by Daniel Nkado
In the neon-drenched sprawl of New London, 3020, the air hummed with the electric buzz of hovercars and the synthetic laughter of holograms. The city was a kaleidoscope of chrome skyscrapers, their tips piercing the candyfloss clouds, and every street corner pulsed with the rhythm of a world that had forgotten tops.
Yes, the tops were gone! Every gay man in this glittering dystopia was a bottom, and the streets were filled with longing sighs and unfulfilled desires.
It didn’t matter if you were once a dominant king who could turn an entire club quiet with the mere snap of your waistband—by the turn of the century, the only thing you could do was bend over and moan. The universe, it seemed, had decided roles were no longer up for negotiation.
Naturally, there was panic. You could hear it in the streets, in bars, in the desperate chatroom pings — everywhere.
“Even the priests are bottoms now!”
But there was hope, oh yes, in the form of Dikdoes—rechargeable humanoids with perpetually erect appendages, crafted by the mighty corporation, The Wills. These mechanical marvels, with their sculpted abs and unblinking LED eyes, were the new gods of pleasure, and every bottom in New London worshipped at their altar.
My name is Chukwudi, but they call me Chuks, the last man with a spark of top energy in a world gone soft. I was not like the others, you see. I carried a secret, a forbidden fire in my loins that made me different. In a city where every gay man craved to receive, I was the anomaly, the one who wanted to give. But this was no small matter. To be a top in 3020 was to be a unicorn in a field of goats, a lion among lambs. The Wills had made sure of that, flooding the market with their Dikdoes, each one programmed to satisfy with mechanical precision. Who needed a human top when you had a Dikdoe that never tired, never complained, and came with a 5-year warranty?
I lived in a tiny apartment on the 87th floor of Rainbow Towers, a building where the walls vibrated with the moans of bottoms and their Dikdoes. My neighbour, Tunde, was the worst. Every night, his Dikdoe, a model named “Thunderbolt 3000,” would whir into action, and the walls would shake like an over-stimulated drum.
“Chuks, you need to get one!” Tunde would say, his eyes gleaming with post-coital bliss.
“This thing is better than any man! It has 12 speed settings and a self-lubricating feature!”
But I would just smile and shake my head, because my heart yearned for something real, something human, something that wasn’t powered by a lithium-ion battery.
One evening, as the city glowed under a purple sky, I sat in my room, scrolling through the Y platform (formerly X) on my holo-screen. The feeds were filled with ads from The Wills: “Upgrade to the Dikdoe Ultra—now with voice-activated dirty talk!”
I rolled my eyes and sipped my palm wine, the last bottle from a smuggler who claimed it came from the Old Earth plantations. The sh*t had cost over 400 Glitz (around 300K in old money pounds), exchanged for an hour of natural topping energy.
And that’s when I saw it—a post from a user named @LastHope69: “Is there anyone out there who still tops? I’m tired of these machines. I want a real man.”
My heart did a backflip, and my fingers trembled as I typed a private reply: “I’m here. Let’s talk.”
His name was Kelechi, a slender man with eyes like polished onyx and a laugh that could melt a Dikdoe’s circuits. We met at a hidden bar in the Underbelly, a grimy part of New London where the holograms flickered and the air smelled of fried plantain and rebellion. Kelechi wore a khaki jumpsuit that hugged his frame, and when he saw me, he smiled like he’d found water in the Sahara.
“Chuks,” he whispered, leaning close, “are you really… you know?”
I nodded, my chest swelling with pride. “I am the last top, Kelechi. The real deal, no batteries required.”
We talked for hours, our voices low to avoid the prying ears of The Wills’ surveillance bots. Kelechi told me his story—how he’d saved up for a Dikdoe Elite, only to find it cold and soulless.
“It’s not the same,” he said, his voice cracking. “I want to feel a heartbeat, not a motor.”
I reached for his hand, and in that moment, I knew I had found my purpose.
But trouble was brewing. The Wills didn’t become a trillion-credit empire by letting humans defy their monopoly. They had spies everywhere, and word of a human top was like a virus in their perfect system.
The next day, as I walked to the market to buy some suya, a drone buzzed above me, its red eye glowing.
“Citizen Chukwudi Oke-Amu” it droned, “report to The Wills headquarters immediately.”
My stomach dropped like a bag of garri. I knew what this meant. They wanted to erase the last top, to keep their Dikdoe empire unchallenged. But I wasn’t going down without a fight. I ducked into an alley, where Kelechi was waiting with a stolen hoverbike.
“Let’s run,” he said, his eyes fierce. “There’s a rebel camp in the Old Forest. They say there are others like us.”
The Old Forest was a myth, a place beyond the Lake of RuPaul where tech couldn’t reach, where humans lived free from The Wills’ grip. We rode through the night, dodging drones and laser nets, our hearts pounding like talking drums. When we reached the forest, we found them—a ragtag group of bottoms who had rejected Dikdoes, led by a fierce transwoman named Amaka, who called herself the Keeper of Desire.
“You’re really the last top?” she asked, eyeing me like a hawk.
I nodded, and the camp erupted in cheers. They had been waiting for someone like me, someone to remind them of the old ways, before machines ruled love.
But The Wills were relentless. Their drones found us at dawn, their sirens wailing like banshees. Amaka handed me a Gaga blade, its edge glinting with defiance. It was my first time handling a “digital slicer”.
“Fight, Chuks,” she said. “Show them what a real man can do.”
And so, we fought—not just for ourselves, but for every bottom who craved human connection. I swung that blade, cutting through drones like they were overripe pawpaw, while Kelechi and the others disabled their circuits with EMP grenades stolen from a black-market dealer.
In the end, we won, but not without cost. The forest burned, and many were lost. Kelechi and I stood amidst the wreckage, our hands clasped, our bodies bruised but unbroken.
The Wills would come again, but for now, we had carved out a space for love, for humanity, for the tops and bottoms who dared to dream beyond machines.
As the sun rose over New London, I looked at Kelechi and smiled. “No Dikdoe can do this,” I said, pulling him close. And in that moment, we were free. Or so we thought.
That night, a new message appeared on my Y notif panel.
“My name is Jomo. I heard news of what you did. I am like you. I can top too! I am big as well.”
My eyes were wide as I read the message. But instead of sharing the message with the group, I typed:
“I will send you a private location to meet me tomorrow. I want you to top me so I know you are telling the truth!”
