#1: February 3, 2017 — The Fixer

A door slams shut. Two silhouettes tethered by desire skate in darkness across a bay window backlit by a waxing moon, stripping each other of clothes as they stumble across the room. It is the foxtrot of lust. Kiss, kiss, strip-strip, kiss.

The silhouettes pause and detangle briefly — enough time to reveal that one is taller and lean. The other figure is shorter and more built.

But, as quickly as they’d come apart, the two meld and intertwine again, and resume the dance.

One of the silhouettes, the short, muscular one, is cast by me, Fitzroy, Fitz to my mates, 23, a junior copywriter and the token black at one of those ubiquitous, white-owned-and-run Cape Town ad agencies.

The other is cast by a body unlike any other I’d ever done the dirty with before — until now.

At last, I tell myself.

I’m beaming tonight because having these hands pressed against the small of my back, having these lips presently tracing the sinews in my short, thick neck, causing me to moan softly, involuntarily, is the reward for the hard work I’ve put in searching for this body.

I deserve to have it naked immediately and pressed against my own naked body, I think as I fumble with the buttons of his jeans.


Believe me, getting such a body here to my small studio in Green Point has not been easy. At least nowhere near as easy as I thought when set out on this… mission.

I searched first on the gay apps, sending one hopeful message after another to every face (and headless torso) that fit the bill. Grindr, Jack’d, Hornet, Adam4Adam, GayRomeo, BGCLive. You name it and I guarantee that I’ve tried it over the past month. All I had to show for my efforts, until tonight, were lots of empty requests to meet up and many more screenfulls of ass and cock — not all unsolicited or unreciprocated, mind you.

Once, though, I received an unsolicited image the guy who sent it swore was of the inside of his colon, leaving me puzzled as to whether there was a new, trendy colon fetish doing the rounds.

After that I tried the more sanitised, hetero-friendly app Tinder, which left me yearning for any sign of life on the other end, even a random colon shot. But nothing. The app churned out nearly a hundred matches in just over a week, none of whom replied to my messages.

Suffice it to say, Tinder, it turns out, is just another Instagram, except with the sole goal of amassing as many mutual matches, rather than likes, as you can.


A hand, his hand, sliding into the back of my boxers and deftly carving its way between my cheeks to palpate my puckered butthole jolts me back to the present. He — let’s call him Mlungisi, The Fixer — pulls his hand out of my boxers, wets his fingers in my mouth and slips them back into my boxers, then he slides his slippery index finger in circles around my hole.

This is escalating rather quickly, I think.

I give myself fully to the headiness of the moment. I relax and flex my hips ever so slightly, just enough for him to feel me pressing my hole against his finger. I let out a low, breathy gasp.

His engorged cock, now liberated after a bit of a struggle from his jeans and boxer briefs, jumps in response.

Without breaking the three contact points of True Sexual Intimacy™, the lips, the hands, and the hips, I take small steps backwards, with him shuffling along with me, until I feel the edge of the bed against the back of my knees. He keeps edging towards me, leaving me nowhere else to go except back-first onto the bed.

From my supine position in the darkness of the room I regard his body, at least only the outline the greedy moon allows me to see. There isn’t anything peculiar about it, nothing apparent to justify my excitement about having such a body, presently dressed in nothing whatsoever, standing over me.

It looks, in the dark anyway, like any one of the many other bodies I have enjoyed in this room — some two or three at a time.

#HoeIsLife, right?


I reach out and pull him to me.

He is warm to the touch and slick with a thin coating of sweat from the frantic action. With him up close, his nose mere millimetres from mine, us sharing breath, there is enough light on him for me to I once again glimpse what about his body has me so titillated. It’s his skin.

Mlungisi is black, like me. Well, not exactly like me.

His skin is a deep, dark brown, type VI on the Fitzpatrick scale, the colour of the crayon my pre-school crush Ian reserved only for drawing poop.

My skin is a medium-to-light brown, sandalwood, type IV on the Fitzpatrick scale, the type that all my life caused family members to shoo me away from outdoors activities because I’d “lose my beautiful complexion” (also known as get a tan) if I stayed out in the sun too long, the type that once, when I returned home during a varsity holiday with a tan, caused my mother to say my skin with a duskier hue made me look hungry.

I know what you are probably thinking.

How is it possible, in South Africa, for gay black boy who’s been having sex on average twice a month since he turned 19 to be having sex with another black person for the first time at the ripe old age of 23-and-a-third? And what’s up with this weird “mission” he’s set himself to only ever, in 2017, date and have sex and relationships with other black people exclusively?

I’ve heard the mean things you say about people like me, at least the one-dimentional stock character you’ve created of the black Cape Town gay who’s only into white guys. You called me a self-hating black. You said my mind is colonised. You said — and this one is my personal favourite — that I suffer from Stockholm-boogina syndrome.

I’ve heard your diagnoses. Trust, my clapback is coming.


For now, though, my smart mouth is busy taking in Mlungisi’s thick, cut, 9-inch cock as he does pushups on the bed over my face. I reach up and feel his legs from the bottom up, his thin ankles giving way to surprisingly large calves, shapely knees and tight thighs.

Daaamn, I think. He is every bit the cyclist he claimed to be on his DL Twitter profile.

That is where I eventually had to go to find another black guy online to fuck in Cape Town — to the hidden, seedy world of down-low Twitter, where nobody shows their faces, only the parts of their body they hope would get them laid discreetly, and only ever by other masculine-presenting men.

I reach up and stroke his ass. It is covered in the lightest and softest of baby hairs. Shall I compare them to perfectly spun cotton candy, the kind made by a confectioner with hands blessed by God himself? No, because that’d be some corny-ass attempt at pastiche.

Instead I grunt and cup each cheek in my hands, then coax him to fuck my throat.

He complies, tensing his glutes on each down stroke.

Then without warning my mouth is filled with a warm, salty-sweet liquid. Before I realise what’s happening more of the liquid flows into my mouth and down my throat, causing me to choke.

I push him off me and spit. I jump off the bed and flick on the lights.

“What the fuck, man?!” I say, wiping my lips in disgust. “How about a warning before you nut in my mouth?”

The light reveals that Mlungisi’s 100%-cocoa chocolate body is spread across the sheet like that of a sultan waiting for a manservant to deliver grapes to his mouth. His long, smooth, angular face is underlined by a perfect smile, a menacing grin, actually — cocky, self assured and unapologetic.

Despite or maybe because of my rage, I find myself even more turned on than before.

“Sorry,” he shrugs.

He doesn’t mean it. I can tell he doesn’t. But I don’t care one bit. I turn off the lights and rush back to him.

[#2 out on 8 March 2017]