Heroes Weekend and Monogamy

I spent the heroes weekend avoiding dick. Men too, I guess, as holders of the many varied forms of dick. I was avoiding men in general.

Not that there’s anything wrong with getting as much dick as you can over an extended weekend (go girl!), but because I’m going to try monogamy for a bit. It’s ironic that I’m avoiding men for this one man, and doubly ironic that the second I commit to something, all the men start appearing in my inbox like wolves that have finally realised they like meat. And right now, I am a fillet mignon motherfuckers.

So, anyway. I was supposed to spend the weekend with this young man I’m trying monogamy for. We were supposed to drive to Harare together, being absolutely grossly couple-y. Unfortunately, the world intervened with a strong “not today Satan!”, and threw all our plans to the side.

The initial major wrench was his mother who could not bear the thought of letting her darling son go to the big bad capital alone. He’s the last of three sons. Yes. Even my hole clenched shut. You ever notice how entitled these last born children with possessive mothers are? Like how exactly do you manage to be this self-centred? Is there a class to go to with someone who actually sits down and plans coursework for this? We digress.

I was comfortable with meeting his mum, to be honest. I’m quiet, funny and generally respectful. Reasonably attractive like proper reasonable and not Chadwick Boseman levels, just okay levels. I’m the guy you introduce to your parents in your coming out speech. Mainly because they tend to look at me and go “gays can’t be that bad. I mean, look at this one! This gay looks harmless!” Of course this is just before knowing me. I mean after knowing me for a while, they’ll realize I have an unhealthy habit of forgetting they are in the room when they open their mouths to say something.

As a result, I’m quite confident I can handle an overprotective mother. Life however, was just getting started. We failed to get fuel. I offered to pay for the cost in USD, and the young man felt scandalized. “I’m the top. I can’t let you pay for fuel. It’s like I’m taking advantage of you!” My mind, being the rabbit hole of self-aware dirty thoughts, immediately wanted to ask what his obsession with face-fucking counted as. I however, let it go. Who am I to deliver an impassioned speech about how limiting binary sexual role politics is? Who am I to force someone else’s child to spend my USD?

Safe to say, I got a lift to Harare. I spent the first two nights drinking irresponsibly, performing a reverse Easter. Drinking to celebrate that I have arisen from my small town, to spend the third day paralyzed with acid reflux, accumulated hangovers, and possible alcohol poisoning.

I finally left my bed to go visit a friend for some drinks. We (me, friend and bae of friend) met up with some guys. Now, I say guys in the loosest sense of the word. Some of the most flamboyant homosexuals I’ve ever met were at this meet up. What I found most fascinating was the clearly distinct demarcations that had existed before our arrival. I could see couples ensconced in different parts of the room, with the centre (couch facing TV) being populated by individuals without partners. Or verses, not sure which.

You could feel the orgy in the air: this was pregame. Everyone still had clothes on, the bottoms looking extra bottomy in a rainbow of t-shirt colours and unmatchable pants. It felt like visual assault. Without the comfort of knowing that one more punch would leave your eyes too swollen to see clearly for the following three days.

But, don’t let the bright t-shirts fool you. These bottoms were on missions, one guy “shyly” showing off his underwear to his desired top, an awkward form of peacocking made even worse by the fact that said top was a former fuckbuddy who felt that this slow, sensual striptease climax was the perfect moment to say my name out loud.

I was too many gins in to realize his faux pas, but not too boozed up to not feel the frisson of having outdone a bitch by simply walking into a room. Petty, I know. But delightful nonetheless.

I threw myself onto the couch. My friends started nodding to some of the other people in the room and house, leaving me alone with the seemingly discarded verses. After a couple of drinks, I started bobbing my head to the music in the room, seemingly floating with no visible source. It took a couple of minutes for me to realize it was my phone ringing. I still have no idea how I left without a single dick sucked, or a single number received. It might have been the universe working overtime to get me to remain monogamous.

I was told the following morning that none of this was true, of course. I had spent a significant amount of time sucking the face off of a poor UZ second year student who I refused to go home with. Before you congratulate me, I “refused” by dragging him to the car with us as we were leaving, pulling him in for one final kiss, and slamming the car door in his face. A third party reported, later, that I supposedly had told him “Sorry. Handikwirwi nemaverse”

I remain monogamous. Because if sober me is reluctant to cheat and drunk me is fucking up advances, why try to break free? I need to offer an apology to that poor guy who must have felt as heavily objectified as bottoms do when top fuckbuddies been sharing the nasty shit you like with their friends. Nothing as frightening as having a random nigga pull up to you in a bar and going “I heard you like sucking tongue. Mine is free, if you’re into it”. No one else is frightened? Well, shit.