I’d never tried a strap-on before I met her, not one for the introduction of a phallus into lesbian love affairs. I considered myself a ‘pure lesbian’ or at least pure in terms of not having any instruments that resembled the male organ involved in my pleasure. Such symbols felt like cheating to me, it was as if I — and consequently any lovers I might have — was conceding that our sexual fulfilment was inferior to one which a man’s organ could give me. And with the fight that a lot of us have to do to exist on a daily basis, to exist, to love and to live freely, it felt tantamount to a betrayal, to me.
Nevertheless, I met her and she wanted me and on our first date, having met online through one of the coded sites that people who knew where to look could place an ad on Naija internet, we engaged in a bout of furious fucking in the men’s bathroom of a popular eatery in Nigeria. Her idea. The stalls were a mess but the cubicles looked clean enough. I tried not to let my inner germophobe out and she slammed the toilet seat down and sat me down on top of it.
“I thought you said you were tall?” she asked, straddling me.
Immediately, I bristled. “I am tall!”
“Shhh!” Still laughing, she took my hand and placed it against her crotch, pulling her tight dress up to her waist so that it sat like an elasticated belt, gripping her guts. I slipped two fingers inside her and she fell against me, breathing heavily as I tried to stop her from crying out, endured her wild thrashing feet slamming into the walls, the frenzied bucking and her naked breast, small and barely there with dangerously pointed nipples.
I was aware of every time the door slammed. Of the splash of urine cutting off each time she moaned softly in her throat. It was my turn to ask her to hush. She came hotly and wetly into my cramped palm. I tried not to think of how many other women she’d sneaked into men’s bathrooms before me.
She moved in after the fourth date, which technically was the third one since she stayed the night and didn’t leave. It made sense. I wanted to see her all the time and she lived in Nyanya. It didn’t make sense for me to keep driving her all the way home, considering I lived in a one-bed in Wuse Zone 2 where she worked as a receptionist in one of these hotels. She was young and could be a little loud, but I understood her and loved her because she reminded me of girls from back home, in the little mannerisms of her daily life. Her heritage was there in the way she always made sure to sit with her legs closed, to tuck her skirt or wrapper in between her thighs and when we lounged on the bed (she in shorts), she would tuck a pillow between her buttocks and the backs of her knees, as though to preserve her modesty, even if I had just had lunch or dinner in that same area.
The sex was great. Wildness did not come naturally to me, as used to caution as I was.
“How many women have there been before me?” she would ask, before the last quiver had died away from my orgasm. “Have you ever been with men before?”
“Once,” I answered after careful consideration. I’d been married before, to my childhood friend and had no intention of discussing it, but it seemed she couldn’t have cared less about my answer. Her point was not yet made.
“Don’t you miss it?” She rolled over on her stomach, covering up nipples which I could have sworn were growing again, taking on 3D shape, changing from the flat, blackness of a smudge on her skin.
“Miss what?” I asked, more for her answer than as an exercise in honesty.
“Dick.” And she giggled, covering her mouth in that childlike way she had.
I felt a twinge of dismay. One side of me wanted to be the mature, older woman who understands that human sexuality wears many faces. Just because she missed dick didn’t mean she did not want to be with me, did it? Why, I had a straight friend and an openly gay guy who’d slept together many, many times and now had a child – a beautiful daughter – that they raised as co-parents. They were unmarried, had no desire to do so and had bought flats in the same building from which they shares childcare responsibilities. Blissfully happy, him with his lover and she with her now husband. But the other side of me was all too aware of what a person of my means represented for many Abuja girls. I’d learnt the hard way.
I ignored my insecurity and blinked back the green from my eyes. “What is it that you miss about dick?”
“Not really miss like that. It’s just having something big inside me…” She sighed.
I bit my tongue.
“Do you think we can get a dildo? My other girlfriend had one and our sex was just out of this world!”
Had I been a lot more mature, I would have realised that she was only dropping this mention to get me riled up, so I could do what she wanted. After all, she never so much as mentioned one ex before, girl or boy. Instead, I allowed jealousy to rear its head.
“Maybe, I’ll think about it.”
Obviously my thinking was too slow for her because the next time we made love, she complained that my fingers were not long enough to reach inside her and my tongue was too flexible and when I offered to trib with her, she flat out denied me the pleasure. Nothing worked until I took a plantain from the kitchen, washed it and plunged it into her, venting my anger. Waste of time. She liked it.
And that’s how come we were shopping. I couldn’t risk her leaving me, no matter how young and giddy she could be. She was a great cook even if she hated washing up after herself and the house vibrated with life, even if she insisted on soaking her underwear in the sink, especially while she was menstruating. I cleaned up after her and I washed her dishes and she spent my money and stopped me turning into an old, bitter lesbian. It was a marriage made in almost heaven.
The shop was discreet. A quiet house in a residential area with flame trees lining the road at intervals. I parked my car and we got out, she with a bounce in her step and me, watching for eyes, for hostile looks, for anything really. She knocked on the gate and a maiguard opened it up.
“Well done o,” she said, skipping past him. I felt the gateman’s eyes on us as we walked down the short driveway.
Inside, we were ushered into a shop floor which was where the parlour should be. Muted music and red paint on the walls so that the only bright lights were those trained on the products themselves. A woman sidled up to me and smiled and my back went up.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked. She wore a short flouncy skirt and a tight crop top in some stretchy fabric.
“No, just looking,” I mumbled. On the screen, adverts played on a loop; lube, whips, chains and the ubiquitous girls sucking lollipops.
“Do you do strap ons?” my girlfriend asked. I thought I was going to die. There was another couple in there, a man and a woman browsing the porn DVDs displayed by the far wall. I saw the woman nudge the man and whisper something to him.
“You’ll find that upstairs,” said the shop assistant. “Would you like me to show you?”
“No, we’ll find it ourselves, thank you. Com’on honey,” said my girlfriend, making for the far wall and its door hidden behind a velvet curtain. She stopped by the couple browsing porn. “You don’t want that,” she said, fixing her heavy lidded eyes on the man. “All those girls urinating are not squirting. Here,” she picked up two or three more expensive titles and handed it to him. “Enjoy.” I smiled apologetically at his furious wife. Her husband’s eyes were locked on my girlfriend’s hot legs as she disappeared behind the curtain.
Upstairs, the AC cooled the sweat staining the armpits of my shirt. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said. But she did not reply. Her mouth under the lights were wet and shimmery. Laid out under blue LEDs were rows of dildos, like banana in the market place. The harnesses were just below them.
I reached for the smallest one. It seemed a reasonable size and girth and its glass shaft appealed to the clean freak in me. She took it for me and set it down carefully.
“This one,” she said. My heart sank to my toes. It was a monster dick in brown-black silicone, heavy and thick that it drooped when she held it. The glass I could handle. It was neat. This thing had no relation to me in the worst possible way. Was this what she was missing? Was this what she wanted all along? But she dropped that one and reached for another, smaller with balls attached to it like fruits.
“How about another colour?” I asked, picking up the same model, in a sparkly model.
“Ooh. Vampire dick! You know. Like Edward.” I stared at her blankly. “Old mama,” she chided. That one fell from her hands when she clapped eyes on another. A squeal escaped her lips.
This one was shaped like a Twister ice lolly, in shades of purple and red, twisted around each other. My year abroad studying for my MSc had seen me gorge myself on those ice lollies during the summer months. All it did was make me want to stop for ice cream on the way home. It’s accompanying balls were tight and hard and high and when she fondled them, she looked as if she was going to pass out.
“This one,” she said, turning. Her eyes were glazed over. I recognised the tone of voice as the one with which she signalled she was ready for fucking and squashing my envy, I rushed downstairs and paid. Our package was in the brown paper bag and she was rushing down the driveway before I’d put my wallet back into my pocket.
“Tip the guy,” she said, in her fever-ridden voice and I gave the gateman N1000. He opened the gate with a flourish.
On our way home, she sat in the passenger seat and mewled. She kicked off her shoes and rubbed her hands all over her body, making frequent stops at her breasts. At the traffic lights, I watched her slip a finger into her panties.
“Just getting ready for you,” she said. I could barely see any blacks in her eyes. It’s a wonder we did not get into an accident.
At home she pushed me into the front door and snatched the back from me, stripping off my jeans, slippers and pants and helping me into the harness. She was drooling as she tightened the straps.
“How does that feel?” she asked.
“Alright,” I replied, but I was sort of embarrassed. As much as I was older than she, she was clearly more experienced.
“Can you move your waist? I need to make sure it’s sitting properly.” All this through a thick mouthful of saliva. I did as she asked. “Good.” She pulled the dildo out of the bag as if it was a holy relic, undid the snaps holding the ring and slipped it in. “Good,” she said again. My girlfriend licked her lips. She slipped her pants off and they fell to the tiles with a slap. All over her legs were tracks of juice. She went on all fours there in the corridor, presenting her bottom to me.
“Fuck me,” she said. Her anus winked at me. The pink of her inner lips within the brown glistened. I got down on my knees and slipped first the tip inside her, balancing my unfamiliarity with the dildo strapped to my pelvis with her need – her very clear need – for more. She went lower on her elbows. The heat from her radiated as though from an oven.
“More,” she said, parting her buttocks with one hand. I pushed and she shuddered and I shuddered and she pushed. She sighed, a half-sob and begged me to go deeper. I did, slipping into her until her skin jammed up against mine. Then I pulled out again. It came naturally.
I’d seen her crazy but this was more. Her wetness grew stickier the more I stirred. She grabbed my hips and deciding she wasn’t getting enough, flipped over so that she was looking me in the face.
“It’s you I want. Only you. No one else. Please fuck me,” she said.
Sweat drenched my shirt, flowed down the length of my spine. She ensnared with with her long legs and stayed me, guided me and rode me. The harness straps grew slick between my thighs. I thrust and thrust until the sweat ran down my face and forced me to close my eyes. I did not see when she came, but I felt it. A rigidity that travelled down my artificial instrument and embedded itself in my gut. Her screams shattered the afternoon stillness.
Later, rested, she went down on me and licked my dick clean of her cum. And then she went lower, holding onto it like a handle, pulling me towards her hot, wet mouth when my jerking took me away, letting me ride her face. As soon as I came, she impaled herself on my dick and drove herself on, suckling on my breasts.
“I love you, I love you,” she said. Her next implosion rippled over my skin.
Needless to say, I’m sold on dildos. Who cares what shape they are or what they represent? She is attracted to me, woman. How I get her off is my business and hers and no one else’s.
Our dildo collection grows by the day and show no signs of stopping. I wish I could tell you I didn’t enjoy her plunging into me with what has since become my favourite, The Vampire Dildo, but that would be lying. I thought having a phallus in me would take me back to the dark times of my marriage, but I was wrong. Those times had nothing to do with not liking penetration. It had to do with marrying the wrong person, being with the wrong gender, feeling no attraction whatsoever.
She loves me. My female mind. My female body. My clean freakery and how I prefer to read the books over the newspapers she enjoys. And I love her, in all her messy, exuberant youthfulness. Her small breasts with the palm kernel nipples. Her hard body. I love how she is not afraid to take risks, how she rejects all my control freakery, my need to define her and organise her because then that would mean I had some control over my life.
I surrender to her. I have no control and for the first time in my life, I don’t care.