Gay Erotic Stories

West Africa 1980 Are prostitutes any less worthy of respect than anyone else? If you hire a boy for services settled in advance and for a sometimes heavily negotiated salary, are you free to treat him as a heap of shit just because you think he performs a dirty and disgusting job while satisfying your sexual desires? Logically, you are as dirty and disgusting as he is, if ever. Of course, he is lying there on your bed, naked with his flaccid penis; but you are also lying there naked, and your fat belly is no nicer sight than his protruding ribs. So think about that, respect each other, be nice to each other. On the Central Square of that West African capital there is a long alley on one side, and there are benches between the trees where in daytime families and tired tourists have a short rest and where the Nounous, the nurses, take the little children of their white employers out for walks. At night, however, this is the bastion of the "grands garçons", the hustlers, sitting there in small groups of three or four, chatting and laughing. As soon as a gentleman passes slowly in front of the group and stares with a big smile at one of the boys, that one stands up and discusses with the gentleman some steps further away or in a side street. The other boys make no comments and no jokes because they all are eager for the same business. And when the comrade comes back one hour later, flushing, no one asks who was that and how was it, because they all know that their comrade has performed the same job they hope to get this very night. In West Africa, everything begins with eye language. One certain afternoon, on the great avenue that leads down to Central Square, I crossed a boy who stared intently and with a broad grin into my face as if he wanted to tell me something. When I turned back some steps after, he had stopped in front of a shop window and was observing me in the reflection. He must have been certain that I was on the hook, because when I continued on my way, a subdued voice suddenly croaked behind me: "Good evening, handsome one! If you like me I will suck you and you can fuck me." I never needed more than that to get immediately hooked. I always left with those hustlers who accosted me in a polite manner and who specified right there their offer of service. Now, as I turned around, I stood in front of a rather short young man who was not a beauty as most young African boys are, but of a fascinating ugliness. I often had the experience in West Africa that the beautiful black lads and the smiling athletes were not the wildest or best in bed. I made big eyes and continued my way in order to get some time of reflection; I am the least spontaneous person that exists. Crossing the Avenue, I turned around however, and as I had expected, he ran after me. I stopped right behind the corner under the arcades of a big bank, and he ran straight into me. "Hello, Sir, what a surprise!" I began prudently: "I did not understand what you had said on the Avenue over there." "I said if I please to you, I will suck on your bangala, your dick, and after that you can fuck me in the butt. Do you have a room somewhere?" "Why all these crazy things?" "Well, you are a very handsome man,” damn liar! “and then I love pleasure." "That's all? Just for pleasure?" "Yes, just for pleasure. And for money, as well." "How much do men usually give you?" I'd never be able to utter, "How much do you cost?” "Six thousand francs, but just because you are so lovely." In these days, that would be 120 French Francs, something like ten dollars, the weekly salary of an unskilled laborer. "That sounds correct, but under one condition: you perform the same program as you have announced. Wait for me at the same spot here, at 10 PM tonight." "No problem." On that evening in my hotel room, Mustapha delivered the whole program as announced, even if he moaned a little because of some light piles, as he pretended. Subsequently, I met him sometimes more and then he only fucked me. In order to bind a client, a hustler is always ready for concessions at the first time; later on, the client is accustomed to his body and to his behavior; it is wearisome to try others boys until you find again the right one. He performed his job correctly, even perversely, but I had the impression without ecstasy or feelings for me. That's quite normal for a true prostitute. As for me, I was completely mixed up by his vicious tricks, his hard muscles, and his penis, enormous in relation to his height but not so uncommon in West Africa, where the longest penis known to science had been measured on a Malian at 31 cm. I always used to pay the hustler before he begins his job, so he may not fear any pressure, and that relaxes him. Many clients prefer to pay afterwards and less if they think the performance was poor or awkward. The boy should, however, keep the right to do so, because an objective appreciation is almost impossible and his performance obviously meets natural, physical and mental limits. For me anyhow, the heart-pounding thrill of the situation, the progressive discovery of a character and of a new body, from the first eye contact in the street to the cigarette after, is more important than the ejaculation itself, which I can handle alone. Sometimes it happened to me that the boy began to cry when concrete action was to start. That is the typical behavior of a hetero fallen in misery and who had heard there is easy money to make at the railway station or in public toilets and who that first time got overwhelmed by an unexpected heavy shame and an insurmountable inhibition. In Prague I had such an incident. On the main station, a darling blond boy had allured me. In the hotel room, when I drew down his white briefs and tried to encourage little pink piggy, he rebounded and began to whimper, "Please, dear Sir, I cannot, I really cannot, please dear Sir forgive me." I desisted from him, he got dressed and then picked out his purse and surrendered me the 1.000 Crowns of sex money, something like $20, that he had just collected. The sight of the typical poor's gesture and the shabby purse moved me to tears. I would have died with shame if I had not rewarded the courage of the poor boy who had already gone so far, even if not far enough. Uniforms turn me on. In another West African city, I fantasized to have sex with a policeman, and a hustler presented me with one, unfortunately not in uniform. He had demonstrated with over 100 comrades in the streets against the Minister of Internal Affairs, and all had been fired for mutiny. Jobless, the man was hanging around in the public gardens, waiting for a miracle. That's all my little friend could find for the moment. I was eager to do the man in a dark corner, but then he said, awfully embarrassed: "Please, Sir, explain me exactly what I have to do. I have never done a thing like this but I need the money so that my wife and my little children may have something to eat tomorrow morning." "You are not obliged to do what you do not want to do." "Oh no, Sir, please explain me what I am supposed to do. I'll do anything so that my wife can go to the market tomorrow morning. It's for the little ones, not for me!" Honestly, who would have been able to exploit such a misery? And then the man could in no case get an erection and provide erotic sensations. So I gave him the amount as initially agreed upon, which should cover the family's basic food needs for one week. We left each other with mutual respect. Later on, my hustler friend told me, "You have done a good action, because he is a good man. While he was still in duty, there was a crackdown on Central Square, and he caught me. He dragged me roughly by the collar in the direction of the police station, but when we were out of sight of his colleagues behind a corner, he suddenly said, ‘Run away, little boy, run quick’.” But back to Mustapha. When we had washed and dressed he said, "You have paid me in advance and you could not know if I'd service you to your full satisfaction. Not all white people are so correct towards us." "What do you mean by that? Tell me..." "That's a long story. You invite me for a beer?" When we had been served in a small, almost empty local bar, Mustapha began to tell his story: "You know that I am hustling sometimes for clients on Central Square, at the meeting place of the ‘grands garçons’, the big boys. We do not like to talk about our customers because everybody has his own business and if you steal a regular client of a comrade, there will be a riot and roughhouse. Sometimes however they talked about an Italian of a certain age who used to take a boy to his room, but when that one had satisfied him, sexually I mean, the man refuses to pay the salary as agreed in advance. He gives him just 50 or 100 francs (that corresponds to one or two French Francs, something like a US quarter) and then he insults him: ‘That's enough for you, little slut, heap of shit, perverted pig.’ The boy has no other choice than to leave because the man is very heavy and looks brutal. “I told the comrades that our comments on that filthy bastard and our wrath were of no use, but that he deserved a severe lesson he would never forget for the rest of his life. The next time that man would come to the Square, they should inform me immediately and I would take care of him.” Mustapha went on. “That's what actually happened. One night, when the white man began to talk to one of our boys, that one declared that he had to wait for a regular client. The next boy said the same thing, a regular had reserved him for the whole night and that one was damn late, but he knew a comrade who had no clients yet, a short boy who was ready for everything, a real slut. The boy found me in my regular bar on the nearby Avenue, dragged me in a hurry to the Square and presented me to a somewhat fat white man who was sitting at some distance on a park bench. That one greeted me with the large friendly smile of the wolf eyeing the lamb: ‘Hello, dear boy, do you have a little time to come with me?’ On the way, he asked, ‘Will you like to suck me, do you like to get fucked, dear boy?’ “I answered, ‘Oh yes, I love all that and even more, but I'll get 5.000 francs.’ “‘No problem,’ the white man said to me. ‘No problem, just let's go.’ “Before coming to Central Square, he had hired a one-hour-room in a discreet small hotel not far from there, and I took care of him (you know how hot I am when my pants are down, don't you?), and he took care of me two times, a heavy job and not exciting at all. When we were finished, both sweating, I washed myself, put on my socks and my slip, and then I claimed my money. Suddenly, the man's face turned red and he threw a fifty francs coin onto the bed. "‘What is that supposed to mean?’ I demanded, ‘you agreed for 5.000 francs!’" “The man was seized by an outburst of fury and yelled, as much as somebody can yell in a hotel room: ‘How dare you, you slut, you little heap of shit? You don't know how to suck a dick conveniently, your asshole is as wide as a house door, and you dare? 50 francs is still too much for your bad work. And now split, or you'll swallow your teeth, goddam bastard!’ “I bent my head and hastily got dressed. I said to the man, ‘It's all right, Mister, you are right, don't be mad at me, I'm going to split.’ “‘Out from here, dirty faggot!’ he yelled after me. “On the sidewalk opposite to the entrance of the hotel there was a large old tree; I took position behind it. Some ten minutes later the white man came downstairs, with a large smile on his face. I followed him closely, but he was not aware of my presence. “At the corner, where the street entered onto Central Square, I suddenly jumped on him and took hold of his belt, just like our policemen hold a thief before pushing him into the ‘sans payer,’ the police van. With that, I screamed and cried in our language, ‘Help me, my brothers, my sisters, help me! The white man has done me evil, and now he is going to run away!’ My hands gripped his belt like steely handcuffs and he did not succeed in shaking me off, even after I had fallen to the ground. “You know how that goes in Africa,” Mustapha continued. “When somebody screams in the street, people immediately come running from all sides. So, it did not take more than one minute that we were surrounded by a crowd. ‘What's wrong with you, little brother?’ they asked and I cried even more and louder (I can weep real tears, believe me!) ‘The white man has done me evil, please call the police!’ ”They were already there, since the Central Square is surrounded by banks and several public administrations, so that the police react immediately at unusual gatherings and riots. An officer made his way through the circle: ‘What has happened here, Sir? Why does this little good-for-nothing molest you?’ "The white man said, ‘I positively do not know what happened, officer. He suddenly jumped on me from behind and hooked himself on my belt. I positively never have seen that person before. I think he has drunk too much or smoked some yamba.’ (This is not rare, indeed, among the hustlers and street kids.) "’And you, nyama-nyama, why do you clutch that gentleman? What did he do to you?’ "‘I cannot say it, it hurts too much,’ I told the officer. “The evil white one said, ‘Let him run away, officer. I will not complain; I pardon him.’ “‘I don't need advice. Everybody will have to explain this at the police station. And now, you good-for-nothing, loosen your grip!’ “This was rather difficult,” the boy explained, “because my hands were cramped and aching, as I had concentrated all my fury on them. The officer did not need to use his handcuffs, because a bawling and joking crowd accompanied us to the police station. The policemen who were on duty that night did not allow anybody to enter except us three, but I knew that their curiosity would retain the people in the street until the case was concluded. “We had to stand in front of the desk of the inspector on duty. He barked furiously, ‘So you are the one who has started all that riot. Tell me everything, and do not even think of lying to me!’ He showed me the leather whip lying on the desk. “I began my speech, without stopping to sob. ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, Commissioner, Sir, you know who I am and your men, too. Since that accident of our boat on the shore near the fish harbor, my shoulder is definitely broken and I cannot lift no cement bags and no other charges. And there is also my good old mother, she cannot work either and every morning I have to give her some money so that she can go to the market. I cannot steal, I cannot aggress people in the street, I cannot be a beggar. I do not peddle smuggled cigarettes or drugs. You know what kind of job I do in the night and your agents, too. I have attained majority and this is not forbidden in our republic.’ “The inspector did not bark any more, he rather complained, ‘Poor boy, are you really not ashamed to admit such a disgusting and sinful thing? But now, why are you here?’ “I answered him, ‘Tonight, this gentleman standing here accosted me in the street and invited me to follow him to his room. Then he has done dirty things with me, which I loathe, but he had promised me much, much money. That's why I went along with all that. And then he gave me this 50 francs coin and he insulted me and told me to split.’ I sobbed and sobbed, with real tears, true! The white man stood there, unable to say one word, but his face was red like a boiled lobster. “The inspector barked again, ‘This is unconceivable, Monsieur! Are you not ashamed? This country has welcomed you in friendship, and all you do in return is to dishonor a child of your host, a citizen who has the privilege to vote! Do you realize that I am empowered to bring you to the airport within 24 hours? You got me?’ And with a softer voice he asked, ‘And you, little brother, how much did he promise to you?’ "‘Fifteen thousand francs, provided I did anything he would ask me to do.’ I continued sobbing. "‘Voilà, Monsieur, you give right now to this poor boy that money, that dirty money, and you humbly beg him to pardon the torments you have inflicted on him. As far as the police are concerned, I impose on you a fine for public offence, to the extent of 50.000 francs. You will deposit that amount here on this very desk tomorrow at exactly the same time when you come to withdraw your residence permit card that will be kept in that drawer. And now, everybody out from here!’ “I waited until everybody had left the office. In the street, I heard the crowd whistling the white man. I asked the inspector to let me leave through the backyard that opened on a side street, and I thanked him for the righteous judgment. I gave him 5.000 francs from the 15.050 I just had gotten and added, ‘Trust me, Commissioner, Sir, I'll never ever act against our laws.’ “With these 5.000 francs, I had shown my gratitude to the officer and I still had the double amount of the salary for which I had peddled my ass. When I came to the Place, all my fellow hustlers congratulated me and we had lots of joyous drinks that night. Mother does not know nor asks what I am doing by night in the streets, but that very morning she was very happy since she could buy meat, which we hadn't had for many weeks, and some long needed extras for our kitchen. “As to the white man, nobody ever saw him again." This was Mustapha's tale. It reflects the liberal climate of some West African countries in the seventies and eighties. It also shows the (then) relatively good relationship between the police and the hustlers who made an honest effort to not get involved in crime, but who saw and who heard much in the night. They did not refuse, however, when under "friendly" pressure, to give discreet hints about the perpetrators of thefts and aggressions, thus aiding the police in their fight against crime. And so they co-existed in relative peace. comments gratefully accepted: moran_nl@yahoo.com