Chapter Three

The room looked comfortable enough, with a large bed, two chairs and one mahogany table on which reposed back copies of the raunchy sex magazine Rebecca. The carpet was worn, though it still looked presentable, and the huge pictures of naked models on the walls were rendered somewhat ethereal by the red lights that shone from the ceiling.

The beautiful dancer was seated on one of the chairs, sipping milk from a plastic cup. He was now wearing a tight-fitting tank top, and he’d divested himself of the long dark wig he’d been wearing earlier, and Henry thought to himself that the guy looked so incredibly beautiful. That kind of beauty had always disturbed him deeply, and even when the dancer waved him into a chair, he was so aware of the guy’s beauty that he looked down so as to avoid looking into his face.

‘So you came here,’ the dancer said. His voice was pitched low, a decidedly feminine voice. ‘You were looking at me as though you were ready to devour me, so I had to get the message across to you for you to come and see me here in this room.’

‘Was my attraction to you that obvious?’ Henry asked uncomfortably, shifting in his chair, his eyes looking everywhere but at the guy. He was not a naturally shy person, but he found out now that he was at a loss for words.

‘Oh, but it was,’ the dancer said, emitting a low laugh of private amusement. ‘There was a way you looked at me. Many men－ young and old, rich and poor－ have looked at me in that way. I know I’m beautiful, I know what power my beauty has over many men and women, and I know when someone is itching to lay his hands on me. And my name’s Phoenix. What’s yours?’

Henry looked up at the guy and saw the red light shinning down on his skin, cloaking his light brown skin color. He felt an urge to touch the guy seated before him, to feel the brush of his lips, to touch his skin. However, in the back of his mind, he was horrified by his reaction, shocked that he could dare to sit down here and be ready to have sex with a prostitute and a male one at that too! But instead he replied, ‘My name is Henry. What’s your price?’

At last, they were getting down to business. It had all boiled down to this very moment: Phoenix and his entrancing sexual dance; his note, their final meeting in this room.

‘Basically, I do not collect money,’ Phoenix said, running long slender fingers through his jet-black hair and flashing a smile at Henry. ‘Let us face it, Henry. What you’re asking of me is totally frowned at in this country and we could be mauled if we’re caught at it. I have to make the benefits worth the risk, so I think I’ll collect that ring.’ He pointed at the ring on Henry’s third finger.

Henry looked down at his hand, thoroughly horrified that the guy would want to collect the ring that was the most prized possession he had on his body at that moment. It was a ten-carat diamond ring that was in an amethyst setting, a birthday gift from his aunt when he’d turned twenty. The ring was nothing to him in terms of money because of the fact that he had access to the expensive jewelry of his parents, but he didn’t want to give it to some low-life male whore simply because of the fact that the guy was a beauty to behold.

But what about what he was about to experience? That was the thought that hovered at the edges of his consciousness. This was perhaps a lifetime opportunity for him to really be his true self, to hold another guy in that way, to really feel the forbidden sensation of making love to another man. There was always a battery of young women that flocked to him; his parents’ wealth made him every woman’s wet dream come true. But there’d never been any single guy to indicate any modicum of sexual interest in him nor had he ever summoned the courage to do the same to another guy because he feared for his life. Now, here was this very stunning young fellow who was offering to him what he’d always wanted in his entire life, and all for what?

He made up his mind immediately. He slid the ring off of his finger and placed it on the table, and then he stood up. There was absolutely no need for words between them because they knew what they were going to do then. As Phoenix rose up, he drew the slim guy to him, inhaling the perfume of him, and then he claimed the lips of the guy in a kiss. At first, it was a mere tentative brush of his lips against the other’s, and he savored the taste of it greatly, fulfillment rippling through him, and then he was swamped by desire and he became more demanding. His tongue plunged into Phoenix’s mouth and he let his fingers trail down the smooth chest of the dancer to rest on his crotch, making Phoenix to relax and rub against him like a cat being thoroughly pampered.

‘I have never done this before,’ he whispered into Phoenix’s fragrant hair.

‘Oh, don’t worry about it; you’ll know exactly what to do,’ Phoenix replied, smiling at him.

They undressed slowly, their eyes fixed on each other’s face, and Henry could feel the bang of pure desire beating at him with the force of a sledgehammer. He drew Phoenix into the bed and began to kiss him again; he kissed his neck; he kissed the guy’s breasts and nibbled at the pointed nipples; he licked at Phoenix’s belly button and his flat stomach, holding down Phoenix’s hips firmly to the bed as his kisses went farther down. Then he drew away from the guy, and it was a silent command for the guy to worship him. He sighed with pleasure and closed his eyes as Phoenix kissed his lips first, and then his nipples, and when Phoenix wrapped his tongue around the shaft of his erect phallus, he gasped in shock and gripped Phoenix’s shoulders.

An involuntary cry escaped from him as the tongue over the length of his maleness, and he felt so shocked at the act, so heady with pleasure, that his load came pouring right into the mouth of the dancer. Then he collapsed on the bed.

‘Oh dear . . .’ he murmured, at a loss for words, and almost embarrassed at his inability to hold his load. But the young dancer was smiling at him with the sweetness of warm candy, the smile conveying to him that it did not matter at all; that he had no control over the workings of his body. And instantly, he began to feel his deflated thing rise up once again, swelling with blood, and he pulled Phoenix down, turned him over so that the dancer was now on all fours, and he lubricated the entrance to his zone with the lubricant that was at hand, slipped a condom on, and then he slipped into him. The pleasure that swept over him was the purest sensation he’d ever felt. It was like having the taste of heaven right there on his tongue, and he could swear that there was nothing like it he had ever had, or maybe would ever have.

He couldn’t get enough of the guy. He kissed Phoenix as they moved in their sexual dance, and his fingers caressed the body that was yielding and pliant under him. He moved his hips like he had never moved it before; he moaned like he had never done before, and it was all new to him, something to be savored at all costs. He had to turn the guy over so that he could look into his exquisitely sculpted face, kiss his lips, and with their eyes locked together, he came finally, stars exploding in his vision.

‘That was great,’ he said afterwards, after they’d cleaned up and were now reclining opposite each other. ‘I’d like to see you again.’

Phoenix agreed, as Henry was sure he would, after all, the guy had no choice really other than to say yes. Henry was a little unhappy to leave that room with that stunning fellow reclining on the bed like some seductive model on the Vogue covers, but he had to console himself that there would be more nights like this, nights which were filled with passion and blissful pleasure and heady sensations and no talking about wealth, family problems. He would steadfastly explore this avenue that had opened up to him, and he was buoyant, filled with happiness and joy, his mind floating weightlessly in the clouds.

However, his feelings of euphoria did not last. When he drove back to the family’s luxurious mansion at VI, he saw his mother’s Mercedes parked beside the main entrance doors up from the long driveway and frowned. Cutting the car engine, he stepped out of the car and let himself into the now-darkened mansion with his own key and walked past the elegantly-appointed foyer into the massive living room which was a museum showpiece of surpassingly beautiful furniture, expensive oil paintings by famed international contemporaries; two exquisite carved bronze works of semi-nude women with bowls balanced on their heads which had been hailed by the Daily Trust as one of the very best works of the century, an outrageously thick blue rug that was a perfect match with the ceiling-to-floor curtains; a well-stocked bar which had a vintage collection of the best wines money could buy.

Customarily, at this unholy hour of the night, the room was supposed to be engorged in penetrating darkness, but the lights were on, and Rosalie Johnson was seated on a sofa, staring listlessly into space. Henry frowned at her countenance, his heart wrenching with unhappiness: what was wrong with her?

As he stared at her, he had to admit to himself that his mother was a ravishing beauty. Even at the age of forty-three, she still retained her slim figure, her fair-complexioned face still had the healthy glow and beauty of an adolescent’s, and her stunningly beautiful face which had won her seven beauty pageants and six positions as first runner-up from 1974 to 1986 was still painstakingly maintained with beauty treatments and diets. But as she sat there, staring straight ahead, there was an unbearable blankness in her face that twisted Henry’s heart with pain for her.

‘Mother . . .’ He rushed forward and dropped to his knees before her, his fingers reaching for hers and clutching them. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. Did something happen?’

As if recovering from a deep trance she had been steeped in, Rosalie turned her wide-set kohl-darkened eyes to her son, her dark, shoulder-length hair tumbling into her face; she was a woman who abhorred artificial weaves and braids.

‘Your father is at it again,’ she said. Her voice was pitched low, like a bewitching musical instrument. ‘He is trying to destroy me and you too. He’s trying to re-write his will.’

Henry squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a sigh of frustration that was intermingled with pure grief. He grieved that his mother was terribly lonely, that her marriage to the acclaimed business tycoon was a dismal failure. In spite of her stunning beauty, in spite of the staggering national popularity she had received because of her beauty contests’ winnings for twelve years and still received because of her numerous charitable efforts, and in spite of the fact that she was the envy of her friends, she was totally miserable in her marital life. And it was her misery, the dark shadows which hung over her, that had drawn him perceptibly closer to her from his childhood. Their relationship was more of that of very close friends than family. They were bound to each other by bonds that seemed to transcend the bond between a mother and her son.

‘How did you know he was trying to re-write his will?’ he asked slowly, his eyes searching her face for any signs of shiftiness.

‘Yesterday, I received a call in my hotel room from a lawyer who’s a close friend of your father and a very dear friend of mine, though your father does not know it. Your father intends to write us out of his will. Do you know that your father never took me to the Marriage Registry for a proper marriage under the Act? He only had a customary marriage with me so he’d be free to do what he wants with his life, including the right to marry other wives and disburse his wealth the way he wants to. Now, the news is on the grapevine is that he’s gotten a girl pregnant, and he’ll be making the requisite provisions for them in his will.’

Henry felt a sickening feeling of disgust well up within him, coupled with fear. He knew how hard his father was, how unbearably cruel and manipulative the man could be and really was, and how the great Chinua Johnson held a grudge against Rosalie and despised his only child. He said, ‘But that’s really not possible, is it?’

Rosalie laughed, but the hollow sound was a mere echo of the sweet trill she usually emitted. ‘Everything is really possible, my dear child. For years, your father has been looking for a way to get rid of me because of the fact that it was my pregnancy, coupled with the strong muscles of my father, which had compelled him to marry me. He’s made it perfectly clear to me that he does not love me, has never loved me; though he admits he has grudging respect for me because of the fact that I usually bring in business for the company. My father died three years ago, and the implication of that fact is that he cannot protect me anymore. Chinua can do anything he really wants to do, and I am powerless to stop him.’

A black fury welled up within Henry and it burned at his chest with such feral ferocity that he gripped his mother’s hand strongly for support. ‘He can’t do that!’ he hissed venomously, his lips fluttering with excited furry, his chest heaving. ‘He has no right to disinherit me!’

‘But he has that right,’ countered Rosalie gently as she gently disentangled her fingers from his and rose to her feet. ‘Your father can do all he wants to do so long as he has no one to stop him. I am but a mere woman and there is nothing I can do neither can I keep on running to my family for support because they’ll be filled with scorn at my inability to handle my marital problems. You are his son, Henry, so I think you may be in a better position to handle his bullshit since you’re now an adult. But if the man was dead, I won’t be having this problem.’ She bent down, planted a kiss on his forehead, and then she headed up to her room.

That night, Henry could not sleep a wink. He lay on his bed, tossing and turning, Rosalie’s outpourings ringing on his ears. But beyond the sad tale of his father’s betrayal, he knew everything about his parents’ rocky marriage because he had pried the information out of his mother.

And from there, at that moment, he stumbled out of the confines of the opulent room, out of the time he was in, into the distant past, into the lives of his parents.

The past became the present and the present was melded into the past; all became one.

* * * * * * *

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