Gay Erotic Stories

The first persons who greeted me on my arrival at the Fajara seaside resort were Diallo, the British looking watchman. And Stephen, as expected.

Diallo laughed. "Since last Monday, he be here at arrival of every airport shuttle."

Stephen was very cool. "How do you do, Sir? How is your family? How is your wife, how are your children?" And so it went on, in the endless African manner; he only forgot to ask after the dog. Finally, incidentally with an intentionally neutral voice: "Did you have the time to post my letter to Hamburg? Did it arrive?"

"I cannot lack time to put a stamp on a letter and to throw it into the box. And it arrived, I called that man, what was his name? But now, I am tired, I need a shower, and a taxi to the Center."

"Oh please, can't we meet tonight?"

"Well, if you absolutely wish. I'll meet you at our usual place, and we'll go to Alligator Bar. I might be a little late."

"Thank you Sir, thank you Sir," and he ran away to the taxi stand to give long recommendations to the driver he had chosen for me.

At night, we did not stay long at our bar across the bay. He pressed me with questions about the recipient of the letter, what he had said, how his voice had sounded, what were his plans, and when he would be back. I gave soothing and evasive responses: the man was overjoyed to have received the letter, he would answer in due time, but he had given no details. Stephen breathed with relief.

On the way home, between the cape amd the hotel campus I said, "That beer, that music, these Swedish people and my long travel, I had got up at five this morning, I must sit down." Stephen happily agreed and sat down, this time much closer than the first time on the beach.

I started slowly with some small talk, and then I directed the ball into the enemy's field. "Stephen, this was nevertheless a good day. Will you come with me to the open air Bar to have a whisky?"

"The bar is closed. We just crossed Eldridge on the strand."

"Then we can go to my bungalow. I have a full bottle there."

"No, Paul, not to your room."

"What do you fear?"

"Nothing. But it is inconvenient; they are waiting for me at home, and Diallo will not allow, he is very severe."

"Nobody is sitting there to wait for the night-bird you are. And I have talked to Diallo, with a little something in his hand, that you are a serious person and that I will be responsible for you. He will look into another direction, now and tomorrow morning before dawn."

"Before dawn, you say dawn? What am I supposed to do in your room until dawn?"

"We could enjoy ourselves, have some fun – we shall play some zizi-boum-boum, as they use to say in Dakar - you understand?"

"I fear I understand what, not how. But this will never happen, never never. I'm leaving. Good night Sir! "Moment, did you ever have sex?"

He sat down again. "For sure, everybody has done it with the girls. And I have done it two times with a white woman, a Swedish lady, and a Dutch lady."

"And how was that?"

"To be honest, I prefer our girls, it is easier, and they respect the man lying on them. They never ask do this, to do that, and that again, and one number is enough for our girls. The white women are complicated, they dominate you and ask for bizarre things. They are very excited, and exhausting."

"Here in the bungalows at night?"

"Well… yes."

"And Diallo, the terrible watchman? Did he let you in and out? Did he understand what was going on?" I asked.

"The ladies had talked to him before. And I think he understands, I am not the only boy who enters with the Swedish or the other white girls by night. He is just prudent and wants to keep his job, but he knows which boys are reliable and serious."

"So he will not object to you coming to my room?"

"No, he would not, but I will never come with a man. I want to remain polite with you, but you should finally enter in your small brains that I will not do it with a man and that I never have done it with a man, even not with my little buddies. Is that clear, man?"

I had a large smile. We sat there, smoking a cigarette, looking at the reflection of the moon on the relentless waves.

Finally I cleared my throat. "Stephen, I have opened the letter of Abdullaye Sefing to Heinz Plattner in Hamburg."

Stephen sat there, silent, for almost a minute. He had not heard my words.

I was about to repeat when he suddenly jumped into the air and ran away into the night. At a stone's throw from me, he fell on his face, beat his head with his fists and yelled, inhuman sounds like an animal going to have its throat cut. He did not stop boxing and yelling from his throat, rrhaah, rrhaahh. Heartbreaking, physical pain. Then he yelled words in Mandingo, obviously wrath and curses. I understood "Allah,” and "toubabou,” the white men. When he felt that I knelt down next to him, he sat up and hissed, sobbing, "Do not approach, do not touch me or I'll kill you and dig a deep hole here in the sand with my hands, you filthy traitor. I trusted you, I thought you were a trustworthy person, and now you have admitted that you are a filthy traitor. Why did you humiliate me as I never have been in my life? A man without honor is a dead man, a living dead. Why did you make me dead?" He began to weep hot tears, uuhuuu-uu, uuhuuu-uu. Snot was running down on his chin. I knew the peak of his emotion was passed and indeed the tears slowed down.

"If you want to fuck a young boy's ass, there are enough around, have a look at the hotel gate or ask perhaps Diallo. If you pay, you can have as many as you want."

"Now let's talk quietly, Stephen, and I'll tell you all the truth. You will suffer, but I hope you will understand, now or later. Tomorrow, you will not be the same person, but an adult, with more experience and less illusions. Don't interrupt me. When I am through, you can show me the place in the sand where you are going to dig that hole for me, little asshole.

"First of all, I do not transport things that could be dangerous. I always open suspect packages that could cause me trouble. I know why, but it is not the moment now to tell you that long story. "Second,“ I went on, "I have read your letter, but – you will believe and understand me, or not – with respect. I did not laugh. I was deeply impressed by that deep, sincere love you expressed.

"I have understood three things," I said. "You had sex with Heinz; you loved that kind of sex; and you are in true love with that man, so pure as only a virgin girl can love her bridegroom. This was your first experience?"

He nodded.

"It is hard to tell you the truth, so you must be very strong. It is over. Heinz was embarrassed when I called him. He admitted to have received the letter but he will not keep to his promises and he will not invite you to Hamburg because his wife cares for their household. Do you want to know the whole truth?"

The boy shook vigourously his head and mumbled something about the "toubabou"; it sounded like curses and malediction.

"I am sure you did it only for love, and you cannot feel the same love for any other person and in particular not for me, but you know what I want. Yes, I can have a lot of other boys for just sex; you know better than me how many boys go for it here and in Senegal. But I want to make love with you, not for your butt or for your dick, but because of your charming character, your decent personality and your education, for your smile. That's what we consider as love: not sentimental fuss and not sweat-driving ass-fucking."

We remained again in silence. After a long time, he stood up and said in a toneless voice, "Okay, I will come with you, and I will do what you oblige me to do, and I will make no trouble and no noise. On arrival in your room, you will remit me 300 Dalasi, and consider this as an honest deal. You will cause me no problem, and I will cause you no problem. But you guarantee that Diallo will let me out when you have finished using me, that he will not claim money from me as some watchmen in other hotels are used to doing, or talk about what I am doing."

"That's already settled with him," I assured him. "He has had his share, and you can rely on him, even on other occasions."

I was astonished about the amount the boy had required. The normal fee in West Africa for a good overnight job, all included, was 50 Dalasi, approximately $25 US in those days. The innocent, inexperienced and subdued boy claimed as much as a deluxe callboy was entitled to bill me. His desperate situation did not allow him to exaggerate his claim. Did he intend to discourage me, did he expect I humiliated myself and him by bargaining the price down? In any case, the amount would not kill me: I could pay everywhere with my American Express card.

When we entered the lights on the strand side, Diallo stood there with his herdsman stick, turned away and went toward the main entry on the other side of the compound. We entered my bungalow and I turned on the air conditioner in order to cover our voices. I poured two full glasses of whisky. The boy did not touch his; he stood there, motionless, apparently emotionless, with a face like a cold fireplace, just waiting. I got the key of the simple wooden safe in the closet and took thirty Dalasi notes. He stuffed them without a word into the rear pocket of his jeans. He sighed, took his glass and began to smile. Then he sat down on the bed.

"Stephen, you have your money. You can go away, I will not hold you back."

"What am I supposed to do now?"

"Your decision, we agree? Take all your clothes off."

"As you wish."

He removed his silver jacket, his socks and all the rest, standing there naked, without any sign of embarassment or shame. He was rather slim, with large shoulders and incredibly narrow hips, with well muscled pecs and belly, and a nice fat member hanging down.

"What am I supposed to do next?"

"I'll undress myself, and we'll have a shower together. You will soap me and I'll soap you."

"As you wish."

"You are boring. I wish that you wish. Here comes a problem for me. I am an adult European, and we are sometimes ashamed when we compare ourselves to a naked black boy who has perfect muscles and that beautiful skin. That's why I'll close the light and keep only that one in the bathroom."

"I can tell you now, I love white skin, it feels so tender, I love to lick it. A black comrade's skin would feel like cold fish to me. White bodies are sexy. I like to play love with our girls, but I love only the feeling on my "foto" - dick you say? - and the lust screams of the girls excite me, too. But with the white people, the entire body excites me."

Our shower lasted for a long time, our hands became more and more audacious, and when we finally laid naked on the bed, we maintained the stiffness of our members, stroking each other’s with tenderness.

After a moment, Stephen slid down and took without hesitation my erect cock in his mouth, bobbing vigourously up and down. His fellatio seemed determined, somehow desperate, but for me the well-shaped torso of the boy where the sweat began to gleam when he leaned back in his movements, and the firm grip of his mouth and throat excited me. My dick was burning, with the long strikes from the boy's lips down his throat, it seemed much bigger, longer than usual. When I felt it coming, I patted him slightly on his head, and withdrew my dick, glossy with his saliva. He inhaled deeply for some moments like a diver coming to the surface, then he asked, "Was I not good enough?"

"It was too good. I was near to explode, and I did not want to cum into your mouth."

"No, you may; no problem for me. I'll take it. I'll take it all." Who had spoken about innocence?

"No," I said. "I do not want. I want to do something else."

"Oh. I understand what's coming now!"

He leaned back to the chair where he had carelessly put his clothes and took something from the pocket of his jeans. Then he fell on the bed again. I felt a small plastic pack in my hand. "Here. For you. A cousin who is a taxi driver gets them at the chemist's shop, and we know it is better for both of us, in particular for the girls."

"Why do you give me that?" I was bewildered, because all these boys and men I used to contact in Africa on streets and great avenues, on beaches, in front of movie-houses and on tree-lined dark alleys (eternal thanks to John Stamford!) expect money and do it strictly in the macho way like with a girl. In fact, very few black boys had offered me spontaneously their butt, and never an Arab one.

"I know what's coming now," and he turned around on his knees. "Come on, take me!"

I pushed his shoulder back and he fell face to face with me. "Stephen, are you a homosexual?"

"God beware, Paul, the cousin explained me what that is. In Serrekunda, there lives a man who is always dressed like a woman, he peddles these printed holland wax cloth, in daytime he speaks only with women and he also speaks like one. We call him Miss Awa, and the children laugh after him. I am not like Miss Awa."

"You see, Stephen, I am accustomed to black men, even married men, who expect me to suck on their…"foto" or who only accept to fuck me. So I was very astonished when you sucked on mine and now you present me your backside. I do not understand."

"That's the way white men expect from somebody like me."

"Did you play sex with many white men?" men?" No answer.

"So you did it only with Heinz, yes?"

No answer, but I understood.

"Tell me, what has happened exactly with Heinz, tell me just how it was. Between two naked men fondling each other on a bed, there is no space remaining for shame."

"Oh Paul, that's not a funny story. Since my father's death five years ago, my mother and my little sisters live in my uncle's house." I knew the rest of the story, big family, not enough resources, tomorrow staring with big hungry eyes.

"My uncle, who has his own wife and children, provides food for all of us. He has an English friend at John Holt Company who gives him money in September to pay for my books and my college uniform. But Uncle provides all of our living. He works as a welder at the small shipyard where I have seen you for the first time. In May, Uncle fell down a ladder inside a cutter and broke his right leg, here." He showed me the point. Our erections, our lust had dropped, I just hugged him with love and commiseration. "Uncle is not the youngest, his leg is healing, but slowly. The fireplace in the kitchen was becoming cold, and we are nine in our compound. Uncle obliges me to continue college instead of searching a paying job, saying Allah is always beside His slaves. As I am free in the afternoons, I used to walk on the beach looking for the Swedish women. I succeded two times: they took me to their hotel room and, you understand... I stripped naked; when their mouth was watering and they touched themselves, I said if you want to have this, you should help me, we need money. I asked for much, I mean much for us but I know how much costs one day at the hotel, not to mention their other expenses in town."

He sighed. "I told you I had to do what they ordered me to do. That was mostly ridiculous or disgusting; don't ask. But for the main thing, I am strong and can go until dawn. For the money you gave me, you also can ask me to do whatever you want, and as long as you want."

He continued. "When a new group arrived for the following two weeks, I had no luck. The women to whom I offered myself, very decently for sure, told me I was too young, they preferred strong adult men like fishermen, blacksmiths or wrestlers. And the young girls laughed at me, perhaps they had made their choice among the boys who wait for the airport shuttle on the other side of the hotel, at the main entrance, or who are so well dressed that they are allowed to have a drink at the Open air bar of the hotel."

The boy lowered his eyes. "Then I met that man on the beach. To make a long story short, he offered me much money for sex, one hundred Dalasi to tell the truth, at least the first time. I followed him to his room, he showed me the money, quite a pack of Dalasi notes and said it was mine if I satisfied him exactly as he wanted. Now I know how that goes with white men."

Suddenly, Stephen, hot and naked in my arms, his limp dick between my thighs, began to spasm violently. He sobbed in despair. "He took me like a girl."

The sobbing became stronger, and I felt wet drops falling on my shoulder. "Now I am a girl, I am no man anymore, now I am a homosexual like Miss Awa, now I am a whore where all men can empty their juice in. Kind of public toilet."

I reached down under his belly and seized his member. I massaged it, and it began to lift its head. "Is this a girl's equipment? Will you have to sit now when you piss? 'Black hoss don die?' "

Stephen broke out in laughter under his tears. "'How come you tawk Coas' Inglis? Anyhow, black hoss go be trong again, wait-see small-small."

But his smile fell again. "There is more, and that's worse. I love Heinz, when he put his "foto" into my mouth, and I loved it in particular when he penetrated me. I had done it with girls before as all our boys, and I know how they love it, how they become hot and excited the faster and the stronger I hop, and at the end they collapse and some hot, ill-smelling juice pours down their legs and they beg for more and more. Now, the same thing has happened to me: I lost juice from my backside like a girl. I was in exstasy like a girl, and I want it more and more with Heinz, and I love him and I want to stay close to him as his wife and he can take me day and night as often as he can have his lust on my body. But now, stop talking and take me, take your girl, deep, strong, brutally."

I had expected a joyous fuck party with a clean, funny boy, and now I had a bunch of crying misery in my arms for whom I had to fear the worst issue, at least the complete social degradation where only hallucinatory drugs could give him some relief. I had not the slightest idea how I could straighten out this hopeless case.

Nevertheless, the salvatory idea showed up at last: I had to try it the mean, the very rough way. I know to what degree black Africans are subject to hysteria, mainly collective hysteria, but they also have a sound faculty of recovering.

My bungalow was situated in the first line near the strand and somehow apart from the others.

I stood up, tore him up by his neck and began to beat him. Slap, slap, full in his tear-wet face. With the shock, he fell on the floor, seized my knees and began to whimper. "You have paid me to play sex here, and now you beat me, are you a sick murderer? There are movies about mentally sick murderers who rape women and then they cut their throat with a butcher's knife! Was it for this end that you gave me that heap of money?"

I lifted him up. "Are you a girl now? So we can cut your balls off because you don't need them any more?"

I was very scared and feared it would never come, but at last I saw how his eyes contracted into narrow slits that gave him the pitiless, hateful look of the wolf one second before he leaps on his prey's throat. A heavy punch on my stomach threw me on the floor, and he put his foot on my waist; the arousing feeling of a black lad's naked foot on my body made me shiver from ecstasy. But this was not the moment, alas. I gasped for air and then succeeded to roll around and to rise again.

Again I slapped him, avoiding to make noise or to injure him. Charming, funny Stephen had completely changed. In matter of beating, the young animal was much stronger than me: I got a regular fist flogging and he threw me on the bed, hand-cuffed my arms with his hands and put his knee on my neck. I did not love this kind of "amour vache,” but I felt we were through.

"How can you dare to beat a white massa?"

"You are not a massa, you are not a white man, you are just a sick bastard who wants to humiliate and to kill me, man! That asshole calls me a girl and wants to cut off my testicles! Who has ever heard a thing like that? But you never met a true Mandingo before, I tell you, the Mandingoes are the worst of all races!" The knee enforced its pressure on my neck. With the rest of my strength, I succeeded to free my left arm and to slap on the matrass, as I had seen once in a wrestling competition in Serrekunda.

With a strangled voice I groaned, "The comedy is over, Stephen. You can release me now."

He hesitated, but finally he released me and sat down at the opposite corner of the bed. His breast was agitated by heavy breathing. The heavy odor of his sweat, probably mixed with mine, filled the room, and he looked at me, silent but with a cold, defiant look. His jaws and his muscles were tensed.

"Stephen, it is very hard to understand me because it is very simple. Don't interrupt me. There is one question: did you lose your virility, are you a girl now, a true or a false girl? Do girls beat adult men, white adults, their guests as you say? You have the answer. Heinz has fucked your ass, and you loved it. But you thought you loved Heinz. In reality, you loved the feeling deep inside you, and anyone can give it to you. In fact, you are a man who loves to fuck and who loves to get fucked. You must understand, the one who is lying on top is not superior, and the other who is lying below is not a slut or a slave. Let me conclude: it is normal to fuck a man, it is usual to fuck a woman. Just take care at what the man says who fucks you: if he treats you as a slut, throw him down and then out of the door. Having sex with a nice and attractive human being is good and normal. Under one condition: respect your partner. Otherwise, you know it is too dangerous, since you nearly kicked the bucket."

I stopped, exhausted from the long speech and from the flogging. A silence followed, the boy collected his words.

"You are completely mad, Paul, but I have got it. And now I want to have sex. And I want that you give me what I love."

"What are you in love with, with me or with the fuck?"

"No, shut up. Just fuck me right now."

"As you wish, provided you fuck me afterwards, and you make me do all the things which this stupid Heinz and the horny Swedish ladies have obliged you to do. So things will be even again."

He handed me again the rubber. When I had put it on, he came again beside me on his knees and elbows, and lifted his butt. I wanted to make him feel good, and entered my finger into the crack, fondling the black rosebud, and then I began to lick it, to tease it with the point of my tongue and to bathe it with my saliva. I went down to his balls, and had the same care for them, without pity for the poor fellow who moaned and thrust his hips until a shot of white cream spurted on the bed cover. He fell on his side.

It did not take long for him to erect his shaft again and to go into his favourite position. "Please, give me what I need. Gimme, gimme, quick," he whimpered.

I knocked him down again on his side. "I will not give it. You take it; fuck yourself. Don't think about it, not about me, just enjoy."

I lay on my back and guided him to sit on my belly. He had a long "ooohh" of happy surprise when he eased himself on my shaft, and slowly sank down until his cheeks touched my thighs. "Ohh, that is goo…oood…"

"You see, you are the man on top, and I am the slut below."

He gave a mock slap on my cheek, and then he began to ride me, wilder and wilder. "Imagine the savage Indians pursuing the lonely cowboy to torture and to rape him in their camp in front of the women." He parted in a ecstatic, wild gallop on my pale, holding his erect dick as his bridle. At this rythm however, I could not hold it for a long time, and I filled my rubber. When he felt my member retracting, he fell exhausted to my side, and then he lay on me, kissing me with heavy strokes like a big black crow picking grains. When we had cooled down, I suggested to have another shower, rather quick this time. After some rest on the bed, the awful pervert I am began again: "What else did you do for your money?"

"I have done it with you, but you interrupted me."

"Did you love that?"

"Yes, I loved that, but only with Heinz. And with you. I have heard white women do it in other countries with men when they fear to get pregnant."

"Again a girl's job. Are you still a girl?"

"No, I am a man who loves…"

I interrupted him. "Heinz?"

"Oh no, shut up! You are stupid but do not think I am. I am a man who loves to suck on a man's…dick you say, without a lot of useless questions."

"You do not know how that feels, to get sucked?"

He looked at me with wet lips and eyes full of lust and anticipation, and approached his stomach to my head. I took his member, that hot piece of ebony wood, took it slowly and then went on it, harder and harder, the whole length. He moaned, and I felt he was not far from orgasm. Suddenly, he turned around the axle of his dick in my mouth, straddled me with his knees near my ears, and took my aching member in his mouth. The innocent youngster had invented the Sixty-Nine: I'll recommend him tomorrow to register it at the Patent Office! With light slaps on his back I told him to go slow to make it last. Lying under him, I made lascivious excursions to his balls and to his little lust gate, which seemed to respond to my impertinent aggression. He did not hesitate to follow my vicious example. This was now too much: I rolled around to lie on top of him and withdrew my member from his hungry mouth, spitting the cum on his throat and on his breast. He rubbed it with his hand like cosmetic oil, and this was too much for him too. As I was not sure how far he was in matters of perversion, I mean, how careless he was, I spat the lovely warm cream of the adolescent into the towel, which is always under my pillow, waiting for an unexpected guest.

Again we lay side by side, and hugged and kissed. After a while, I licked the inside of his ear. He tried to kick me off, throwing his butt and his legs upwards, but I held him with an iron hand. I should keep in mind that secret zone, in case I had to heat him up in a second. The same titillating effect was produced by my hot breath, which I blew into his ear. "Ready for the final proof that you are a real guy and I, perhaps, your slut girl?"

His eyes lighted with anticipation. "But I am a bit tired now, I need time to stand up again."

I fondled and teased him, and slowly the weary warrior began to raise his head again. There was another method. Stephen wore a silver arm ring on his right arm, the kind most African men wear. These rings are made from bronze or silver; the roadside smiths hammer 10 cm long bars or flat bands; they file engine valves to punches and hammer ornaments into the silver bars, which they ply into open rounds with knobs on both ends, which prevent the skin from being scratched. The flexible material allows them to adapt to any arm, thick or skinny. I removed his, widened it a bit, shoved it at the level of the pubes over the boy's stiffening penis and turned it to enter the tightened balls. Then I pressed the two ends slighty together.

"What is this? What for? That's narrow, but…I feel...it feels good." The weary warrior stood at full attention, ready for duty.

"In Europe, in the sex shops, you can buy such rings of different sizes, we call this a cockring. For the feeling. And mostly when you jack off."

His face was a question mark. I made the demonstration on mine. "This is good when you are alone or for men who are married for more than ten years."

He smiled with happiness. "Oh, I know, in the books they call that masturbation. We have another word for it, something like rubbing. All little boys play with themselves, sometimes they go to the bush for it, two or three, but they do it only, nobody ever speaks about it. It seems girls also do that rubbing. A boy however never can do it in the presence of a girl."

"Well, now you may close your encyclopedia. Do you have another rubber in your pocket?"

"Always."

I would not have supported any longer; all the exercices and our "dirty talk" had excited me to a point that in my despair I would have abused of the broomstick. Tonight, I had however the incredible luck that a hard ebony cock, a hot and tender male, would fill me.

I made him kneel on the bed, arranged my position and lifted my legs over his shoulders. His eyes lighted. "Ooohhh…"

This position allows the deepest penetration; because of the hard, muscle-packed butt-cheeks, most black boys' asses just take the tip of the glans. Taken from behind, a boy can look detached, like the Arab boys who sacrifice themselves for a discreet comrade in urgent need; there are even heteros who say, "I prefer to fuck her behind, so I am not obliged to make a friendly face.”

Stephen began to fuck. Now we fully shared our feelings, I understood why he needed so badly to get fucked, and he was now in a position to understand my excitement through his own. His smile and his eyes plunged into mine, he SAW me, and with a shock I got aware of my Existence. In daytime, I mostly am invisible in the crowd, an "it,” a third person, a stranger to myself. As this was his third or fourth number tonight, I had the luck to enjoy a longer lasting fuck instead of a frustrating rabbit quickie. His excitement, and the improvised cockring, however, had their effect: his strokes became harder. Finally, he bent down, my legs glided from his shoulders down to the bend of his arms and my knees were beside my ears – it ached like hell, but I was flying on clouds. He invaded my mouth with a deep kiss. And during that kiss, he poured himself into me, into my butt and into my mind.

I had many experiences in a long life. If anybody knew the number, he would despise me as dirt. I know that number, and almost all encounters were highly satisfying. But when I go through my memories, the penetration by this inspired lover was one of the most stirring because he poured his soul into mine. Sex, like disease, throws – can throw – a bridge between body and soul.

From now on, no word should be said any more, since he had misused so much the word "love" in the course of this night. Our only expression should be moans and groans of delight and lascivious lust.

We had a last quick shower, and dressed. When Stephen had put on his silver jacket, he reached into the the rear pocket of his jeans, he took the pack of Dalasis out and put them on the small writing desk.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me, very sharply, "You have talked all night through, now it's my turn. I have listened and I have understood, even quite a lot. You shut up now and try to understand your own ideas. I am a man; I am a Mandingo man. I am not a whore, I am not a shithouse. My honor is untouched and untouchable. In case of necessity, I'll do it again, for money, and not for some coins. But from now on it will be different. I cannot explain properly, but I see that quite clear. Nobody can ever buy my ass, nobody can ever buy my honor. I'll never be the slave of a white man. You are not a white man; you are my friend. If I am lucky, I'll meet other friends like you. Love? Just because of a good fuck? Ridiculous. Is that clear, man?"

There was nothing to reply. I locked up the money in the wooden case of my closet, ashamed and yet proud. In the garden, dawn was already showing up behind the hotel compound, and a lonely bird who obviously had put his alarm clock too early, sang the glory of the forthcoming day. If Diallo saw us walking out and our last kiss on the beach, beyond the beam of the campus lights, I did not see him. That morning, I missed my duties in Banjul.

On late afternoons, the tailor used to pass by the five hotels of Fajara to take measures from the guests who wanted to have robes or shirts from the batiks they had bought on the markets, or who afforded for a ridiculous amount the luxury of a hand-tailored white shirt. The tailor had always a bunch of cloth samples with him. I chose a conservative looking grey Tergal, the tailor noted his address on a piece of paper and I paid in advance, a little more than usual because the work had to be ready early the next morning.

When Stephen showed up one lateuplate that afternoon on the strand and began to taunt me, "In the near future, your skin will be darker and considerably uglier than mine,” I dressed hastily and dragged him by his shoulder to the taxi stand; I gave him the tailor's address in Bakau where he should have had his measurements taken.

On the following morning, I was still sitting at the breakfast table when Diallo, whose shift had just ended, came towards me with a large grin, unusual with the stern Fulani men. "Good mo'ning Ssa, dere be one gentleman he want talk to you." I nodded and heard behind me, "Please Ssa, Massa wait fo' you."

A self-assured, smiling young businessman sat down at my table, dressed like the gentleman from Detroit. "Don't you think I'm looking cute for a beachboy?" He seized the glass of orange juice, the best I had saved till last, and emptied it in one draught.

From now on, Stephen accompanied me every day to the National Library and Archives, to the banks, to the paramount Chief of the Mandingoes, who was a great producer of export vegetables, and to the captains of the fishing cutters. The whore's wage he had returned to his client came back more than once; the position of a local assistant could be easily justified on my final accounts because that expert who compensated his lack of technical knowledge and experience by a natural intelligence and a fast receptivity benefitted considerably to the in-depth quality of my informations and appreciations.

He directed, for example, my attention to the so-called "Gambia Tea,” a camphor-yielding Verbena, which was superb against head colds. When I wrote, some years later, a book about the 257 medicinal and aromatic plants of Gambia, almost all practical information had come from my beachboy.

His engagement was more than limited in time, but the few days had allowed him to overcome his shyness to enter ministries, foreign consulates or company head offices. It was now up to him to develop this first entry into the world of affairs.

After work, we met again on late afternoons on the beach or by night at Alligator Bar. Courting and persuasion, fake refusal and hesitating agreement, dissimulation as well as the difference of age had vanished. We used to talk about God and the world as the saying goes, but mostly about career opportunities after he obtained his GCE. When we returned to the hotel, he happened to say, simply like that: "Can we have some fun right now?" and we had sex, but now without conflicts, mute with happiness, the best type of sex: love between friends.

And again, the merciless airport shuttle was standing in the courtyard of the hotel. Diallo carried my luggage to the bus; I was the only guest to whom he granted this privilege. My silver jacket was already waiting. I dragged him behind the bus.

"Well Stephen, now we'll separate. I do not know, honestly, when I'll come back to Gambia or to Senegal. But you will be always in my presence, and I hope my presence will be with you. I have your address, here is mine in The Netherlands. What kind of letter will you write me?" He smiled understandingly. He had now an adult attitude, self-assured.

"Don't fear. I cannot imagine to act as a man's wife, sweeping his floor in daytime and serving him my body by night. Now I know who I am. I'll play love on occasion, and I will do it for good money, but now it will not injure me any more. I will not write silly kid's love letters that can be photocopied, hm… hmm… I'll write you about my successes in college, about my plans and I hope one day, inch'Allah, on the beginning of a carreer. I am not in love with you; I love you. You are my friend, and I am your friend. Take this!"

He shoved a small silver bangle over my arm and adjusted it. I never removed it from my arm from that day on. Our eyes, of both, were filled with tears. No more words.

The last image engraved in my mind before the bus turned to the road to Yundum International, was the silver jacket. Diallo was standing behind him, his arm on Stephen's shoulder.

------------------------------

Author's Note: The situation has changed in Gambia since 1978. The population has tripled, 45 % of which are under 15 years; so bisexual liberality has not at all weakened the family. The value of one US$ was then 2,20 Dalasi; today 16. According to UN Human Development Index, Gambia ranks at position 163 out of 174 countries. A pressure group of madmen try to introduce the impious Chariah courts which would end normal life. And tourism. For recent data, see CIA World Factbook on the Internet. With the sympathy of her numerous friends abroad, Gambia has a strong presence on the Internet.

(C) Author and Freya Communications Inc.