Gay Erotic Stories

West Africa 1980 During my business trips in West Africa, I always tried to arrange a stopover in Dakar in order to spend two or three nights there. I am so fond of the swinging atmosphere in the streets, the guttural language, the majestic robes of the ladies, the scents of the African incense mixtures, the delicious cuisine and, most of all, of my Senegalese friends. I know why. Nobody needs to hide or to fear if he is "inside", as they say in French-speaking Africa; but nobody talks or boasts about it. In any case, if you wish to feel totally at ease, you need a hotel where you can enter by night with a companion, with one or two or three, without having to give complicated explanations to the doorman who is responsible for the security of the guests, not for their virtue. It works in the great hotels with a bar on the first floor from where the lift goes to the upper floors, or in the cheap hotels which have an annex in another building and where you just say your budget is very limited. I had arrived at the airport about noon and now I was strolling around in the ancient center of the city; I wanted to have a drink in a street side café on the main Avenue. In a side street leading to the Avenue, an improvised works site blocked the sidewalk of a three-story house. An adolescent was preparing mortar and roped it upward to the upper story where another worker caught the bucket and sent it back when empty. I stopped to enjoy the sight. Sweat ran over the body of the young worker and glittered on his dorsal muscles and his shoulders. He was a sturdy fellow who might reach up to my shoulder, the species I always lose my head for. He had the thick neck, the round head and the low front of a Mandingo; a tiny nose gave him a lovely baby countenance. His large feet and toes showed that he had walked much and carried heavy loads from a young age on. When he realized that I was observing him, he stopped for a moment; he kneaded the bulge in his wide, torn short and sent me a large smile from one ear to the other. I smiled too, in return and looked with widened eyes on his ambiguous gesture. There came a bellow from above, the boy answered on the same tone, "Waou, patron!" and filled hastily another mortar bucket. He roped it upward, exhibiting the impressive ripple of his shining dorsal muscles. I moved some steps back, so that the boss upstairs could not think I hindered the boy's work. When the empty bucket had come down, he turned again towards me with the same naughty gesture; he was perhaps not aware of it, but it was obvious that he rubbed his penis while looking at me in ecstasy. "Salut!" I said. “Salut, Monsieur!" "Ça va?" "Ça va." "Ça va bien?" "Ça va très bien." "Do you wish to tell me something?" The roping of the mortar bucket interrupted us. I began again, "Do you wish to tell me something?” "Nn..non .. hmm, nnon..." "Listen, you are working. I’ll let you finish. When are you going to leave here?" “At five o'clock, Sir." "OK, I'll be down there at the corner to the Avenue. See you then!" "See you then, Sir. Thank you, Sir." I bought some new publications of African literature at my favorite bookshop on the Avenue and took a place on the terrace of a café. Some minutes after five he came down the side street, this time with sandals, washed out jeans and a tartan-checked shirt that was too tight for his chest. As I had thought, he just reached to my shoulder. I always avoid attracting the attention of people – Europeans in an African town are always the focus of curiosity – so we walked up the Avenue. "Well now, you stare at me, you send me big smiles, and you search something down in your shorts – is this a message or do you want to ask me a question?" "No, Sir, nothing." His embarrassment was obvious, and he swallowed heavily. I understood, he had something on his tongue but he did not dare to pronounce the words. However, he was on the hook, sure. "Well then, if there is nothing, I'll leave you here." I turned and went away. As I had expected, he called after me, "Sir..." It sounded like "please Sir…" I stopped and asked him, "What is your name?" "Mussa, Sir." "I am Paul. Now listen, Mussa: you want to ask me a question and you are frightened because you never have asked such a question of a stranger before, right? Well, I know exactly what you want, and you should know that it is easy and normal and not evil at all. In advance, the answer is yes. But now, speak at last." He continued to swallow with embarrassment and looked down on the ground, "You see, the buddies tell me white men do such kind of things with other men… and…" "And what do the white men do exactly?" "The buddies call this white man's way, and it must be very funny because they laugh a lot about that." "And what is supposed to happen now between us?" Panic was in his eyes. "And now you are curious and you want to know in detail how that goes and how that feels, don't you? Okay, if you wish we can play a bit together. Do not be scared. If there is something you don't like we'll stop immediately, you go away and nobody will ever know anything about it. I have a room in a small hotel nearby. Are you coming with me?" Encircling a novice, making him cross the line procures a state of excitement, which the hunter usually loves to draw out, sometimes over weeks or even months in order to delight in it entirely, but my flight was scheduled for tomorrow. So I headed straight to the target, and that again embarrassed the boy to the utmost degree. "Yes…perhaps…rather no...Okay then, but not immediately. I have to return home at first. I have to wash myself and to dress decently." The boy had made his first step, and now the lead had to be loosened a bit in order to stimulate his curiosity and his randiness. Once in the move by his own, he would take part in anything that can be performed with a novice at his first experience. We dated for seven o'clock in front of a street café on the Avenue, and I gave him the fare for the collective taxi to go and to come back from the Medina, something like a 50¢ value. This time, he was punctual again, but rather elegant, with a short-sleeved white shirt, dark trousers, both thoroughly ironed (in Africa a specialty of young men) and black shoes shining as his skin; he was scented with soap and freshness. So we went on our way and I made him carry the books I had bought in the evening; this always cools down the curiosity of people when a young boy walks in company of an adult European. On the way, there was nothing more to discuss. When we arrived in my hotel room, without having crossed any staff, the boy sat down in the chair and stared closely at the tip of his shoes. This was now the moment, now action had to start. In the street, he had been free at any moment to run away to his left or to his right; but now, that hotel room was a trap. I had to take the initiative in hand. "I really do understand what you feel now. The first time nobody knows what is going to happen and how it will feel. The second time you'll be in the know, and it will be easier, even normal. If you are ready, we can have some fun together. But I repeat, you can go away at any moment without any excuse or explanation. I am locking the door, so that nobody can disturb us, but as you see, the key remains in the lock. I'll turn out the lamps, so you can feel at ease." To be honest, white men often are ashamed of their bodies in the presence of the perfectly molded naked body of a young black boy and of his perfect, I'd say appetizing, skin. The streetlights outside were sufficient, even if the most unforgettable experience is to have sex with a black boy in the open at full moon, with all these pale blue reflections on his skin. Mussa took off his shoes; very slowly, he stuffed his socks there, and folded his trousers thoroughly over the back of the chair. His slip, considerably filled, was of glossy red satin, not uncommon among young Africans, but today perhaps a sign of coquetry? He sat there petrified, obviously scared. I took his hand and dragged him on the bed. My experience is to best begin by stroking the boy and then to French kiss him in order to subdue him completely. To go straight to the cock may be more appropriate for the hardboiled guys at midnight in the t-room. My hand cruised tenderly on his breast, his shoulder, his belly, his thigh; the boy sat motionless, with almost-anxious eyes. Then I pressed my lips on his. The boy's mouth opened like a jasmine flower, fleshy, humid and warm. Driven by his instinct, he rolled over on me and ploughed my mouth with his small tongue. He panted, deeper and deeper. I felt his cock against my belly and I finally seized it, a rather short, fat and bone-hard member: the lovely fleshy penis of an adolescent. I wanted to avoid that he cooled down and so I whispered into his ear, "Do you want me to do now white man's way?" He almost yelled, "Yes, yes, yes! Do it to me, do it to me!" He shoved his body over mine to the head of the bed. My tongue produced an electric shock on his nipples. I went down on the bush with the curled, rough hair, and then I arrived on his boner. I lifted his hips and swallowed the monster in its entire length. The surprise paralyzed him for a moment and I let him enjoy that new feeling, but then he began to move and to swim. As he was excited to the utmost degree and I feared he would explode at any moment, I moved from the lascivious movements of my tongue to a slower pace in order to cool him down. A chaste fellatio or an indifferent quickie, as it can be got from the street kids in Bucharest, would not leave any long-lasting impression. He never should forget the ecstasy of his first blowjob that had shaken him on a certain moist night on that hotel bed. The boy who looked and behaved so quietly in the street, was almost hysterical; he shivered, he panted, he kicked and tore my hair. When I felt he was about to cum, I let his member slip out of my mouth and began to tongue his balls, which were about to tighten up, one first, then the other and then I took both into my mouth and suckled like crazy. The boy grunted with enthusiasm. I became still more impudent, pushed him to the side and continued my lascivious exploration of the lad's hot body. My tongue slid into the crack between the two ass-cheeks, pure muscle, hard as wood. I now had excited the boy to an extent that he did not oppose the violent resistance boys usually show against the invader who knocks at the little door of their secret garden. He even loosened his cheeks a bit and I could tongue his rosebud and bathe it with my saliva. It was obvious that he trusted me and did not fear that I would break in the little door, just make allusions and tease him. My indiscreet progression brought him however to the climax of ecstasy. He seized me brutally by my ears, he intruded his burning member into my throat, and then he shot with long strikes. I would have liked to savor every drop of that delicious juice, but I let it flow into the towel I had put under the pillow. I did not want to disgust him if later we went to a restaurant. Completely exhausted, the boy fell on the side, but with dreamy movements, his calloused hand stroked my hand and my arm. "Oh, that's so good what the white men do!" he whispered. Some ten minutes later he began to move again. He tightened his arms around me and pressed his dick against my hips; it was again hard as wood. The pressure became stronger and his intention obvious. "How? You want again the same way?" "How, is there another way?" Little rascal, you! I did not answer and just turned away from him. This time, no need of instruction: the nature of the young macho found automatically its way into my trembling cavern of pleasure. When he had entered with the help of some spit into his hand (universal knowledge), he turned me on my belly and began to fuck, to fuck as a genuine macho. His strokes were strong but not brutal or ridiculously fast; his calloused hands stroked my back, my neck, my hair, and with that, he mumbled hasty words which I did not understand, that is, in Dioula language, but according to the tone they were words of erotic frenzy. Often boys who fucked me hard stammered in the rhythm of their hips: "je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime…" I just told him to go slow and to cool down from time to time when he felt it coming, in order to draw out my felicity and his, too. After a tornado-like roaring orgasm he collapsed at my side and smiled like a satiated angel. "Merci, Paul. That was wonderful. I will stay with you forever." I started up: now the situation might become dangerous. "Listen. Is this the first time that a white man did you this way?" "Yes, that was the first time, but next time everything will be easier, just as you said." "And then, is this the first time that you did what you did right now?" "Yes, that was the first time I did it with a man." I understood. "Is it different with a girl?" "I don't know, I have not fucked so much up to now, and with you, it was the first time. It feels as good with a girl, but I think, with a man it is easier, you can yourself let go, whereas with a girl you have to control your behavior and play the tough guy. And then, you won't get pregnant and when you dress, you won't ask me a ‘little gift for the market’.” He had a ringing laughter. "Now, listen to me, Mussa. You make plans for tomorrow; you say you will stay with me forever. However, we know each other just for some hours, and you do not know anything about me. I must tell you the truth, even if it is hard for me and hard for you." I stopped, and fear crept over his smiling face. "Well, I live in Europe and not in Dakar. I only pass through here from time to time. Tomorrow night I have to be in Conakry to settle a business for my employer. I am here once or twice a year, as often as I get a mission to West Africa and can arrange a stopover." The angelic smile had dropped; the boy seemed completely down. I was afraid of a brutal reaction: Senegalese lovers are known for their outbursts of violent jealousy, and in such a situation, a knife or a broken piece of glass is by the hand at once. Mussa however mastered his emotion, with much effort as his heavy breathing proved. There was a long silence. "Listen to me, Mussa, we had some fun here on the bed and you are a genius of lovemaking, and I hope you enjoyed it, too. I promise, the next time I come to Dakar – and now I have a very important reason to struggle for such an opportunity – I will find you and ask if you would like to be with me that very evening. In the meantime, you have to take your life, and your sex life in particular, in your own hand. However, as this was your first experience tonight, I must tell you some things so that you will not get lost if you continue sex with men.” I went on. “Fucking. That is not love; that is not marriage; it is just a pleasure and you can enjoy it in many ways, even unusual ones. When you get dressed after sex, it is over. This pleasure is your own and personal pleasure, and you may take it as long as it will not harm or injure you. But having sex with men, can also be dangerous,” I explained. “A strong feeling of shame may knock you down and you'll think you are going crazy. But actually, shame is in front of other people! You are not ashamed of what you do in the toilet or by night under your cover, because you are alone, nobody sees what you do.” I went on. “You also may feel guilty and damned forever because of our religion. Mussa, never believe the people who pretend they know God's will. Don't believe all that Chariah rubbish which is the work of man, accumulated and reinterpreted for many generations, filtered through the mind of man. There is one truth only: open The Book. It is best in French because that is the fastest way to read it all. And open your eyes: men who love men go to the mosque as any other righteous worshipper/citizen. “Finally, you might think you are a kind of female if you have sex with a man, and you risk to become a faggot with a blond wig and high heels," I mimicked the exaggerated manners and the fluttering hands of a drag queen. "You talk nonsense, that's not possible. I am a man," he said simply. "A faggot does not deserve despise, but she (or he) suffers awfully from the despise of other people. You can have sex with men just as you did tonight and also as I did tonight,” to which he had a violent gesture of negation, no, no, never! “But,” I continued, “never be submissive, whether you be down or on top. You have fucked me tonight, but you do not own me; I am not your girl. We were two partners making love. I am free. And you, too, remain always free; remain a man whatever you do. You'll marry; you'll have children.” I saw him weighing my words. “Another thing,” I said. “Do you know these boys who wait behind the big trees in the residential quarters and when a better looking or a white man passes slowly with open side windows in his car, they whistle ‘psst, psst’ in the dark? Take care!" "Oh, don't talk like that to me!” he cried. “My buddies have told about these poor fellows, but they are in alcohol, yamba and they catch diseases. And I have heard it does not pay. I will not spoil myself; I am normal!" "That's right, normal you are. You have understood. But second: be discreet. Never tell your buddies what you have done or what you intend to do, even not to those who do it with men like you. Whenever you decide to sleep with someone, choose him thoroughly, someone who is not into gossip. Usually you can trust white men in this concern. If you fall in love with a man -- no, no, that happens -- do not tell him, do not write him, show your love only by friendship and solidarity. Again, among the white men in West Africa, there are some who love young men, and, if they can trust you, they will help you to advance in life. That's how it works with us and has worked over three thousand years. Never betray a white friend or his identity, and you allow him to help you.” He nodded his understanding. “Third point,” I told him, “respect people. The boy who fucks a friend's ass must respect that one as a decent citizen, and that one has to respect the friend who is fucking him. The same applies if somebody sucks on the bangala of a friend, or if someone's bangala gets sucked – they must respect each other. Never point your finger on somebody, especially not on a faggot or a boy prostitute, and everybody will respect you. Do not complicate your life. Again: self-control, discretion, respect." After this long speech, which was nevertheless necessary at this moment if the boy should not risk losing his way, we had a playful shower together and then went downstairs. At the upper end of the Avenue, there is the great market that fills all the surrounding streets with the head-turning fragrances of spices and ingredients for incense mixtures coming here together from the entire continent. I turned into a narrow side street. At the end, under a shabby tin roof, there was a primitive open cook-shop where my friend Lassine prepared simple and cheap food on two petrol stoves. The guests, building workers, load carriers from the nearby market and tired peddlers, sat on two worn-out wooden benches with their enamel dishes on their knees. Lassine was a veteran of the French colonial troops in Indochina (today, Vietnam), and his wounds had procured him a medal and a small military pension. Lassine was however mostly known as a crazy queen ("I am not a queen; I am the Empress!") and when the working people had left for their homes, the local gay boys, fairies or whatever liked to gather here for gossip. As to me, he restrained his silly talk; we could talk quite normally about serious things – we were "sisters". On this evening, there were almost no more guests, and we sat down near Lassine's stoves. He started immediately to cackle: "Oh, bon soir Paul, how wonderful to have again our great globetrotter among us. I am sure you are up again to do mischief tonight with the big boys. Won't you, you naughty rascal? And look-see that little chick you have caught, uui uui uui what a sweet lollipop..." "Shut up your filthy mouth, Lassine, and drop that queen’s shit. I have arrived this afternoon, and must continue tomorrow to Conakry. This is Mussa. He is not sweet; he is not a little chick and not a lollipop; he is a man; a rough one. He is ‘inside’ but he is a ‘joss’.” In the queer jargon of West Africa, ‘être dedans’, ‘to be inside’, means to be involved without further specification. And in Dakar, a ‘joss’ is a bi-boy who plays exclusively the male role. As far as is known. "I'll tell you one thing, and consider this as a threat: treat Mussa with respect. He will see you from time to time when he is not sure how to behave. Help him because you do it for my sake; but talk to him normally and give him good advice so that he might not be lost in our little world. You may recommend him to serious persons, without revealing his identity at once, but he will be the one who makes the choice. Do you understand me? Do you really? Say, dear sister!" We enjoyed Lassine's gastronomic cuisine and I left him some money for expenses connected with Mussa. And then, then I had to say good bye to my one-day’s lover, very fast, but I saw that his eyes were moist. His face however was of marble. My heart was heavy, but certainly not so heavy as Mussa's. By coincidence, it took me several years before I could pass again by Dakar. Lassine's gastronomic temple was still at the same place, and he was the same crazy queen as ever. He became however serious when he spoke about Mussa. Lassine had indeed abandoned his effeminate talk and movements with the lad, who dropped in from time to time after work, and Lassine gave him good advice when needed and certainly also some discreet contacts, but there was not a word about that. Mussa had done very well all this time and practiced karate. He was not Little Mussa anymore, but tall and strong, and rode a heavy motorbike. He continues to be "inside", but nobody knows who his lovers are, nobody saw him ever hanging around in the gay bars. According to latest news, he worked as technical designer in the office of a white architect (Lassine’s right eye twinkled roguishly at this) and he was about to marry. Or so it was said. I did not meet Mussa any more, but I did not miss him too much because I just had known him for some unforgettable hours. However, I was very happy that his first experience had succeeded to that extent. His road had perhaps passed through some bed sheets, but with decency and head erect. ________________________________________________ comments: moran_nl@yahoo.com