If your intention was to escape the roar of the crowd packed into the giant stadium, the best place to be probably wasn't the changing rooms. But this was the only place Lulu knew where she could find any degree of privacy. Of course, she wasn't the only one collapsed head-down on a wooden bench, her arms draped over her knees and hands dangling loosely down. Women from events other than hers were slumped in a similar state of post-performance blues. Unsurprisingly it was those not celebrating victory who had chosen to hide away for as long as they could from the cameras, the crowds and the all-too-apparent disappointment of the nation they represented and its media.
Even if Lulu had done better than she had, perhaps qualifying for the next and final round, she knew that at the end of it she would still feel a huge weight lift off her that would leave her with a correspondingly huge void in her life. It wasn't just winning, of course. It was also participating and she did have the honour of being one of the two representatives Kenya had entered for the event: as many as Russia, the United States and China, not to mention the more formidable competition from Tanzania, South Africa and Nigeria. In recent years, it was the African nations that had excelled at the International Cowgirl event and so expectations and standards were very high. All of which was scarce consolation to Lulu for having let down her nation so badly in the contest.
Well, not so badly that she had come last, although it was mostly competitors from the Middle East and Europe whose scores Lulu had bettered. And worse than not having qualified for the next round was that Lulu had come nowhere near her personal best. Even in the contest against her own standards, she had not excelled. She'd expected to score higher than, at the very least, Argentina and Turkey, but here she was, the first of the Kenyans to be eliminated: destined now to be only the smallest footnote in the history of the International Cowgirl.
She knew, even before the judges presented their score-boards, that she hadn't quite done it. At least the Venezuelan judge had given her a nine but the other scores were a scattering of sevens and eights. Not nearly good enough. Particularly when her fellow Kenyan, Ghatoni, had scored mostly nines and that was with the same male partner as Lulu. Chilemba couldn't be blamed for failing her, although she still felt that he'd let her down slightly when his prick slipped out of her vagina at the crucial change of posture to full reverse cowgirl: her feet placed on his knees, ankles in and toes out, and upper body supported by her hands clutching his shoulders. It was a difficult manoeuvre, but one Lulu really should have handled better. She ought to have been more sensitive to the relative size of Chilemba's penis and her vulva's grip on its glans. But it was more the cumulative effect, not just the small slip, which had lowered her tally. As her coach told her when she sat on the bench, listening to the scores, it was her apparent lack of genuine enthusiasm and sexual excitement that most told against her. She was technically proficient, he had to admit, but she was losing that unfeigned zest for sex that distinguished the very best cowgirls. Her anal had been almost mechanical and the final facial was very nearly perfunctory. The top sexual athletes don't just have the ability to demonstrate their skill, they have to show that they enjoy it as well.
Lulu knew what he meant. Ghatoni was a world-class squirter and that tiny Japanese woman who did surprisingly well for her country orgasmed, yelled and screamed more than most other contestants put together. Who ever said that oriental women hid their emotions?
She sat naked with her coach for what seemed like forever: first trembling with anticipation at what her score might be and then shivering with shame and disappointment after the announcement had boomed across the stadium. She didn't know where she should look, although her eyes were invariably drawn to that section of the terraces where the African, and most specifically the Kenyan, fans were sitting. Those huge banners with her name on them had all been in vain. Lulu had indeed fucked for Nairobi, taken pearls of semen on her face for the Swahili nation and pumped Chilemba as dry as she could. But, after all the exertion, screened live over all Africa and the world, she had failed.
At first she couldn't be certain. The score-cards shimmered and blurred in front of her sweat-strewn eyes. The scores were first announced in German as befitted the host nation of the Sex Olympics, a language Lulu didn't speak. It was only when the announcement was then made in English that Lulu could be sure. And then, with the eyes of the world on her, and her face collapsing in misery, the scores were repeated in French, Spanish, Arabic and Chinese.
She was a failure.
All that time, ten minutes in all, where she'd been fucking for the pride of her nation and more than that, the months, even years, of practise for this day, all had come to nothing. In living rooms and bars and offices throughout Nairobi and Kenya, all eyes had been on her, watching her akimbo on Chilemba's chest and knees, his penis thrusting inside, and her shaved crotch close-up and magnified as she reciprocated her partner's thrusts with her own sexual rhythm. That was to have been her moment of glory. Now it was over. And people would not now remember the skill by which she transferred the penis from vagina to anus, the way she balanced so precariously on her partner, the talent of taking all the semen into her mouth and swallowing it, and her history of winning competitions in Kenya and Africa that had culminated in these ten minutes of international exposure. No. What they would remember was that solid, unremarkable score and Lulu's crumpled expression of despair and defeat that filled the massive screens of the stadium.
And what future lay ahead of her? Would Lulu enter competitions in the future? Did she even have the courage to do so? Or would she take a career in film or television where her cowgirl skills had prepared her well, although she had no acting ability? She certainly didn't have a life of marriage, children and domesticity to retire to. Even if that was what she wanted. Up to now it had all been clear. Her ambition was to become the best cowgirl in the world. An International Cowgirl who would be spoken about for generations. Now she'd come as far as she could and there was no further to go. What could she do now?
Lulu felt a comforting arm embrace her shoulder and a cheek press against her arm. "Don't worry, Lulu," said Ducha, who was Kenya's contestant in the 300 man marathon and was still in training. "You did well just to get this far and you know it!"
Lulu looked at her friend, her closest friend during the Munich Sex Olympics, and smiled as bravely as she could. She knew Ducha had grave doubts that she'd even do as well as Lulu. Ever since the Tokyo Anal Marathon where she'd had to bow out due to exhaustion and a possible urinary infection, she had lost much of the self-confidence that kept her going onto the critical two hundredth or two hundred and fiftieth fuck. She'd probably need as much reassurance from Lulu as she was now giving her compatriot.
"I know! I know!" said Lulu, finally giving vent to tears and burying her face in the comforting cushion of Ducha's exceptional bosom. "But knowing that doesn't somehow make it any better. All those months of practise. All that careful diet and exercise in the gym. All the men who've fucked me..."
"... And not just men!" Ducha reminded Lulu with a squeeze on her shoulders.
"Well, you certainly helped when Takata let me down that time," said Lulu graciously. "And your husband, Elewa, has been helpful while we've been here..."
"I'm only grateful I could help."
"I only wish I could have helped you in the same way," Lulu said through a nose full of snot.
"There are not many sexual athletes lucky enough to have understanding husbands or partners," said Ducha. "In any case, Elewa needed to get as much exercise as he could for the Three-Way event. He said you were equal to two women at once. And he certainly knows all about that!"
"I'm glad I could have been of assistance, though there's not much cowgirl in the Three-Way. Hardly more than a minute or so. And it's strictly optional."
"Elewa has always enjoyed cowgirl, especially the anal variety," said Ducha. "You don't have to think he was only doing it for you."
Lulu nodded but she would have preferred it if some man had done it only for her. Of all the sexual partners she had, not just in the stadium but elsewhere, not one of them had ever done it just for her. For all her skill at love-making, all her enthusiasm at fucking and all her athletic prowess, she had never properly filled that emotional cavity in her love-life.
It wasn't until the following day that Lulu again had time that could be called her own. Before then, she was interviewed by newspapers, magazines, and radio and television stations from not only Kenya but from all over African. None, of course, from outside the continent and only one from North Africa. And none of these interviews, brief though they were, made her feel any better. How did she feel? How disappointed was she? What were her plans for the future? The bland answers she gave were all a shield behind which Lulu struggled to work out for herself what she really thought and what she should do.
The fact she was spared the need for further practise didn't make it any easier. A mindless fuck where she could concentrate her energies on technique and presentation would actually have been quite welcome. Instead, she had to join the rest of the Kenyan delegation in congratulating those who had done better than she, were destined for better things, and for whom there was still a chance for bronze, silver or even gold. It was difficult to wholeheartedly wish the best to others when you knew that you had no chance to emulate their glory. Lulu's sympathies, in truth, went to those, like her, who had already tasted all the glory they were likely to have and were also disappointed in what they'd achieved.
Failure makes strange bedfellows. She found herself chatting with Annouchka from the Ukrainian team who'd also competed in the cowgirl event and had scored rather worse than Lulu thanks, it seemed, to a sore ankle. She also passed words with Lars, a Norwegian who had failed to ejaculate on more than two of his partners in the Multiple Anal event. But it was Ducha who received most of Lulu's attention. She was exhausted from her practise sessions with a mere twenty men and was worried that she'd flag before even the first one hundred in the coming marathon. And it was inevitable that Lulu should spend the night with Ducha while her husband was practising anal with a male contestant in another bed.
And now she was alone at last, she was restless and fidgety. She didn't intend to dwell on her performance of the previous day, but she was drawn to pick at it like a sore scab or scratch it like an itch. Soon she was replaying on the official Sex Olympics site the footage of her part in the International Cowgirl event, together with the critical commentary provided by the BBC.
It was peculiar, of course, to see herself as others saw her. Her legs were apart. Her shaved crotch faced the camera. All that could be seen of Chilemba was his testicles and the shaft of his penis thrusting in and out of her vagina. She was naked, of course, as was required for such events. Clothing, shoes or even make-up was not considered appropriate for a sporting event. That sort of thing was more appropriate for beauty contests, porn shows or videos than for a serious-minded competition like the Tenth International Sex Olympics.
Nevertheless, watching the footage of her performance, again and again and yet again, only reinforced Lulu's sense of utter worthlessness. If all she was good for in life was to position herself above a man's prick and let it thrust into her, what value was there to her life at all? She was almost agreeing with those from her college in Nairobi and, of course, her parents and family, who told her she was stupid to put all her efforts into cowgirl sex and to abandon a promising but dull career in the Civil Service. If all those years of effort, exercise and semen-swallowing were to culminate only in this—to feel wretched and miserable in a hotel room in Munich—what then had the point of it all been?
Eventually, it became too much for Lulu. She decided to leave the hotel and the accompanying stadium grounds and mooch around Munich. After so many days and nights of constant nudity, it was hard enough even to find any clothes, let alone decide which ones to wear, but she put on a modest tee-shirt and jeans, with black trainers, to look as plain as she could. And, of course, as little as possible like a sexual athlete.
Even with her street map, it was easy to get lost in the city. There were sufficiently many black faces that Lulu attracted rather less attention than would a white face in Nairobi. She enjoyed walking anonymously through the city. If only they knew that she was one of those who everyone was excitedly watching on television screens in bars, restaurants and living rooms. Would anyone recognise her? Probably not, since most of her that had been displayed to the German nation had been her nether orifices and when her face was displayed it was mostly obscured by an ejaculating penis.
Lulu soon tired of wandering the streets, gazing in shops and standing at traffic lights. She needed to rest her feet and where better than at a Starbucks, of which she was pleased there was at least one in Munich. Here she could be certain of a reasonably comfortable place to sit. She got her coffee, handed over a ten Euro note and received the change: a transaction conducted in English. It seemed that everyone in Germany spoke a few words.
However, she wasn't to be quite as solitary as she hoped. The armchair she sat in was by a table shared with a lanky young man who recognised her when he turned his head, even though Lulu couldn't place him.
"It's Lulu Chenebe, isn't it?" he said in English, but lightly accented by his native German tongue. "I hardly recognised you with your clothes on." He studied Lulu quizzically, while she wondered how she might tactfully move to another table. "You don't recognise me though, do you? It's Joachim. I'm one of the Press Officers for the International Sex Olympics Committee."
"Oh. Joachim," said Lulu, still not sure whether she wanted to stay sitting where she was. "So it is."
"I was with you all yesterday afternoon," Joachim continued, "helping you with the media."