Frema threw her hands in the air the moment she walked through the red upholstered doors at Club Aphrodisiac, shaking her hips and smiling at anyone who glanced her way. Pomaa rubbed her elbow and tried not to make her discomfort so apparent. Unlike Frema – who lived for the dance floor, any dance floor – she had never liked clubs. They were dark, sweaty and smelled of imitation name brand perfume, liquor and the pheromones of desperate men.
The thought of being groped by one of these “small boys” that she and Frema were supposed to be chasing sent Pomaa straight to the bar. She had lost Frema in the densely packed room in a haze of blond and burgundy weaves and shiny brown skin. It was ladies night, and the number of men on the prowl vastly outnumbered the women in need of a hook up. That was the other thing she couldn’t stand about the club. It was like a voluntary trip to the meat market, featuring a hefty side of ass – her ass in particular. If only more men abided by the “look but don’t touch” clause.
Skelewu had just begun playing. To her relief, a guy and newly formed female acquaintance vacated a corner of the bar and inched their way to the middle of the dance floor. Pomaa could tell that they had just met each other, because the man kept leaning in to the girl’s face, obviously asking questions. People in steady relationships don’t talk when they’re dancing – they just dance. She watched as the woman nodded her head occasionally, apparently desperate to look cute and still hold a semi-intelligent conversation.
Her feet must be killing her, Pomaa thought. She is only swaying from side to side…This song is a JAM! I wonder how long it will be before he asks her to…
“Are you an American?”
Pomaa looked around. She located the owner of the voice. A tall, slender man in sunglasses wedged himself between her and another woman jockeying for his attention.
Damn. He was handsome. But why was he wearing sunglasses indoors…at night?
“No. I’m a Ghanaian,” Pomaa replied, shaking her head. “I’m from Kumasi.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “You look so foreign. Your hair, your skin, even your clothes…it’s very different from typical Ghana girls.”
“Yes, well, there’s a lot of bleach in town, isn’t there?”
“Nothing.” Pomaa shifted her weight in her heels. Why weren’t there more barstools? She decided to carry on the conversation to keep her mind off the throbbing in her feet. “If it makes any difference, I just got in from Nigeria. Maybe that’s why I look ‘foreign’.”
The man giggled and introduced himself.
“Dennis Eshun,” he whispered into her ear. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Agyapomaa Agyemang,” she replied, leaning away from him. God, he was being so obvious. Pomaa looked around for Frema, but she was still swimming beneath the sea of humanity in the barely lit club.
“Do you want to dance?” Dennis asked.
“Actually, I was just about to get myself a drink,” Pomaa said. “I don’t feel much like dancing tonight.”
Dennis smiled, flashing two perfect rows of teeth. “Then I’m in luck, aren’t I? I feel like drinking too.”
Pomaa’s new stranger took the liberty of ordering her drink for her. She looked like the kind of girl who liked cocktails, not beer he observed. She confirmed that he was right. Pomaa watched the barkeep hawkishly as he mixed her Mai Tai. There were news reports of women getting drugged and assaulted all over the city. Who knew if bartenders were in cahoots with these unscrupulous men? Pomaa took a sip of her drink and waited. It was fine. She gulped more down.
For the next fifteen minutes, she and Dennis made pleasant talk. He was an engineer looking for ways to implement lean sigma concepts in Ghana’s transportation industry. No, he was not having much success in his field. The government was exceptionally resistant to hearing about his ideas. Ah! How could she think it was because he sucked at his job? She should come to his house – tonight – and see all the awards he had won when he was working at Lockheed…
“You said you were living in Nigeria?”
Dennis paused and looked at her quizzically, as if the information had just registered with him. Pomaa nodded, taking another long drag from her drink. Damn, it was delicious! What had they put in here? Extra Tai…What a question. She was clearly getting drunk. She had to watch herself, else Dennis might…
“I’m here with a mate from Nigeria!” Dennis beamed. “You’ll love him. Funniest guy ever. His name is Femi.”
Pomaa dropped her glass on the bar with a clatter, glancing at the barkeep apologetically.
“Wh-what did you say?”
Dennis was waving affably at the crowd. In the swirling mass of African humanity, Pomaa spotted a perfect afro towering above the room.
No. It couldn’t be.
She stammered an apology and ran for the door, ignoring Dennis’ cries for her to wait. She was surprised by the speed with which her heeled feet took her to the roadside. She hailed a taxi and barked three words:
“Fiesta Royale, please!”
Once she was safely in her suite, she kicked off her shoes and sunk to the floor. What was Femi doing in Accra? This was her town, her country! It didn’t make sense. Why was he following her? She would have had the chance to contemplate it further had she not passed out drunk on the carpet, her face soaked with slobber and tears.
It was 4 am when Pomaa heard Frema screaming for God to help her. The noise was coming from the bedroom.
Pomaa scrambled to her feet and raced towards the door. The moaning of a man kept her at bay. When she heard a slap, she went back to her space on the floor. Pomaa had heard this story several times before.
Inside the room, in the pre-dawn light, Frema had her pillow-soft lips closed over the length of steel hard penis. By now its possessor will have rammed it down her throat at her command. But she would not let him release in her mouth. Before he got to that point, she would dislodge her lips and slap him. This scenario would repeat itself three more times before Frema would unveil a condom (she typically kept them tucked in the band of her boy shorts) and sheath her partner.
It was at this point that Frema would mount her partner – backwards – lick her pointer finger and stick it up his ass. If he resisted, she would turn around and slap him again. This scenario would repeat itself twice more until the man relented, allowing himself to be probed until he relaxed and she brought him to the brink of an orgasm. If he quivered, she would turn around, hovering above him, letting his erection stroke her labia and clitoris until she dripped sticky sweetness all over his well-muscled thighs. Frema only bedded men of a certain physical sort: Square shoulders, great posture, a strong core…
Now that she was calling on the Almighty, Pomaa had guessed that this was when the stranger was sucking greedily on Frema’s breasts.
“Harder! More! Swallow them! Yesu, Yesu…!!!”
Frema was like a beast uncaged when her nipples found themselves locked in the warmth of a man’s lips. And now that the stranger was groaning anew, Pomaa surmised that her best friend was working him like a clutch in midday traffic. Her vaginal muscles would be tightening around his dick; her hands would clasp either ass cheek and part them for deeper penetration, she would grab him by one of his ears and pull it until to his surprise, he would be coaxed into an explosion of the most violent torrent of semen – much to his surprise. (Few men knew that their ears were an erogenous zone.)
“You have to stimulate more than one head,” Frema always said.
And then Frema would nibble on his lip, stroke his nipple, and fall into a blissful sleep.
Pomaa missed the stranger’s exit later that morning. In her sleep, she thought she felt someone staring at her, but she was too hung over to investigate. She watched as Frema toweled herself off and dialed for room service to deliver breakfast. She sighed, and smiled at Pomaa.
“I hope I didn’t wake you last night.”
“Me? Oh, no, I didn’t hear a thing,” Pomaa lied. “Did you have company?”
“I did.” Frema was chuckling. “And I think I might be in love. This guy is a monster in bed.”
“Ei. Just because you’ve found a co-freak doesn’t mean you’re in love,” Pomaa teased. “You should get to know him!”
“Oh, I plan to! He’ll be coming to see me in Kumasi in a few weeks, if he’s not a liar.” Frema played with a coil of hair and stared out of the window at the city below. “I think you’ll like him. He seems to be a nice guy.”
“And you determined all this while your finger was up his bum?”
Frema laughed. “Ahaa! You see? You’re a liar! You did hear us! I can’t wait to tell you all about him. I met him last night at Aphro. His name is Dennis and he’s hot. Heh! You should see his six pack. And he’s so accomplished. I don’t know what his ethnic group is. I’m hoping he’s an Ashanti aristocrat…”
Frema was too busy talking to notice the stricken look on Pomaa’s face. Dennis?