A GUY’S GUIDE TO HITTING ON A GUY

by bantuh

I thought the heterosexuals were doing a bang average hand-job at keeping sanity, until gay cats stepped on the podium. The ones I have interacted with are a video on a grainy reel, trust my guts. In my minds eye, it speaks that men are innately wired to shovel shit from a sitting position, translate, they always choose the wrong tree to hang on, straight as a ramrod or as queer as the entire alphabet, a man shooting his shot on matters of the heart is a problem wheeled by a battered donkey running on air.

I have always had cats throwing lines my way, must be something to do with the dimple, or the bowlegs, or the rugged hair stubbornly refusing to be shaven because we are all going through a phase, point is, there is always some poor sod throwing a phrase hoping I will latch on and then hopefully we can cross oceans and creeks together, a blinder really. I have never met a smooth operating cat. Smart yes, most have scimitars for minds but that is where it ends, most need poetry lessons, awareness campaigns and little bit of a lesson on how to take a rejection because come on lads, the straight ones have been taking the stick on behalf of the rest of Kenya from biblical hey days. Ideally, I take mine with an added pinch of salt, sprinkled pepper and a platter of cucumbers and onions, sliced and with lemons squeezed over them. I rework my lines and find another pretty girl to make a feeble attempt at. As a rule of thumb, I would never hit on a lesbian, I know a thing or two about lost causes and I never fancy myself as the guy to lead a revolt, revolts are for martyrs and I am far from sainthood. Hitting on a straight chap is work for a comic sitcom. He will say no, probably be spooked, maybe reviled and then he will announce it to the entire world, it is worse off if like me he can patch up a few sentences in the process.

I would bet on my whiskey flask (gin if you really want to know) that every cat has at one point stumbled upon a lad that has made moves on them. It could be on social media( a peeve with a moustache hailing from New Delhi), in a club or even in church( these ones are low key and subtle, the nice guys of the entire crew), it doesn’t matter, at some point in time, a man has ever made a move on you.

Several for me.

The first time it ever happened was in high school. It was a desk-mate, some chirpy chap that would give Zacchaeus on a sycamore tree a run for his verticals. Fair skinned, nothing fair with the looks, sharp as a whip and as gutsy as fuck. He was the kind of guy that was always having his fair share of run ins with the school, teachers, prefects, fellow lads, he made no exceptions and he never knew when to keep quiet, then also he ran errands for a a smart mouth, his. The school knew he did his patrols on both sides of the gender divide, he was an NGO in flesh and blood. They loathed and feared him for it but then in a quaint little way, chaps admired his guts because he was a bloke that was always in trouble with the school and yet stayed alive, in Maseno School, this was nothing short of a Galilean Miracle.

One evening, cat slips me a note in between a textbook. It was one of those evenings when I couldn’t stay awake, a standard norm for every evening. And from one of my revered stupors I find that the lad has written a note, an untidy scrawl professing his affections and his innate desires to erm fuck me in the music room and other places that he would comfortably share locations if I was humble enough to, ahem! Bend the knee.

Say I was not straight, like have a wild imagination about it, I wouldn’t want anyone sticking anything in me in the music room. It was a place where the government if it had an idea that the place existed would torture its dissidents from. It was a dusty cauldron on the basement of the stage in the dining hall. The thought of getting fucked in the music room riled me even more than the thought of getting rammed by a desk mate right at the point in time some lass from my village was spinning my mind in merry go round circles. It felt like a date with a nun in Sabina Joy, nothing approvable by the Vatican, right next to vaccines and family planning and then throw in a critique of ravenous pedophilic priests.

What went through my mind?

Incredulity. Perception, a silent cuss because I wasn’t this uncultured then amusement.

I looked at him in the eye, a dead stare. His face spoke what his mind was thinking, screaming. He had fucked up. I looked at him and I looked at the class lost in his own buzz and we had that silent understanding that I knew he had fucked up but I wasn’t gonna make a ruckus about it because 3G was full of halfwits and crackpots, they would maul him. I slipped him back that note and his eyes relaxed a little, his body heaved a tensed up sigh and he went back to his own chatter. He never repeated this in school first off because he was the last desk-mate I would deliberately have in my entirety then and also because he was a smart fella, he knew when not to push his luck. During the holidays, he did however make deliberate efforts to spam my Facebook inbox with his pressers which made for awkward opening days and in the end, I had to block that stubborn fuckwit. Until he grew a pair and learnt to behave.

The second chap was a fucker running a butchery in my village. I didn’t get why I would receive almost double portions of meat whenever I visited his shop and so I visited his shop because, he served double. Until he suggested that we go out for dates and chocolates and candles, in Kakamega? Bollocks, I was in high school. I simply ghosted the fucker.

I know of a mate that has a mate on his ass, not literally, okay, his tail, wait, again not literally but you get it. There is a lad hounding him that has refused to take a no for an answer and so he goes on with the tirade of a chase dogged and relentless, always hoping and waiting and taking a front seat on the sidelines. It takes a different level of Faith for such a wait and a dimwitted hope , not entirely sure that faith suffices here but throw in a Steve, chuckle.

Demarco calls me one morning telling me that he had a mate who had just who told him he wanted kumdishi haga. He seemed distraught. I know him as one of the most hedonistic bastards on these streets, he would never picture himself on the other side of the divide thanks to his masculinity. The turned tables shook this son of the soil that knows real proper how to balance girls out. If his mate thought he could score with this lad my mind is blinkered. Every man has done their fair share of chasing after a girl that would never fall for their wiles without pausing to think of finding a better place to direct their energies. Men are poor sticklers for lost causes, proper tools.

The birds on the other side of the byline are having a fancier time if my experience is anything to go by. The number of cats in Nairobi losing their ladies to other ladies is a steady grow. They tick all the buttons of mannerism and soft spots, they buy them flowers and all that plethora of flora, chocolates and generally are acting all well behaved like souls that grew up in homesteads with fences. Their language is more cultured and no one is asking to eat anyone’s ass out of the blues. None is pushy, they are buying the gifts and taking them out for fancy dates because a girl knows her soft spots and the soft spots of every other girl within a 3-mile radius range, most men barely understand themselves let alone another man. A man will understand a language that is direct, simple and straight to the point and romance and seduction are not founded on these principles. Cats will flail for longer. The tidbits that act as fodder for a conversation between men will never ply for a romantic discourse. Its hard to hit on a man while speaking to the language that he understands from a fellow man like how now? I want to wheel your life like Ole is wheeling United? You buy him flowers? Damn that’s gay. Take him out for dates, buy him chocolates, invite him for sleep overs, still gay which is the entire point but only one person treads on this road? Talk about women, well fancy this but then again, not gay enough. Tell him you want to eat his ass, its gay and its fucking spooky, man runs. Oh you sorry bastards, what did the heavens do to you?

Life is hard enough until you remember that there is a gay cat hitting on a straight one and when you think about it, there is nothing but chuckles and sighs, then a raucous laughter. We are all sadists.

Look, there is no guide here, this is all clickbait writing. If you are looking for any tips from here, then y’all fuckers are in for a month drier than a January in Marsabit. There is no guide to hitting on a guy just as there is none that works for hitting a homerun with a lass. This is where the pious brethren amidst us pray that our plans which are not within the masters will might per happenstance find themselves an answer. Save for that, everyone is all on their own, gay, straight, crooked or otherwise…

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash

You may also like

Leave a Comment

This website uses cookies to improve your experience. We'll assume you're ok with this, but you can opt-out if you wish. Accept