How could I forget my first taste of alcohol. Amidst blinding spotlights, deafening disco music, and the smoke-choked bar, I thought it helped lessen the nervousness of facing a hundred pairs of eyes packed in sofas and chairs surrounding me, scrutinising every inch of my body that was now clad in just a white underwear, as I swayed awkwardly on stage to the beat. Underneath the thin sheet of material was my artificially stimulated member, veiny and almost ready to spring into instant action. It seemed I had got used to the constant piercing pain of restricted blood flow cause by the cock ring, and was actually ready to show my potential buyer a few naughty moves, or a seductive smile, or an innocent giggle, if that would catch his fancy. And then I checked again to make sure that the card announcing my number was securely pinned to my undies.
How could I forget the stunt we used to put up. Jerking off used to be more fun back then, but it was done now (complete with boy scouts uniforms and cowboy hats) as proof of our assets for careful consideration of the observers, as a form of entertainment in the name of survival, and as a testimony that the performer had now been reduced to mere machines and tools to satisfy every possible desire and fantasy of those who were willing to spend on us. And then when I was ready to cum, I would raise my left hand, walk out of the line and as the crowd cheered, prayed that it would be a less flustered climax the next day.
How could I forget the long wait for my first customer. Those endless replays of joining the parade on stage followed by the inevitable solitary existence on rows of chair packed with eager boys while we sit and waited (normally in vain) for Mama to return with good news that a customer had picked our numbers. It was a startling realisation of a life where battles were fought over precious attention and admiration, a potpourri of gossips, lies, deception and betrayal. There were simply too many of us against too little of the customers who came in hope of fulfilment of a night’s worth of fantasy role-play, rather than to attend an eye-opening, once-in-a-lifetime performance.
How could I then forget the first time I got fucked. He was a businessman, late 40s, balding, beer belly but I remembered having my fascination fed off his gold watch, diamond ring and designer suites. So I told him he looked dashing, and he tore my clothes off like a vulture freed from starvation. Every thrust tore my guts but helped feed my family back home; every submission shattered my pride but restored education and dignity to my deserving siblings; every wound healed to a scar but brought hope to an otherwise bleak future. At times when the pain became too excruciating to bear, I had flashbacks of my childhood life and I thought I was given the chance to relive that again, and then he climaxed and collapsed on my body.
The mirror ball seemed to be revolving abit faster tonight. My eyes kept getting blinded momentarily from the light that bounced off it. I think I had never swayed so well, ever. On the agogo stage, just like the stage of life, it meant the world to break apart. For now, however, I would just close my eyes and enjoy the music.
And then I would wait for Mama to call my number again.
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