The Malagasy people pretty much marry for life, and though divorces are becoming more common, the bribes one has to pay just to get their case heard can easily reach into millions of Malagasy Ariary (thousands of USD). So, when I moved to Madagascar in 2017 at the age of 60, I was interested in finding a few sexual partners I could interact from time to time. But because I don’t like young men, and most of the men my age were all married (remember, they marry for life), finding a suitable partner was a problem. I finally met the most delightful widower, when I was living in Mahambo teaching English to middle and high school students,
Alain (I’m using a pseudonym) was fairly good looking, and was a licensed tour guide, and he knew EVERYTHING about the flora and fauna. It was delightful to talk with him and he would tell me about all the varieties of palm we have in Madagascar, and stuff about birds, lemurs, all sorts of fascinating information. He was working as a waiter in a brand new restaurant which was built by a Malagasy man who also owned a failing hotel on the outskirts of town. I never understood why he didn’t just shut down the, but the restaurant seemed to be doing pretty well, when it first opened. Alain’s English was quite good, as he was used to working with Americans, and we became pretty good friends. I could tell that he was somewhat interested in me but I didn’t know enough about the Malagasy culture to know if sex outside of marriage was allowed or not. A few days later, he proposed to me via text message. He texted me something to the effect: “We should get married. Within two years. We can move into my home in Mahajanga.”
It’s hard to say no to that, right?
He sent me a second text: “I would like to spend the night with you tonight. I will leave early, before 4:00 a.m.”
Couldn’t argue with that, either, because as a teacher, I was automatically viewed with a slightly higher status, something I would risk losing if people saw guys sneaking from my house early in the morning — so leaving before 4:00 a.m. was perfect because the sun started coming up about 5:30 or so. I instructed him to bring a condom, to which he agreed. But I didn’t want to take any chances, so I decided to take the bush taxi down to Toamasina (too-MAH-see-nah) and buy my own — not wanting the local pharmacist to know my business — I lived in a TINY hamlet with maybe 3,000 people in the whole town. Everybody knew all of my business, so had I bought a condom in town, the whole town would know about it within minutes. The 2.5-4 hour trip to Toamasina was worth the time. I used to go there a few times per month, anyway, to do my grocery shopping, and banking. While I was there, I also bought some candles so I could make our first time together more sensuous, and special. Romantic lighting could help things along.
When Alain arrived, we sat on my sofa and chatted a bit. I was looking forward to getting a decent workout so I asked him if there were any things that he definitely would NOT do in bed — so I could better plan my approach. But, in typical Malagasy fashion, he didn’t want to talk about it, deflecting by saying, “I’d rather show you,” while trying to kiss me. Poor thing, he was a TERRIBLE kisser, no tongue at all, just touched his closed lips to my closed lips, just like little kids kiss.
Okay, so he’d rather show me what he WON’T do in the bed rather than to tell me. I was actually thinking that as I chucked to myself. It was obvious that I was way out of his league but I hadn’t had any dick in well over a year, so as long as it wasn’t awful, I’d deal with his anticipated lack of skills.
It didn’t take long to realize that this was one of the weirdest sexual experiences of my life. I asked him if he’d brought a condom, he replied, “Yes, but I’m not going to use it.” Good thing I had my own, and I proceeded to get one out and ready for use. We were then sitting on my tiny twin size bed, getting undressed when he warned me about his small penis. That was a first for me, and it’s not like I wouldn’t have found out, anyway. Knowing this didn’t change my game plan, I started off giving him head, as I’d originally planned. I figured that most Malagasy women don’t do oral sex so this would be a great way to blow his mind, pardon the pun. I always strive to marvel and amaze my sexual partner, so his tiny penis wouldn’t be a deal breaker. In fact, one of the best lovers I’ve ever had was a man with a tiny penis. Size really doesn’t matter if you know what you’re doing, fellas.
During the sex, he was silent. Utterly, utterly silent. I couldn’t even hear him breathe. And in fewer than two minutes, he stopped moving. I lay there trying to figure out what was happening. Was he taking a break? Still no sound from him, he finally started moving, and it was then that I realized he was actually finished. Wow, a whole two minutes. Seems like a waste of a condom. I got up and got him a washcloth so he could wash himself (I didn’t have running water), and afterward, as I was passing him, he rubbed his hand across my crotch, indicating that he was ready to go another round. GREAT. This time, I’m gonna be on top, in hopes that maybe I might actually get some pleasure from this.
When I’d given him head earlier, he couldn’t handle much before he was pulling me off of him, not wanting to cum too soon. With me seated on top of him, he was in for a real treat, but I could tell this position was just too uncomfortable for him. The cultural norm for sex in Madagascar is missionary position, no sound, finishing as quickly as possible, so my sitting on top of him caused him to automatically tense up. Before I could start moving, he clamped his hands down on my thighs so tightly that I could ONLY move up and down. He was afraid to allow me to gyrate so that maybe I could cum, too, but all he could think of was keeping me under control so that the sex was “normal.” When it because apparent that he wasn’t gong to allow me to freely move, I got off of him, laid down on my back and let him finish what he was going. This second round lasted a few minutes longer, maybe four minutes. During the act, I told him that I needed him to talk to me. Black Americans tend to make a lot of noise when we have sex, talking shit is a big part of it, enhances the mood. He asked me, “What would you like me to say to you?”
Yeah, that just killed the mood. He actually did try a bit, but what he said wasn’t sexy and didn’t have the intended impact. Those two brief rounds were enough for me to know that I would never sleep with Alain again.
After I moved to Mahajanga, I briefly dated a wonderful man, Jean-Paul (pseudonym), who was a semi-retired business owner. He was technically married and his wife lived in France, they’d been separated for decades. Sex with him was as boring as was humanly possible — typical Malagasy fashion. When I’ve spoken with some of my Gasy female friends, all of them have confirmed that typical sex in Madagascar is about the man getting off, the woman getting no consideration, no satisfaction. Many of them feel it’s just a marital chore, something they have to tolerate rather than enjoy. In my opinion, this is just sad, joyless sex, with no knowledge of anything more.
There are other African cultures where the woman’s sexual gratification is celebrated, and boys and men are taught to please their woman. That’s not a thing in Madagascar, where even talking about sex is discouraged. If you want great sex, Madagascar isn’t the place to find it.