When in Niamey

“Oui, Oui! Baise-moi! Baise-moi!”—Yes, yes, fuck me! “Comme ça! Plus profound!”—Like that. Deeper.

I lay on the plastic sheeting on the hotel room bed, my hands gripping the brass rungs of the headboard overhead, my eyes wide, focused on the suddenly cruel smile on the face of the French businessman sitting next to me on the bed. The ceiling fan in the hot Niamey hotel room was revolving lazily with a grating whoop, whoop sound. A bright-colored bird briefly alighted on the frond of a palm tree brushing against the frame of the open window across the room, peeked in, apparently wasn’t comfortable with what it saw, and then flew away. I was naked, my legs spread and bent, my feet flat on the bed, pushing my pelvis slightly up. I was panting hard, moaning low.

Go loose, relax, go loose, I kept droning in my mind.

The Frenchman had a well-greased bunched hand up my asshole to the knuckles. I was rocking my pelvis gently against his hand, trying my best to be as open as possible to him. “Oui, oui, Fist moi. Fist moi”—Yes, fist me, I repeatedly moaned, assuring him he could do as he liked. “Ce que vous voulez.” He was paying for it. Men came from Europe to Niamey expressly for this fetish. I had come to Niamey to find this—to find men who wanted to provide it and who got off as I did in matching our fetishes.

He hovered his face over mine, looking intently at my reactions.

“Prends-le. Prenez la fist”—Take it. Take the fist—he growled at me in an intense voice. He lowered his face to mine and took my lips in a kiss. When he pulled away, I gasped and groaned and arched my back. His hand had penetrated in, up to the wrist.

“Oui, oui, Fist moi!” I cried out as he opened his fingers inside me and began to move the hand, in and out, in and out, through the heavy grease.

I panted even harder, concentrating everything I could muster to adjust to the greased hand.

“Oui, oui! Baise-moi avec ta main!”—yes, fuck me with your hand!

“Prends-le. Prends-le—Take it; take it.”

He leaned his face of me again, but lower this time, taking my cock in his mouth and sucking it. After less than a minute of this, I came in a flood down his throat. He gagged a bit but took it all. His face appeared over mine again. He was still fucking me with his hand and I was moving my pelvis against it.

The expression on his face was a mix of cruelty, lust, affection, and want. He took my lips again and I opened to him. He was sharing my own cum with me in the kiss.

I groaned again, as I felt the hand pulling out of me.

“Baise-moi. Baise-moi maintenant. Prends-moi. Défonce-moi. Donne-moi ta bite!—Fuck me now; take me; drill me; give me your cock,” I pleaded. They liked it when you pleaded for the cock.

He was moving his body over me, coming down between my legs, entering me with his hard cock, penetrating me to the core.

“Oui, oui! Oh fuck oui!—Yes, yes, oh, fuck yes!”

His hands glided up my arms, the right hand, the one that had been inside me, trailing grease up my arm. He grasped my wrists. he was on his knees between my legs, his cock buried deep inside me.

I wrapped my legs around him, hooking my ankles together underneath his buttocks.

He began to pump me in long, slow slides and I raised my pelvis up again, taking him as deep as I could, and moved my hips with him, making the most of the rhythm of the fuck. I set my passage wall muscles to squeezing, rippling over, and milking the Frenchman’s throbbing cock, giving him his money’s worth. He had come from Marseilles for this. He was moaning now too.

“Vous êtes un taureau de l’élevage!”—You are a breeding bull—“Un éléphant de bull!”—a bull elephant—I cried out, not only because men liked to hear this when they were inside me, but also because he was fucking me well.

I arched my head back and murmured, “Yes, yes! oui, oui! Plus difficile!”—harder—as he dove deep and flooded me deep with his cum.

Rising from me, he looked down into my eyes, a dreamy expression on his face. He gripped my thighs, high up with both hands, moved them to my inner thighs and glided them down to my knees. I spread my legs again, not knowing what he wanted from me now, but prepared to give him anything he wanted. My cock was hardening again—for him, if that was what he wanted. He briefly toyed with my passage opening with his fingers, murmuring how open I had spread to his needs.

I whispered “Baise-moi encore”—fuck me again—knowing they were words all men wanted to hear. “Mettez-le en moi à nouveau”—put it in me again. “Fist moi encore une fois”—fist me again. But he pulled them back, patted my knees, and rose from the bed.

“Alas, I have an appointment,” he said. “But remember where we left off.”

When he returned from the shower, leaving the door open so I could watch him piss in the toilet and then shower, I watched him dress in his suit, waistcoat, and tie and all, primed to do what he came to Niger to do—if he hadn’t just done what he had come to Niger to do.

He let several banknotes flutter onto my belly and murmured. “You are very good. I am not like this in France. I don’t do this there.” Both the extra money above contract and the almost apologetic excuse came as an expression of guilt, as if he could do in Africa what he couldn’t do in France. And that, indeed, why men came here; it was why I came had originally come here from England.

And then he was gone. It would be several more moments before I could feel like I could close my legs, that my passage, trained as it was, could contract to normal.

* * * *

In 1955, Niamey, the capital of Africa’s Niger, was a sleepy little French colonial town of some 27,000 inhabitants on the banks of the Niger River. I had been brought here—and abandoned—by a French plantation owner, who had acquired me in a Paris brothel, where I was working an exchange with the London brothel I started in. I was making the best of what I had—which was a young, supple, blond body; an easy smile; and a willingness to open my legs to men and accommodate kinky sex for money that would help me get back to England.

I was sitting at an open-air café by the river and down the street from the small hotel where the French businessman was staying. We had met here after his appointment. He was paying for me for the weekend through the escort service I worked for in the Niger capital, so presumably after we had lunched he would take me up to the room and fist me again. It wasn’t the first time I had been fisted. Niger was a collection point for all sorts of kinky fetish men who operated out of the mainstream. For youth, European men went to Tangier. For more extreme fetish they came here and a few other locations in Africa and India.

I took what I had to take to continue paying for my rooms over a bakery, to put food on the table, and, I hoped, eventually to pay for a plane ticket back to London. I enjoyed some of what the men did to me to get themselves off, though, and, if I could get back to London, I’d have highly desirable skills there.

I couldn’t deny that the fisting got me off too—more the thought and emotions of it than the physical pain it caused, though.

The French businessman was a handsome man. He was in his late forties or early fifties. He was starting to go gray on his head, although, as I had found out, the curly hair on his chest and his bush were still an auburn color. He was a facetious man, impeccably dressed in tailored trousers and an open, long-sleeve white shirt here in the café—this being a weekend away from his job here, when, I was sure, he would be in a well-pressed tailored suit with a handkerchief in the pocket.

I was surprised that he’d worked on me with grease up onto his forearm, but his fetish must override his sense of cleanliness. He certainly worked with determination, a mad gleam in his eyes as he hunched over me, his hand up my ass and sliding it through the grease. He was a different man then than he was now, sitting across from me at the café table, sipping his tea, and chatting amiably with me as if I were a colleague or client rather than a prostitute he had been fist fucking earlier, a male prostitute he had had in bed, covering for half the day, a prostitute he planned to resume fist and cock fucking after he finished a pastry and a shot of cognac.

I couldn’t help noticing another patron in the café, a large-built, ebony black man, in the uniform of an army officer, his jacket bristling with medals. He sat at another one of the café tables and was watching the Frenchman and me—or rather, not that I was noticing him any more than curiosity dictated, watching mainly me. Two other soldiers stood at attention behind him at his table, as he tucked into enough food to feed a regiment, holding both knife and fork in his meaty hands, wolfing the food down, white teeth flashing, and scanning the landscape around him through blood-shot eyes.

As a waiter passed, the French businessman stopped him and asked who the black man at the table was.

“That’s General Boulama. Assane Boulama,” the waiter answered in a nervous whisper. “You’d best stay clear of him. He’s head of the secret police in Niger. Nearly runs the country now. I’ve seen that he is looking at the young man with you. You might want to finish up and leave before he takes more notice.”

Heeding the warning, the Frenchman downed his cognac and said it was time to return to the hotel room. As we were leaving, the general was calling the same waiter over to him. It was only a short walk down the street to the hotel, but I was well aware that one of the soldiers who had been standing behind the general’s chair followed us at a distance.

In the room, the Frenchman pulled me gently to him and we kissed as he unbuttoned my shirt and then unbuttoned my shorts, and pulled my clothes off my body. He went down on his knees in front of me and took my cock in his mouth. One of his hands went behind me and slid into my crack, rubbing across my hole. Sighing, I opened my stance. The can of grease was on the foot of the bed, and he reached over, not losing the hold of my cock in his mouth, scooped up a handful of grease and returned his fingers to my hole.

I had my fingers dug into the wavy gray hair of his head, pulling at it, moaning deeply, my legs rubbery and held up only by his embrace around my legs with one arm, as he worked his fist into my ass with his other greased hand, when I exploded in an ejaculation.

He continued, however, breaching my sphincter with his wrist, and fist fucking me as I writhed in his grip, pulled at his hair, and gasped and moaned. I groaned as he pulled his hand out and pushed me down on the foot of the bed, on top of the plastic sheet that was still there from the earlier fuck.

I lay there, my back on the bed, my hand fisting and stroking my cock, as he stood over me and slowly undressed. He had a good, trim body. His cock was in erection. He leaned down, grabbed both of my ankles, and wishboned my legs. I moved my hands under me to my buttocks and used them to raise and roll my hips up to take the long slide of him inside me and focused my eyes on the slow-turning ceiling fan above my head that did little more than move the warm air around. I gave a little jerk and arched my back when he penetrated me with his shaft, but I settled right down as he grasped my hips in his hand and began to pump me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” “Vous êtes un taureau de l’élevage!”—You are a breeding bull—“Un éléphant de bull!”—a bull elephant!

All thoughts of anything else happening in the sleepy town or of the gross, intimidating General Assane Boulama floated out of my brain as the trim Frenchmen fucked me expertly and I gave him his money’s worth in vocal response and the countermovement of my pelvis.

* * * *

Wanting to be alone for a bit, I had left the French businessman in his hotel room that Sunday morning, saying I wanted to attend church. He wasn’t interested in doing so. He lay there on the bed on his back, smoking a cigarette and, his legs spread and bent, playing with his cock as he watched me dress. Our morning had started with me riding his cock as he lay on his back on the bed and rubbed his thumbs on my nipples.

I didn’t really want to go to a church. I only wanted a bit of time alone. My buttocks—my passage—was sore from his fist. He didn’t seem to have gotten enough of being inside me that way. He said it wasn’t something he normally could do with a young man when he was in France.

“There is something about central Africa,” he’d said. “Something primitive and permissive here.”

“When in Niamey,” I had muttered.

When he’d asked for an explanation, I had said, “It was something that the man—the French plantation owner—said to me before he brought me here. In France he fucked me, but he didn’t mistreat me. He hinted at ‘when we were in Niger, in Niamey,’ we could be freer with sex. This was where European men came to indulge their extreme fetishes, he revealed. I didn’t know that, by freer with sex, he meant he could beat and whip me. When he did that here and I let him know I didn’t want it, he threw me out.”

“So, the men you go with here don’t beat and whip you?” the Frenchman asked.

“They do sometimes,” I answered. “Especially European men visiting down here precisely for the privilege of doing that here and it being tolerated by the authorities as long as they came with money. I work for an escort service here that serves such men.” I hardly had to tell him this, as if he didn’t understand it. He was a European man, visiting here on business, but also to indulge his fetish. He had been led to me by the escort service.

“But—”

“I was here, alone, without funds,” I answered. “It became a matter of ‘when in Niamey.’”

“Interesting,” he had said. “Freer here with sex,” he said. And then he laid me out on the bed and fisted and fucked me again, not seemingly having any notion that this was in the category of beating and whipping and he himself said he would not subject a prostitute to in France.

“When in Niamey,” he murmured.

Then, using my belt he tied my wrists behind my back and bent me over the bed and, with his belt, he strapped me on the thighs, buttocks, and back. In short order he splashed his cum on my back. It obviously was the first time he’d done this with a young man, and he found it arousing.

“I see,” he said as he left me and went to take a shower. “Only in Niamey. Freer with sex. Very invigorating.” He went to his wallet and once more dropped banknotes that went beyond the contract on my reddened buttocks in acknowledgement that the kinkier sex went beyond the norm. Any guilt assuaged by extra banknotes, I supposed.

When I left him, telling him I wanted to attend a church service, I was walking on the street, deserted on a Sunday morning, toward the river, when a black van pulled up beside me and three black men in army uniforms jumped out, grabbed me, and pulled me in the van. They pulled a burlap sack over my head, bound my hands, pulled my trousers and briefs off my legs, and as the van drove around the city, the three black men fucked me in succession on the floor of the van. Rough hands grabbed my hips and three cocks of varying thickness and lengths thrust up into my ass. Three cocks exploded inside me. Three flows of come were deposited in my ass.

During the whole time, not a word was spoken. Those at the escort agency had told me that this happened occasionally in Niamey. They used the phrase “When in Niamey.” Central Africa wasn’t like the rest of the world, they said. There were men in power here who lived only by their own rules. They said it was just the army taking its cut of the street activity and that I should just endure it if it happened to me—that the thugs would return me to the street after they had taken what they wanted from me.

“Even if they take your life, it isn’t any more than another man contracting you through our agency would take from you, if you are unlucky. They just won’t be paying for it.”

They didn’t return me to the street after they were done with me, though.

I was exhausted and cowed when I was dragged from the van into a building and dropped into a chair under yet another lazily whoop, whoop, whooping ceiling fan. The bag was pulled off my head and I was sitting on the other side of a big wooden desk from General Assane Boulama.

“It has come to my attention that you are practicing prostitution in Niamey without paying the entertainment tax,” he said, looking at me sternly. He was a massive man. The desk was a large one, but he made it look small as he leaned on his elbows, made small gestures with his massive hands, and gave me a half smile. He had taken his beribboned jacket off, which was hanging nearby on a clothes tree. His chest muscles bulged, straining the material of his white shirt, which was open down three buttons. His chest was tattooed in some sort of blue tribal design.

“I wasn’t aware that there was an entertainment tax pay,” I answered. “I am represented by a lawyer, who perhaps you should contact. He pays all of my fees.” That’s what the escort service had told me to answer in relationship to their role with me—they were my lawyer. I didn’t mention how I’d been manhandled on the way here. I instinctively knew that the general wouldn’t care—or, if he did, it would be to consider the prurient details. I knew even then that, if he wanted to, he would fuck me too.

“You are responsible for your own fees,” He said. “I claim the right to take the fee from you myself.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” I said, standing up from the chair. I was trembling all over, scared. The man was overwhelming. But I had to get out of there somehow. The only thing I could think of was a bluff—to move and to keep moving and to hope he was too slow to react before I was out on the street and running.

He wasn’t too slow.

“I will tax you now,” he said, standing and motioning to the men I hadn’t realized were still behind me. They grabbed me and dragged me from the room.

* * * *

I was bound to some sort of platform in a windowless, concrete walled, ceilinged, and floored chamber. The most intimidating aspect of the chamber was that the floor sloped to a drain in the center and there were rusty marks in narrow streams running from the edges of the room to the drain. The obligatory ceiling fan was slowly whoop, whoop, whooping overhead. I was lying on a wooden board and my arms were raised above my head and bent back and tied off at the wrists on the top edge of the board. My pelvis was elevated on a wooden block. My legs were raised and spread, manacled at the ankles and pulled up by chains hanging from the ceiling. My butt was suspended over the bottom edge of the board. I was uncomfortable, but I wasn’t in the worst situation of some of the others around me.

Sweating; naked, except for loin cloths; ebony bodies were moving about in the chamber. Other ebony bodies were tied to other pieces of restraint equipment in the room. I was the only European here. The other trussed up bodies were naked, as I was. Most of them were writhing on whatever equipment they were tied to, crying out at the crack of whips or the prodding of clubs. One or two of the bodies were silent, just hanging on the boards they were tied to. The sounds of screams, moans, and groans permeated the room.

I found I was moaning and groaning too. General Assane Boulama was crouched over me, staring down into my face with a cruel smile on his lips. He was naked, massive, save for a loincloth. He had a paunch but he otherwise was muscular and glistening with sweat. The sheer definition of evil power.

I was moaning because he was stroking my cock with one beefy hand. He lifted the other hand so that I could see it, the fingers bunched up, the hand and forearm slathered with grease.

“Please, please. Mercy,” I whimpered. “Ayez pitié!”—have mercy! Then the hand disappeared, dipping down between my legs, and I was nearly lifted off the table to the extent my bindings would permit, my howls floating across the other sounds in the room. His hand was bigger than the French businessman’s had been, bigger than any hand that had been inside me before. He took his time working it into me up to the wrist, only laughing at my pleas for mercy. His other hand continued beating my cock off.

I shot my load toward the slowly revolving fan overhead and blacked out.

When I came to, he was below me, between my thighs, his hands gripping my knees, rocking back and forth against my buttocks, fucking me with his cock. His cock, like his hand had been, was the biggest one I’d ever had inside me, stretching me to the limit. At that moment I was grateful that his fist had led the way.

“Vous êtes trop gros! Ayez pitié!”—You are too big! Have mercy!

He laughed, taking it as a compliment.

Needless to say, he showed me no mercy and that was the last time he was too big. He took me frequently after that and reamed me to his needs. By the end of his third fuck I fit him like a glove. I wasn’t closing back up as I had always done before.

He came inside me in a gush and then held there, cooing at me and running his hands over my body. It wasn’t long before I felt him hardening inside me again and he resumed pumping me, deep and thick.

* * * *

I was taken from what General Boulama said was the “examination chamber” up two flights, to a bedroom, with a lock on the door and bars on the window. This apparently was where General Boulama lived as well as worked.

I looked all around the room for a means of escape, but found none. I must have been panicked and in shock even to think of escaping. Where in Niamey . . . where in all of Niger could I, a young, blond Englishman, escape from the secret police?

I was naked anyway. I couldn’t exactly run out into the street. If I did, I thought, the secret police would grab me. I realized that I was being hysterical. The secret police already had me. I did find that there was a bathroom, with a shower, off the bedroom. I took a long shower, dried myself off—there was a stack of clean towels on a table in the bathroom—went back into the bedroom, and laid down on the bed. There, in front of me, beyond the foot of the bed, I saw the hook in the ceiling and the chains hanging from it with wrist restraints at the end. I shuddered, shut my eyes, and soon was asleep.

Boulama woke me, coming in noisily, glowering at me, shutting the door and locking it, and disrobing.

“Temps d’impôts”—Tax time, he said, with a grin on his face.

It was the first time I had seen him completely naked. He’d been inside me in the “examination chamber,” but I had not actually seen his cock. I almost swooned now that I could see what he’d already had inside me. He was both horrifying and magnificent at the same time. He was more than six and half feet tall and heavy. Most of the heaviness was muscle, but he had a beer belly on him too. What arrested the attention, though, was that he was hung like a bull, with a drooping ball sac—the sac of a fertile bull as well. He was ebony black, and glistening with a film of sweat. He also was covered in blue tribal tattooing.

He was all business, grabbing me, getting my wrists in the restraints of the hanging chains without a bit of trouble, as he was overwhelmingly powerful, and had authority on his side. I was putty in his hands, my mutterings of objections returned only by low grunts. My feet barely touched the floor even when I was standing on my toes.

And my feet didn’t spend much time on the floor as I was swinging back and forth either under the strength of the lash of the whip or in trying to avoid it. He whipped me for an eternity, not putting the full strength of his arm into it, though. He more teased me with the whip than cut me. He raised welts but they didn’t cut into the skin. What was most important was that it gave him a massive erection. I’m ashamed to say that he gave me an erection too. The planter who had brought me here whipped me. Other men had flogged or caned me. I had never asked for it, but it had always made me hard and given me massive orgasms.

The whipping by Boulama did no less. When we were both hard, he dropped the whip, grabbed my thighs, wishboned my legs straight out to each side, set my hole on his cockhead, and pulled me down on him. Letting go of one of my legs he reached around me and stroked my cock to the rhythm of stroking inside me.

He was good, very good, both at fucking me and masturbating me, and when he put his cheek next to mine, I turned my face to him and let him take possession of my mouth.

“Avez-vous aimé qui?”—Did you enjoy that?—he asked after releasing the kiss.

“Baise-moi encore. Fist moi encore”—Fuck me again; fist me again, I whispered, not only for bravado. He was driving me wild sexually.

He did fuck me again then—on the bed—and he fisted me on the bed and then he fucked me again. I reasoned that this was his bedroom, because he stayed with me through the night, lying on top of me between my spread legs, possessing me with his massive cock. I’m embarrassed to admit that I totally gave myself to him in the fuck, going with him, taking him deep and riding the cock like I couldn’t get enough of it. And once he was inside me and fucking me in a conventional position, I indeed couldn’t get enough of his cock. We writhed against each other, going with each other in a coordinated rhythm of the deep, total fuck.

The next morning when I woke, he was gone. The bars were still on the window and the door was still locked. And the chains with the restraints at the end were still dangling down between the foot of the bed and the locked door.

Not long after I woke up, the door opened and my breakfast was delivered by a hunky black bull young soldier, his chest bare, in camouflage pants and combat boots. He gave me a “don’t even try bolting for the door” look, closed and locked the door behind him, put the breakfast tray down on a table by the door, and came over to the bed. He grabbed my ankles and pulled me to the end of the bed. He didn’t crouch down or anything. He put me on my shoulder blades, my torso streaming up to him, my knees at first hooked on his hips, but later my ankles on his shoulders; he unbuttoned himself and took out a big, hard cock. He thrust it inside me, squeezed my buttocks in his hands, and he fucked me hard and furiously to a mutual ejaculation.

I writhed under him, glad to take a cocking from a young black bull any day of the week. I wondered if he was one of the three soldiers who had fucked me in the van before delivering me to Boulama. He left without a word when he was finished, leaving me lying there, panting and luxuriating in the fuck. My breakfast was cold, but I supposed it had been cold before he brought it.

At lunch it was yet a different black soldier hunk, bending me over the mattress, getting up on the bed on his knees, with me trapped between them, and having plenty of leverage behind his backswing as he fucked me in a power doggie position. He had grabbed my wrists and held my arms out in front of me while, covering me close, he fucked me hard. He put his mouth to my ear and gave me the explanation for all of this that I had anticipated. “Considérer la pute”—Take it, whore, he muttered. “Give it to the foreign visitors, yes, but give the Nigers our cut.”

So, I was just a whore paying my entertainment tax. When in Niamey . . .

Dinner brought the third young black bull hunk, convincing me that these were the same soldiers from the van and that this was how Boulama got them to do his bidding—by giving them privileges. He fucked me in a side split, standing on the floor at the foot of the bed, with my weight on my right hip and my right leg rising up his muscular torso, my ankle hooked on the back of his neck, me turned to him, my right arm extended to his muscular chest, palming one of his nipples, my tongue hanging out, my eyes giving him a “Baise-moi” look, and him pistoning my hole.

I startled them by crying out, “Oui, me faire dur!”—Yes, do me hard, to assure them I was the whore they accused me of being.

Later in the evening, Boulama himself reappeared to hang me from the chains and whip me and then take me to bed and fuck me, then fist me, then fuck me again. We showered together and he took me back to the bed and fucked me through half the night.

I was reamed to his requirements now. I enjoyed the fucking now.

I slept the sleep of the dead, to be awakened for the delivery of my lunch and a missionary fuck from young black bull soldier number one. I didn’t really mind any of this. I even got used to the whipping, because he didn’t lay his arm into it and it got me off. I’d taken four men in a day before, but they hadn’t all been hard-bodied, big-cocked black-bull soldiers.

The pattern continued to the third day. At noon that day, though, after solider number two delivered my lunch and doggie fucked me and left, I’d eventually realized that he left the door open—not just unlocked, wide open. And, on the table by the door, instead of a lunch tray, he’d left a pile of the clothes I’d been wearing when I was snatched off the street. They were clean and neatly folded.

If this wasn’t a sign I was free to go, I didn’t know what would be such a sign. I hurriedly dressed—it had taken me several minutes of recovering from the glorious fuck to realize the door was open—and slithered out into the hallway. I cautiously went down the stairs, thinking that I’d be grabbed at any minute and that this was all a mistaken understanding on my part.

I heard someone in the hall below and I retreated back up the stairs and down the hall, pulling myself into a deep doorway niche. I peeked around the corner and saw two of my soldiers—I had come to think of them as “my” soldiers—dragging a young, naked European man between them. He was collapsed, probably unconscious, his head hanging over, his arms draped around the soldiers’ shoulders, and his feet dragging along the floor as they carried him. They dragged him into “my” room. I didn’t stay around to see any more. I scooted past that door and down the stairs and out into the street.

I first went to the French businessman’s hotel to tell him why I hadn’t come back to him on Sunday. But he had checked out. I then went to my own rooms above the bakery. I was surprised that no one had been there before me. What money I had was still there, where I put it. I hastily packed and went directly to the airport. I didn’t have enough money to get me to Europe, but I did have enough to get me to Tangier, Morocco, on a flight leaving within the hour.

I found that “when in Tangier” was much more welcoming and accommodating to men who serviced men. I never went back to Niamey and its privileged few ways, but I never went back to London either. Tangier suited me and my lifestyle just fine. There even were some rich black bulls living there. I had been royally worked over by General Assane Boulama and his soldiers, but, in the process, I had become addicted to big black cock. And, after General Assane Boulama, there never again was a cock that was “trop”—too big, for me. So, I guess he did me a professional favor.

I found too that there were men in Tangier who had fists and liked to grease them up and use them.