From the Honourable School of Legends, the Streetsider presents:

Our first guest writer. Please welcome our very first Sub Urban Legend, The Hitchhiker.

“Not suitable for persons under 18. Please read responsibly.”

This is a schizophrenic town. Like a whore that crosses herself when she passes Christ the King, or a nun who cannot explain the bruises on her buttocks, nor the thrill of pleasure, mingled with pain, when she sits down on them.

I should have known he was crooked. I should have known he was crooked when I pulled down his pants and found a bent dick; curved like the letter ‘C’, warped like a paedophile’s sense of humour. I should have known right then that there was something irredeemably wrong with him; but a girl gets used to the taste of slime after kissing too many frogs.

In my defence, I didn’t know all that much about him before I decided I was going to sleep with him. I didn’t know if he was a Man U fan (read: boring), I didn’t know if he liked to watch House (read: predictable), or listened to Lil Wayne (…yawn). I didn’t think about how he liked his eggs in the morning, because I sure as fuck wasn’t going to be making them.

When he introduced himself to me, over the music blaring in JK [Radio crooning: “I’m the one you’re looking for…”]. I know that he gave me a hug just so that I could feel, as well as see that he had a really nice six-pack under his tight T-shirt. “You’re looking good” he said, and before I could raise a single unconvinced eyebrow he added “not as good as me though”. (Do you know that I‘m relying on the fact that he probably says this to every girl to remain anonymous)

I reacted to that red flag the way a young bull would when a matador waved one in its face.

You know how sometimes you meet someone and you can immediately be honest about your freakiest shit? On your second meeting you find yourself telling them about the fantasy you can’t wank to in your mama’s house it’s so freaky. You may, or may not also find yourself being fingered by said person at 8pm on a Sunday in the gardens of Casablanca.

It’s that kind of insta-intimacy, superglue bonding that makes you ignore a curved dick until you are riding it and can feel it poking your appendix.

At some point later in the week I am telling this story to my workmate ‘D’ and she looks at me with eyes wider than a nocturnal jungle animal. “Curved like the ‘C’ on your keyboard” I tell her. I’m not entirely sure why I am telling this to D. Even though we’ve been sitting next to each other all day, 5 days a week for the past 6 months, we’re not friends. Something about the way she looks at me when I come into office an hour and a half late, in yesterday’s skirt and the Bobi Wine T-shirt I just bought in the park, parfum de stale-Guinness trailing behind.

So, yeah, we’ve never become “tights” but here I am, tongue loosened by too much coffee. I am therefore pleasantly surprised when in response she launches into her own story about a tiny little white guy she dated who she discovered was carrying a Godzilla dick. I tell her about the Russian contractor who must have been on Viagra (or Silagra, as the generic version sold in Ugandan pharmacies is called), she tells me about the dude in Kabale who barked when he was “finishing”. Me and D, bonding over sex-gone-wrong stories, who knew it was possible?

The end of the workday finally shows its face and she tells me she has to pass Nakulabye anyway so can she give me a lift? Of course, that would be great. Halfway across town she says she needs to stop somewhere in Wandegeya but she won’t be long, do I mind? Why would I? We get to some nondescript building and she says why don’t I come and wait inside, it won’t be long. Uhhh, ok, that’s ok.

We walk in a door on the ground floor and I trip as I enter the threshold, stumbling a couple of steps into the church before I look up and realise what’s going on. Yes, a church, with red chairs arranged in rows, and people singing with their eyes closed and palms held skyward. I stop and wait for God to strike me down with a bolt of fire or lightning, but instead D takes my arm with the benevolence of a teacher who works with mentally disabled children and leads me toward a seat.

“What the fuck is this, D?” I try to convey the full force of my bitch-if-I-get-out-of-this-situation-with-my-sanity-intact-even-God-himself-won’t-save-you sentiments in a furious whisper out of the side of my mouth. This is not easy to do while simultaneously fake-smiling at the other churchgoers who are wondering if I just said fuck. “This is my church, I’ve been wanting to invite you a for a while”. Invite me? D increases her grip on my arm and womanhandles me into a seat.

“Hallelujah!” the guy leading the service shouts as the singing fades and the keyboard player is left playing his jangly, too loud chords. “Hallelujah!” There is something familiar about the way the sweat runs down the back of the service leader neck and as he turns around my eyes pop open even wider than D’s jungle creature.

“Holy Fuck”

This time around my fellow churchgoers have no doubt about my choice of words.

I don’t even notice. I am staring at the service leader.

It’s Curvy Dick.