The problem with online hookups is that you never really know what you are going to get. I mean, sure, everyone puts up nice pictures and spectacular profiles, but really, it’s almost always a lie.
- Hung top, 30. Seeking hot sex now. Fellow tops keep off, serious guys only. –
That turned out to be a scrawny fellow with bad teeth and a tiny prick, miles away from the muscled stud that graced his profile.
There are, sadly, many more blanks and misses than actual hits on target.
And yet, here I was, waiting for someone I met online. Again. I mean . . . what’s a guy to do?
- I’m standing at the junction, wearing a red t-shirt. –
The reply was almost instantaneous: eager fellow.
- Am on my way, give me a few minutes. –
I made a deliberate effort to ignore the grammatical error in the text and crossed over to the shaded area on the other side of the road, away from the large cross in front of the church that sprawled over one side of the road. One can never be too careful, right?
This had been one of those nearly empty profiles, with just a few words to describe the basics: role, age, “seeking for”. No picture. But he’d seemed reasonable enough while we were chatting, so in all it would probably not be any worse than most of my previous experiences.
Although, or perhaps because, it was a few minutes past noon, the streets were quite empty. Aside from a hawker idling listlessly further down the road and the occasional car or motorbike that zoomed past me, I hadn’t seen any one since I alighted. The hot afternoon sun had baked the earth on either side of the road into a pale almost odourless hardpan, riven and marked by the tracks of tyres and the occasional print that had been laid down in wetter times. Behind the row of trees that provided scant shade on this side of the road, the land dipped into a gully, the sides of which were lined with rubbish; a haphazard mosaic of colour and smells that led down to a sickly looking stream whose brownish waters wound between several boulders and heaps of trash which lay scattered along the valley floor.
The church took up most of the other side of the road. It served as a landmark in this area, a huge building spread out over suitably sprawling grounds, complete with the large cross that had caused me some discomfort earlier and an even larger signpost proclaiming the church’s activities and schedule. Not really my kind of thing.
I took my phone out of my pocket and hurriedly scrolled through my inbox: no message. I resisted the urge to open the app one more time and returned the device to my pocket. The hawker was gone. I was alone for as far as I could see.
Almost ten minutes later, I saw him standing in roughly the same spot I had evacuated in front of the signpost.
He stood there for a few seconds, looking everywhere except where I was standing directly across from him. I waited for him to pull out his phone and start dialling before I crossed over. Now I was sure he was here alone.
“Hi, Jimmy, right?”
He jerked backwards and almost dropped the phone as he turned to look at me.
“Umm, yeah. Hi. You’re Phillip?”
His palm was moist when I shook it, and he was trembling. First timer?
“Yes I am. So, do we go down to your place?”
His only reply was to turn and start walking down the narrow street that stretched along one side of the church compound. Apparently, he wasn’t very talkative. I followed him, taking care to avoid the cross in front of the church once again, but even then, for the faintest of seconds I could feel my skin prickle. It was no small relief when we left the church compound behind to walk amongst houses; some behind fences, others opening directly onto the street we walked on.
My attempts at conversation yielded only terse, one-word replies. It was clear that he was uneasy, and I was really beginning to believe that he had never done this before. Even better. But he was so . . . bold . . . online. I shrugged off the thought and continued after him, skirting past the rubbish that littered the narrow street and jumping over puddles of scummy, brackish water. We walked past the broken-down hulk of a car suspended on concrete blocks with its tyres missing. A few chickens fled before us, and a goat, totally unconcerned, loitered on the veranda of one of the houses we passed, chewing its cud. The oppressive heat of the day seemed to have driven most people indoors, and save for some children playing in the street and one withered looking crone that he exchanged pleasantries with, we saw no one. Despite this, I was careful to maintain some distance between us; to any casual observer, we would be two people using the street at the same time, not two people walking together to a common destination.
His room was one of many in a tiny compound some distance away from the junction. True to his word, the compound was quiet – empty. The room itself was quite austere, echoing the plainness of its exterior, just a mattress on the floor with a table and chair pushed against one wall. Two doors – both ajar – in the opposite wall revealed a bathroom and kitchen. In a corner, one of those cloth-and-iron frame cupboards leaned dangerously, stuffed full of clothes with a few pairs of shoes underneath. The walls were plain and unadorned, painted a washed-out shade of blue.
All in all, better than most. I had seen worse; much worse.
I stepped into the room and he reached behind me to lock the door. I was just turning to ask another question, when he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me.
Like I said: bold.
He smelt nice, the thoroughly artificial scent of deodorant and soap. I hadn’t noticed this earlier. The kiss was pleasant, just enough of all the right things, and none of the unpleasant ones – like too much saliva. As my hands came up to remove his shirt, grazing the erection that was already tenting his pants, my heart started racing in my chest, echoing the pleasant stirrings I felt down below. This was going to be good.
It was starting to seem like we were going to kiss forever when I took the initiative and pushed him onto the mattress, taking a few minutes to remove my clothes, before kneeling to join him and take off his clothes in a frenzied rush of flailing limbs and snagged buttons.
I felt a pang of guilt when he was fully undressed, I mean, he was impressive – in more ways than one. But even as I allowed the thought, a red haze coloured my vision and my heart sped up in lust and hunger, I really couldn’t wait.
While he clumsily pushed his penis into me, my teeth were pushing out from my gums, getting longer.
It had been too long.
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down to his chest, thrusting awkwardly. I nibbled on his lower lip as he closed his eyes and moaned, beginning to gyrate his lower body in that all too familiar lovers’ dance.
That was when I bit him. On the neck.
My canines tore through his skin, finding his pulsing jugular with the ease of years of practice, and as he opened his mouth to scream, my fingers pushed their way into his mouth, ripping out his tongue with fingernails that were suddenly too long, too sharp. Warm blood sprayed in a red mist as I flung his tongue aside and moved my lips to lock with his, sucking down the saliva tainted blood that gushed forth.
He was trashing beneath me now, struggling to get away, but I was strong, and the blood made me even stronger. For a few moments I was lost in the red tinted euphoria of a new feed. I wrapped my arms around him and continued to ride, even as he was seized with his death throes. This was where it got tricky, keeping them aroused, even as the life’s blood gushed from their veins, rich with endorphins and hormones, tainted with lust and fear.
He came a few seconds later, his orgasm pushing forth a last gush of warm blood as his heart failed and a sticky wetness blossomed between my legs. I held on to him as his dick wilted and made sure he was completely dry before I stood up, pausing for a moment to enjoy the slight ache and the feeling of emptiness that accompanied the removal of his penis.
It took me a few minutes to come down from my own high, and I was amused to discover that I had come some time before him: a pearly white slickness was smeared on both our stomachs, caught in the wiry spread of hair that carpeted his lower abdomen and led down towards his pubes.
The room was quite messy, blood from his neck had stained the sheets, and tiny drops of blood covered the wall in a fine spray. The air was already heavy with the harsh metallic scent of fresh blood. Luckily, he hadn’t soiled himself as he died; some of them did that, thoroughly ruining what came after.
I spared a few minutes to look down at what remained of Jimmy – if that was even his real name.
Even in death, he was handsome enough, although his mouth was gaping open in that unvoiced scream; features twisted in fear and panic, with his limbs splayed awkwardly and his hands clutching at the bed clothes – signs of his final struggle. That wouldn’t do.
I could feel his blood slushing about in my stomach, yet I was still hungry, and I really needed to get this over with before he got too cold. I knelt again and bent to take a bite – from his thigh – teeth slicing through the firm flesh with all the ease of a butcher’s knife.
As always, I left the head for last, all those bones made consuming it a chore. But in under an hour, all that was left of Jimmy where blood stains.
I hurriedly put on my clothing – the red T-shirt hid any careless stains quite well.
The sun was still bright outside, so I reached into his cupboard and took out a jacket and some shades; dealing with the sun always got harder after feeding. There was no way I could walk past the church now; I would just have to find another route.
I broke off the door handle as I left. By the time his neighbours figured out that something was wrong, I would have been long gone. I took his phone for good measure.
I was barely a couple of steps away from his door when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
- Top, 24 seeks btm urgently. –
Anybody who saw my smile then would have been shocked by my teeth that were abnormally long and too . . . white.
Somtochukwu Okoroafor works in a bank by day and is and aspiring writer by night. His work has appeared in two editions of the Uites Write October Stories anthology, on the WTA website and in the Premium Times newspaper. When he isn’t lamenting about the many woes of adulthood, he likes to read, argue and listen to classical music.
He currently lives in Lagos.
Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels