The Gathering
Fiction
I got fucked in a dancehall, right there on the dancefloor.
Right there amongst so many other dancing people, men and women who were equally teeming with hormones and fired up by alcohol.
It was almost spontaneous, how everyone reached for someone. It might have been the music, a particular song with a rhythm, a beat that appealed to that primal animal that lives in all of us.
Waiting to be let out.
I can’t, for the life of me, remember what song was playing.
It was one of the greatest nights of my life, I remember that. I remember this amazing chemistry with a complete stranger.
I sound like I am giving excuses. Maybe I am. Because this was reckless, I admit.
I was in my late 20s, a slender lithe thing that lived life in the fast lane, my slight, tall frame moving like a shadow on the streets of this thing we call life. I made sure I lived, I will tell you that. I could be spontaneous to a fault.
On this particular night, I got into the club with some friends towards midnight, which was quite early.
I’d been to two bars to fuel up, like we always did (we called them pit stops back then – not sure what the kids call them now).
I was dressed in heels, a slinky black dress that seemed to have a mind of its own, flaring out freely.
Because I was slender and tall, I had long since understood that figure – hugging dresses were never for me, unless they flared out provocatively, archly almost. This one did.
I had on a perfume I liked, Rose by Paul Smith. I love perfumes. It was a eau de parfum, not a eau de toilette. That distinction still matters to me to this day.
I had no knickers on. I rarely put on knickers when I went clubbing, because I liked to dance when I got there, and let everything breath.
The club was packed.
Kampalans loved to party back then just as much as they do now. I paid, got myself another drink and stood around watching the action. The dancefloor was already packed. I loved to dance right in front of the mirrors on the far side of it.
The floor had lights that were constantly changing, almost like ti was trying to keep up with the stomping feet of the dancers. I could see familiar faces — people who didn’t know my name but were the usual party animals in almost every club I went to.
I made my way onto the floor, moving amongst the throng of dancers. A group of three girls I knew pulled me in, so I danced with them for a while, shouting hellos above the music. But I was heading for the mirrors. When the song changed, I left them and made my way to them.
I was dancing in front of the mirrors, sipping my drink — I was already very tipsy; this drink was for appearances, but I was still sipping it. I don’t know when it started, but I noticed that many more men had joined the dancefloor. The DJ was playing a set that had people whining and grinding.
Couples came to the mirrors and somehow I was pushed towards the middle of the floor. The lights beneath us had gone quiet. Above, only soft blue, green, red lights flickered on and off in tune to the beat.
I started to smell people’s blood. I have had that, a unique sense of smell. I could smell everyone was getting charged. The smell of pheromones was strong. Underneath that was the smell of sex. I did not have to look to know what was going on. But I looked anyway. Being slightly taller than the average woman gave me a better view. People were locked into each other. I smiled to myself. It was lovely that people were having a great time. I thought, this could pass for one of those Muzungu orgies I watched when I consumed porn.
As I danced alone, whining slowly because the DJ had slowed the music down, I felt a man come up behind me. I did not turn to see. I saw his shadow in the mirror on the other side. He put his arms around my body. I had my drink in one hand, my handbag on my shoulder. I put my free hand up and turned it to touch the back of his neck. I rubbed my derrière into him and he rubbed his groin on me. I was not surprised, not shocked, that he was already charged.
I smelt him. I bent my face into one of his upper arms to smell his blood. I usually did not need to put my nose on anyone’s skin to scan them — but we were on a floor with so many people giving off so many strong smells that I had to ‘see’ clearly. He smelt fine. My nose did not detect disease. He also had on a good perfume. When my hand moved to his face, I felt a fresh stubble on his chin and the sides of his jaw. He had on a polo neck t-shirt and jeans. I felt the tee with my hand and his jeans with my exposed thighs.
The music continued. The club seemed incensed. The action was not only on the dancefloor. Moans grew loud; the DJ turned the music further up when I thought it could not get any louder.
Someone took the glass from my hand. Maybe it was the club staff. One minute I was trying not to spill it, the next someone had taken it out of my hand. I reached my second hand up to the man’s neck and I really gave those sexual moves my all. He bent to my ear and asked if I wanted him to touch me. In response, I took his hand and led it slowly down to my hip. What could I say? Would he have heard me if I had replied? He got exactly what I meant. It was easy for him to put his hands under my free skirt and discover I had no knickers on. He paused for a moment. Then he took my hand and brought it down to touch his engorged manhood.
He had pre-cum. He was trembling slightly. I opened my legs further. His fingers reached me. I was dripping. I pressed back into him. The people around us were wilding. He asked again if it was okay for him to get into me. I used both hands to unzip his trousers, leaving the belt intact. As I fumbled to free him, he used one hand to release himself from his boxers.
He asked one more time. Said there was no going back after this, and if I was not sure he could stop. For the first time I shouted back at him: who is sure of anything in this, man? Less talking, more action. Now give it to me.
He was not gentle. He rammed into me with the urgency of a man who was already on edge. And what a beautiful manhood he had. It felt just right. Like I was the padlock and he the key. He was built for me.
We both paused for a few heartbeats, just to feel the immenseness of that union. Then he started moving. What on earth was that? How was he able to move that way within me as we danced on that crowded floor of sinners? I cum fast — I learned to as a teenager. My moans joined those of the other women around us. Only I was not as loud or as wild. I assumed the rest were performing. I was being true to my body.
Holding a squirt as I cum is a very hard thing to do. I did not want to wet that man’s trousers. But holding it also meant the effort made me louder than I wanted to be. None of it was heard. The DJ knew what he was doing. Everyone knew what they were doing. The music drowned out everything.
The stranger bent his head to my ear and said: ‘Let it go. The floor is already wet anyway’.
I did not need a second prompting. I leaned back into him as his manhood moved in and out and his fingers played with my bud and petals. I appreciated that being so tall gave him arms long enough to reach in front and touch my pussy as he moved inside me. The sensation was crazy amazing. As I released, that man bit into my neck. It hurt, but I liked it very much. I turned my head to offer him the other side. His teeth dug into that as well. He cupped his hand so that the cum fell straight to the floor.
I relaxed back into him because my knees felt like they were about to give way. He said: ‘That was a 10/10. Now keep moving, hun. Let’s get me there.’
So I gathered my strength and danced again. Danced against him, into him, on him, teasing him with my hips and my thighs. After what seemed like a very sensually sweet long time, I told him I was about to go again. He said: ‘About time. Been waiting’.
We were loud — as loud as decency would allow. By then many couples on the floor were really leaning into it. We were all maxing out at the same time.
I felt young and attractive and wanted. I felt gratitude to the gods of love and sex. Because what on earth was that feeling?
We stood swaying, his arms tightly around me, holding me steady, keeping me upright while my head swam. Thank you, thank you, thank you, he kept saying against my ear.
There was less dancing now, more swaying. I looked around. We had really sinned among sinners that night. Somewhere in the club, a brighter light came in. I turned in his arms, put him back into his trousers and zipped him up. Then I looked up into his face.
He was a very good looking man. I was glad. Aesthetics matter to me a great deal. He smiled down at me and handed me a handkerchief. I put it between my legs because his fluid was already running down my thighs. Then I pushed away from him and headed to the bathroom with about thirty other women. We took turns to pee. Some cleaned up openly at the sink. People talked to each other. Some girls were popping pills and I wondered why they had carried them to begin with, whilst also wondering about the pills combined with liquor.
I was shy. I entered a cubicle, locked the door, peed, and used the wipes from my bag to clean up as best I could. That man’s baby juice smelt as healthy as his blood.s
Someone knocked, shouting that I was taking too long and the queue was long. I got out, washed my hands and walked out.
He was waiting outside the washrooms.
‘I want your number’, he said, ‘but I won’t ask for it’.
Me: ‘I know.’
Him: ‘Should I take it though?’
Me: 071 XXX XXX.
In those years, the tenth digit had not yet been added to Ugandan phone numbers. I was on Mango.
Him: ‘You said that too fast.’
Me: ‘I need to go’.
Him: ‘Thank you for the most meaningful dance of my life’.
Me, already moving past him: ‘Same.’
But he grabbed my hand. He asked my name. I told him it was of no consequence. He handed me some money.
‘Get the pill, please’.
Me: ‘I sure will.’
Him: ‘I’m serious. I don’t want my child born out there.’
Me: ‘Trust me, I don’t want your child either.’
Him: ‘Ouch.’
Me: ‘Bye. It was nice. Bye’.
And I walked out of the washroom area, across the club floor and right out the door. It was coming on 4:30aAM. The outside air was freezing. I walked to the special hire cabs, negotiated, got in, and headed home.
For days I sat with the feeling of what had happened on that dancefloor. For months I regretted not giving that man my number.
I met him again years later, when we were both real adults.
He was a lawyer on the opposing side of a case I had.
The light outside that washroom had been very bright, and he had had a good look at me. His was one of those attractive faces that are very hard to forget.
I had not seen him when I walked past in the corridor just outside the courtroom. He saw me. He called out — excuse me, hello, wait — and it took me a moment to realize the man was calling to me.
I turned.
He was the same man. Same smile, same face, older. Still beautiful to look at.
‘Dancefloor girl.’
Me: ‘Hi yourself.’
Him: ‘You gave me many sleepless nights. For years.’
Me: ‘That’s all on you.’
Him: ‘I regretted not taking your number.’
Me: ‘Some things are best done once.’
Him: ‘I wanted more than that.’
Me: ‘We don’t always get what we want.’
A court clerk I recognized passed by. I stopped her to ask about my case number and which courtroom we had been assigned to. He heard the case number. His expression shifted.
‘You’re the Olivia in my case?’
He opened his files and looked at me. It was a UGX540 million matter. I could see him recalibrating.
We agreed to meet for lunch.
He did not smell right.
My entire being rejected him. His blood was sick. He was still beautiful. He had class. He was refined in his manners, spoke with confidence and fluency. But his blood was sick. I did not tell him. I had long since learnt that you do not go about telling people they may be harboring illness.
Some things you carry alone.
I enjoyed the lunch and by the time we were through, and heading back to court, I knew he was going to go easy on me in court. Eventually we settled for 215M in the court matter, including legal costs. By the time we were done with lunch he also knew from my somber mood that there was not going to be a ‘dance floor’ reunion of any sort. I could smell his blood, and this time it just wasn’t right. Even after we settled the court matter, I did not tell him.
Like I said: Some things, you carry alone.
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