Queer O’ Clock: The stud from my father’s funeral

By Queer Bee

I was grieving when it happened. I had just lost my dad to a heart attack. I had passed through different stages of grief, from denial to anger and now depression. I had just finished my last paper when the call came in from mom. Her voice was shaken, cracked up like I often sounded after a long night of intense marijuana smoking. “Your father died this morning”, she said. Looking back now, I feel so pissed because she had sounded like I killed him, or somehow, I was to be blamed. She didn’t care about my own grief “damn narcissist of a woman”. Yes, he caught me making out in my room with a girl but the first stroke came two months after.

I almost didn’t attend his funeral because it was too much for me. My mom was too much for me to bear.  I would have loved to be in the comfort of my campus room smoking marijuana and listening to Billie Eilish. I hated the house now more than ever. I heard he had a heart attack by the stairs, that stairs will forever creep the crap out of me. The house was full on his funeral so many voices and chewing, which was an irony because while he was alive and sick the house was haunted with silence, doctors’ pills, and herbal potions.  I hated all of them, self-righteous vultures feeding of me with their eyes. Maybe they have never seen a girl on dreads with 9 piercings on each ear. Or perhaps they too must think I killed my dad.


I was plotting an exit plan when Bola walked in with her mother who was an old friend of my mom’s. Bola looked interesting, like me she was out of place in a room filled with old hags and nagging men. She was different, I could tell she felt the same way about me. Her mom, who gave a dramatic entrance with a loud scream served as a choirmaster to the already subsided wailings to fire on into gear 5. She cried her way to my mom who was already drained of tears and gave her condolences. As the only child of my parents, I was the next target. She came over and urged me to be a good girl and take care of my mother. I wasn’t listening, I was looking at Bola, who was looking back at me intensely. Iya Bola then went on to greet other guests before ordering a plate of amala and ewedu with a splash of gbegiri.


As a grieving lady, Bola looked like a perfect distraction from the wailings, fake smiles, venomous tongues, piercing eyes, and obviously the colour black. She wasn’t my spec. She was light-skinned but she was the choice I had. She was petite, had a lowcut with waves like the tides of the ocean. She had glassy eyes that almost made my raging soul shy. She wore a black t-shirt and black pants. I had regarded her so much that I could see a hint of a tattoo-covered under left her arm.  We exchanged pleasantries and she was grateful when I led her upstairs to my quiet bedroom.


Turns out we had so much in common besides being lesbians, we were both the black sheep of our families “in my case the only sheep too”, we loved literature and horror movies and we both loved renaissance art. Bola was so cool, I actually laughed for the first time since the news. I laughed so hard till I started crying all over again. I felt like a mess but Bola hugged me so tight and I became stable. She didn’t let me go. I looked into her eyes and knew what had to be done, what I needed. I tried to kiss her but she moved. “do you want us to do this?” she asked me. Her eyes were searching for certainty and holding back so much more. “This is what I need”, I reassured her then smiled and kissed her as a tear dropped from my right eye. She was warm and sweet, I tasted tom-tom and something fruity. Our tongues intertwined like swords in a fencing game. I was hungry for her. I needed to feel something other than pain. I needed her touch and her tongue on me and in me. She hungrily stretched my elastic black dress down to expose my strapless black bra. She then slid her hand behind my back and unclipped my bra exposing my full round and perky breasts. The look on her face was divine. If we got caught at this moment it wouldn’t matter, Bola was worth it. Bola sucked on one nipple for some minutes while fondling the second nipple. She sent tingling feelings down my spine to my vagina. I got up and hastily pulled her shirt over her head while she unfastened her trousers. We both had this sense of urgency probably coming from the funeral going on downstairs. We both got naked and took a moment to admire our bodies. She was so hot, the tattoo on her shoulder was a dragon and I felt its dragon breath and fire all the way down my spine to my vagina. Bola guided me towards the bed and aligned her fat clit on mine and we worked our way into a rhythm. She started slowly by rubbing her clit on mine vertically and our moisture marinated into one unified fluid.

She worked her way into grinding me hard, this was it, everything was just right at the moment. She never stopped looking into my eyes.  After a long session of tribbing to different rhythms, I experienced a long and intense orgasm so volcanic it sent my heart racing, my eyes rolling back and my toes curling. I was yarning to taste our juices so we adjusted our position into a 69 with me on top. I grabbed her ass in my hands and ate her warm, juicy, and fat pussy while she fingered me from below with her small fingers that worked like magic. After a long search, I realized I found her spot when she whispered: “yes that’s it”. She climaxed not too long after.  This was the healing I deserved and needed after all the pain, neglect, anger, and grief. She then explored my pussy with her tongue, her face, and hand carrying the weight of my thick ass and my entire 69kg weight. My world crumbled when I climaxed while riding her face with my full, round, and big ass. Jeez, she handled me with the right amount of domination I liked. We sat and kissed with our fluids on our faces.

While the guests and mourning crew were busy downstairs, I was receiving some sexual healing from this girl I barely knew. She was God sent.

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