not expecting life to be rosy always. But I refused to be pacified by this. I ran away two times to my mother’s house, and got sent back both times. It was only later that I got to know that my mother was working on her husband to accept me, before she could act on the decision of taking me away from my father’s house. When I ran away the third time to her house, my stepfather finally gave in and declared that I wasn’t going back. And so, three years later, my hell ended.
Without the fear and anguish that characterized my life in those three years, I was able to feel other things. Like the absolute adoration I began to develop for a neighbour when I was about fifteen. He (Obi) and his older brother are Igbos. The older brother owned a small chain of hardware businesses, and Obi was serving as his apprentice. Obi, who was much older than me, soon took a liking to me, and we soon became fast friends. He had an intense affection for me, the kind of a protective older brother. With him, I felt safe and secured. And pampered too, because he was wont to doing anything I asked of him.
I didn’t know it then, but I began to fall in love with him. And perhaps it was good for me that I wasn’t sexually aware at that age, because I was saved the torture of lusting after a man who, by all indications, cared only for women and making money.
He eventually began to make money, when he first ended his apprenticeship and struck out on his own. His work schedule became more hectic, and his mind more consumed with thoughts of making more money. The hustle was real and consuming, and gradually left less and less of him for me. He was still my friend, just not as attentive anymore. That hurt. And I found myself aching for something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
My stepfather had a number of children from previous marriages, but I grew up with the last two of his children. Both of them are males. The last was older than me by a year. We shared a room and a bed. And he (Femi) became the one who brought sexual awareness to me.
It started on a night when I was startled awake by the sense of friction against the back of my thigh. It was Femi rubbing his dick against my leg. His movements were jerky, as though he feared waking me up and yet couldn’t stop himself. I remained totally still, wide awake, heart pounding, and nursing a sense of intrigue that gradually bloomed as I listened to and felt my stepbrother racing toward his climax. He stifled his groan and pulled away from me, but not before I felt the moistness of his ejaculation.
I lay there still, waiting for . . . I don’t know what I was waiting for. But nothing happened again that night. Moments later, his soft snores filled the room, and then, I too slowly drifted back to sleep.
Femi never talked to me about what happened the next morning. And why would he? He didn’t know I’d been aware of what he did.
And he didn’t stop. For the next three nights, he humped my thighs, each time waking me up, each time filling me with more intrigue than revulsion. By the second night, I’d begun to expect his humping. By the third night, I was awake when he came to me. And on the fourth night, I reached my hand backward and grasped his dick as he moved close. He froze. I got busy, moving my hand up and down over his dick, and masturbated him to his orgasm. He came, moved back to his side of the bed, and we went back to sleep.
And yet, even with the mutual awareness, we never talked about it. And there was no awkwardness between us. And we didn’t stop. Every night we were in the same bed, I would wank him. He’d come. And then we’d go back to sleep. Soon, he gained admission into the university, and a year later, I followed suit. I went to join him and his older brother in their house off campus, and our nocturnal shenanigans continued. My hands were soon replaced with my mouth, and those nights were filled with the slurping sounds of my mouth working his dick, and his gasping breaths as he relished my ministrations.
By day, we were brothers. By night, we were lovers . . . of sorts.
His older brother, Yinka, was totally unaware of our relations. He was a deep sleeper.
A time however came when Femi began to spend more time outside, spending his days at his friends’ places, so they could study together. His absence became frequent, and I began to miss him very much. To miss the things we did in the cover of the dark.
I soon began to realize that it wasn’t exactly him I missed. It was the feel of an erection in my mouth, the sensation of that hardened stretch of skin and muscles moving to and fro inside my moistness, the sensuous power I felt swell inside me with every strained breathing, every moan of pleasure, knowing that I was doing this to him, that I had him under my hold for those few minutes that my fellatio gave him satisfaction.
My hunger made my eyes stray.
To Yinka’s friends who often came around to spend the night. I stared at them as they lounged about in their boxers. I stared at their thighs, which stretched upward, vanishing behind the fabric of their boxers. I stared at their crotches, at the telltale signs of dicks pressing lazily against the fronts of the boxers. My mouth watered. My blood turned hot. And my resolve gradually strengthened. I had to have them.
And so, one night, as they snored peacefully in their slumber, I stole across the room to the guy with the choicest bulge. With my heart hammering against my rib cage, I placed my hand on his crotch. I could feel his semi-hard dick. I stealthily pulled it out from inside the boxers. Then I leaned forward and took it in my mouth and began to work my magic. My lips. My tongue. His dick. They slipped and slid over each other. The dick grew and hardened. Murmurs of pleasure came from its owner. I licked, sucked and nibbled, until his cum came spurting in my mouth.
And he slept through it all.
I slipped his penis back underneath his boxers and went back to bed.
Hat became the first of many such nocturnal trysts. The males that came to visit and slept over. Dicks of varying sizes. In the cover of the dark. While the males lay still and heavily asleep, I ministered to them and gave them pleasure they’d only get to know in their dreams.
Dissatisfied with giving orgasms to sleeping men, I began to connect with a few hookups; a few, because most of them wanted more than I was willing to give, which was just a blowjob. I could go no further. No penetrative sex, not me into anyone, and not anyone into me. A few times, I’d wondered why I couldn’t bring myself to go the whole ten yards. I watched gay porn, and the more I took in the sights of the Bottoms twisting beneath or gyrating above thrusting Tops, ramrod dicks tearing into assholes, and faces contorted in varying expressions of pain and pleasure, the more I realised that – No! – it wasn’t for me. I couldn’t bring myself to do all that with anyone.
So I stuck to my blowjobs. So far, only two sleeping men have woken up to me sucking their dicks (story for another day). But the discoveries have not daunted me. I don’t know, perhaps, one day, I’ll meet someone who’ll affect me so profoundly that I’ll shed my clothes and either spread my legs for him or cause him to spread his (See? I don’t even know what role I favour). Until then, I’ll take the graduation of the sexual part of me one day at a time.
Written by Lumi