by Lou Cameron
He’d probably mean it until he got another hard on. Sharing, even with a friend, was pushing things to the limit for a properly raised West Point graduate; but he and Gaston had before and would probably do it again. His civilized veneer had been worn pretty thin since meeting Gaston in front of that Mexican firing squad a while back. Fortunately, both he and the sometimes-shocking Gaston were sure enough of each other’s invincible male natures not to be nervous sharing the same bed and broad. He’d never met a man who attracted him sexually and Gaston had reported his few practique experiments in the legion and prison as totally silly and unsatisfactory disasters. It was nice to know an old goat who kept threatening to cornhole you didn’t really want to.
Captain Gringo heard the distant horn again as he moved an. He looked up at the overcast, snapped his fingers, and muttered, “Of course!”
It was a conch shell fog horn. Some native fisherman was blowing the thing, the way they did off other parts of the Latin American coast in murky weather. Some native sailing vessel was sheltering somewhere in a cove. The sounds were all coming from the same direction. Okay, so why sound a conch horn when you were standing still? Easy: it was a signal for someone they expected to meet. It was dark and misty, but not really foggy enough to call for a fog horn under usual circumstances.
He moved back to the fire and put on his boots to kick it out by scattering and sanding the coals. Gaston joined him, naked in the moonlight, and said, “She’s asking for you again. Why are you putting out the fire?”
“You know those smugglers the old man worked for? That’s who must be tooting their tooter about a mile from here.”
“Ah, I, too, thought it might be a conch blown by some unwashed type. They of course have no way of knowing the old Frenchman we buried will not be here to guide them tonight, hein?”
“Right, and they might come looking for him. We’d better drag all our stuff over by Mimi and sit tight until we can see.”
So the two of them picked up and walked over to Mimi, who sat naked on her skirt and asked, in an uncertain voice, “Oh, dear, both of you at once?”
Captain Gringo told her what he thought about the smugglers and added, “No shit, now. We’re all friends, and it won’t hurt your grandfather if you tell us what the hell’s going on, Mimi?”
“I swear I don’t know,” she said. “I told you poor grand-père no longer took me with him into this swamp. I knew of course he was doing something dishonest. After all, he was a criminal when he came here to Guiana long before I was born.”
“Come on, he must have had visitors. This may not seem delicate, but you, ah, screw pretty good for a girl living all alone with her grandfather.”
Mimi lowered her face to her raised knees and murmured, “I was hoping you would not ask about that. I am so ashamed.”
“He did have visitors a lot, huh?”
“No, Deek, I swear he never brought anyone to the house. He was sometimes gone a few days. He left me there alone and told me to say he was on an errand if anyone asked, but nobody ever did. Nobody but the landlord’s agent ever visited our tenant plot.”
“Is that who broke you in, the landlord’s agent?” he asked, and when Mimi shook her head and began to cry some more, Gaston snorted and asked, “For God’s sake, Dick, I know you are one of those tedious New England Puritans, but have you no imagination?”
Captain Gringo nodded and muttered, ‘The old guy was a criminal, wasn’t he?”
Gaston shrugged and said, “He was a man. Let us leave it at that.”
Mimi looked up in the moonlight and asked, “Do you both think I am a whore, now?” and Gaston sat down beside her to sooth, “But of course not, my child. Whores are terrible things who charge for it. Let us say you are a … well, good sport, hein?”
Mimi laughed and wiped her eyes, saying, “I feel so much more comfortable, now that we’re all friends. Who’s turn is it, now?”
“I think we’d better decide that later,” Captain Gringo said, “after we all get some sleep. It’s late and we may have some running to do as soon as the sun comes up.”
He spread his jacket on the sand near Mimi’s skirt and Gaston did the same on the other side. The three lay naked with Mimi between them. It was warm enough to sleep without coverings, but getting to sleep was still a problem. Captain Gringo lay quietly counting sheep as Mimi snuggled against him, with Gaston snuggled against her from the other side. Captain Gringo had a hard on, damn it, but, he’d decided enough was enough and he knew he might need all his strength in the near future. So he ignored it, or tried to, and had almost drifted off when he heard Mimi whisper, “Gaston, you old naughty thing! What are you doing to me back there?”
“Hush, child. I am only doing what comes naturally to a man with an attractive woman’s derrière in his reclining lap, hein?”
She giggled, her face against Captain Gringo’s chest, and whispered, “Idiot, that’s the wrong ... oh, I see it is in the right place, now.”
Captain Gringo opened his eyes with a frown and said, “For God’s sake, troops!” as Mimi began to bounce against him with Gaston pounding her from the far side. She said, “Oh are we disturbing you Deek?” as she slid a questing hand down his belly, grasped his erection, and laughed, “Oh, I see we are.”
He didn’t think it was funny. He told himself he didn’t want the little slut. He might have talked himself into it if she had not moved to her elbows and knees, presenting her rump to Gaston as she proceeded to serve her other companion with her mouth. Captain Gringo hissed in mingled pleasure and disgust, for she did that great, too, and her late grandfather should have been ashamed of himself!
He knew they’d all feel sheepish about this in the morning, but meanwhile it felt wildly wonderful and so they had a totally depraved orgy until both men were exhausted and even Mimi was ready for some sleep. As he fell asleep with Mimi’s head on his lap and her thigh cocked over Gaston’s chest he wondered why he felt so drained and decided, all in all, it had been a long hard day, even for him.
~*~
Captain Gringo awoke with the sun in his eyes and sat up to view the damage. Mimi and Gaston were still asleep, sprawled naked beside him. She looked even better in broad daylight and her sleeping face wore the innocent look of a simple child of nature, which she was, when you came to think of it.
He didn’t see much point in anyone dressing for breakfast, but there was no breakfast, so he hauled on his clothes, strapped on his guns, and went for a dawn patrol before waking his companions.
He could see much better, of course, and headed for the sounds he’d heard in the night, following a treacherous but visible trail through the soggy floating mat between the mangroves. He slowed as the muck gave way to more sand. They’d obviously wandered into some stretch where sea winds had piled sand up between the trees as they reclaimed land from the Atlantic rollers. He saw light ahead and moved cautiously, gun drawn, to where the tree wall ended, facing an indented sandy cove with bare barrier sand banks protecting it from seaward.
A small sailing ketch lay anchored in the secluded and no doubt uncharted cove. A trio of dark mestizo youths was ashore just down the sandy beach. They were digging in the sand. As he watched, one shouted and proceeded to fill the basket he had with what looked like golf balls. Captain Gringo muttered, “Turtle eggs” as he watched from the shelter of the mangroves. He doubted if they were the usual turtle egg hunters. The ketch out there looked fast and sneaky. He decided they were the guys who’d been signaling with the conch last night for the old dead guide. An egg was an egg to anybody, and they were taking advantage of the delay to gather breakfast. It made Captain Gringo hungry as hell to think about it.
One of the others yelled something and he saw they’d caught a sea turtle in some shore brush. He knew sea turtles crawled ashore at night to lay their eggs and escape back to the sea. Apparently they didn’t always make it. The poor brutes were clumsy on land and if they ran into a snag they were stuck.
The th
ree of them hauled the big turtle clear and turned it on its back to wave its flippers listlessly. He’d had turtle soup, so he assumed that was what they had in mind until one of them dropped his pants. Then he muttered, “Oh, shit” as the mestizo youth lowered himself on the female turtle’s breast plate and proceeded to rape her, if rape was the right word. The others were laughing like hell and even Captain Gringo thought it was sort of funny, in a sick silly way. It was one of those things a guy just never thought of until he saw some nut trying it. But the guy humping the turtle looked like he was enjoying himself. They’d doubtless been at sea a while.
The others must have been hard up, too. For when the first idiot finished another mounted the turtle in turn. He was going at it hot and heavy when Gaston nudged Captain Gringo from behind and asked what was going on. The American turned to see Mimi was with him and that they were both still nude. He said, “Put some clothes on before they see you, for God’s sake. A maniac who’d screw a turtle would even rape you, Gaston!”
Gaston peered around him and cackled, “Merde alors, I have heard of this perversion, but I did not think it possible.”
Mimi peeked, too, and giggled. She asked, “I wonder what it’s like?”
“Sorry, Doll,” Captain Gringo said, “no boy turtles. Take her back and put some clothes on her, Gaston. I’ll cover you from here. But make it snappy.”
They faded back into the brush, Gaston lecturing Mimi on the astounding dimensions of a sea turtle’s penis as they got out of ear shot. Captain Gringo turned back to see the third guy was screwing the turtle, now. A man came out on the deck of the ketch and yelled over to them. So they stopped fooling around and one of them even had the decency to turn his sweetheart over and let her work her way back to the safety of the sea. It seemed only right.
The three of them moved down to a little cockleshell and paddled out to the ketch as it weighed anchor. Captain Gringo heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently the smugglers, or whatever, had given up on Mimi’s grandfather and were putting out to sea while they were still ahead.
By the time Gaston and Mimi rejoined him, the ketch was making it out over the bar. From the time they’d taken he assumed they’d done more than dress. He didn’t know why that should give him a tingle, but it did, and that annoyed him.
The problem with sharing was that everyone got to showing off and competing, even if they were all friends. That was the trouble with Queen Victoria’s rules. Some of them made sense. Next time he’d let Gaston get his own girl.
As the ketch sailed away he gave them his ideas about it and added, “We may as well gather some turtle eggs ourselves before we start looking for the right path through to the north.”
As he stepped out on the sand, Gaston asked, “Can’t we just follow this beach, Dick?” and Captain Gringo said, “No. That’s not a point of land, there to the north. Its mangroves grow in at least three feet of water. This area’s like the hammock we spent the night on. A freak sand pile in a much bigger mess of glug.”
Mimi said she knew how to hunt turtle eggs. So that was what they assumed she meant to do when she scampered down to the water line. But then she waded out, clothes and all, to paddle happily about in the warm water. Gaston sighed and said, “Ah, to be young and foolish once more. About last night, Dick ...”
“Hey, I told you to get some of it while it was hot. Why should you be left out when she’s even gone sixty-nine with her own grandfather?”
Gaston grimaced and said, “I am usually a good sport about that, too. But all in all, I was not up to oral sex with a lady who needed a bath so badly. I think it might be a good idea if we all had a good soak, clothing and all. Between pepper juice and Mimi juice I am trés gamey enough to be detected hiding in a wood pile, hein?”
So they went down to the water, put their guns, boots and pocket contents on the sand to stay dry, and waded in to join Mimi in a cleansing dip. Captain Gringo knew the salt would make them all itchy as it dried, but a clean itch beat jungle rot. And clean clothes and bodies were harder to smell if they had to hide close to anyone.
The wet clothing was heavy, though. So once he’d rinsed as much sweat out as he could, Captain Gringo came ashore to spread his things on a fallen log to dry in the sun as he enjoyed a cooler naked swim. Mimi and Gaston thought it was a good idea and they wound up splashing, laughing, and playing grab-ass in the water until he told them to get serious and help him find some breakfast
The three walked naked as children along the beach until Mimi spotted a place that looked pretty much like any other and began to scoop sand away, pretty as a picture, innocent as Eve before The Fall, and lusty enough for a dozen men to elbow one another out of the way to get at. She drew a turtle egg from the damp sand, brushed it off, and began to suck it, raw. Captain Gringo grimaced but Gaston said, “Let us admit she is practique. The whites stay runny even when they are cooked, and taste no better.”
So the three of them squatted naked together, sucking eggs, and Captain Gringo could remember worse breakfasts, although he knew it was hunger more than the taste that made the glue-flavored eggs so delicious this morning.
They moved on, sated but exploring like kids left unguarded to play pirate, or in Mimi’s case, maybe doctor.
It took the Creole girl an hour or so to find the right path through the mangroves again. But after that the day passed almost anti-climactically. Even Mimi was too jaded to suggest sex as they took a few rest breaks and pressed ever onward to the north-west. There was no point in stopping to eat, since they had nothing to eat, and mangrove fruit picked on the fly took care of thirst as the day wore on.
The sun was low in the west again and the sky was the color of a flamingo’s ass by the time she led them out into cultivated cane fields and said, “You see? I told you I knew the way.”
Gaston drew a pocket knife and cut some sugar cane to chew as Captain Gringo asked Mimi how far they were from Sinnamary. She pointed with her chin and said, “A few hours walk that way, Deek. I have been thinking and I don’t think it would be wise for me to go all the way into town with you. The relations I told you about live over in that direction and it may be best if I arrived alone. I would not wish for them to think I was a wicked girl and—”
“I understand,” he cut in, realizing that people down here seemed to think any woman left alone with a man un-chaperoned couldn’t be trusted. It was beginning to appear there might be a point to quaint native customs. In a society where girls never got the chance to fend off men with flutters and faints, they had no practice at saying no. He wondered if Mimi knew what the word meant.
He accepted the length of cane Gaston handed him, but Mimi refused, saying only poor people ate raw sugar from the cane. She seemed to be getting more proper every step away from the deserted swamplands. It was only fair. She’d acted the other way going in.
Mimi led them to where the path they were on joined a wagon road. Then she turned shyly and said, “I must leave you now, my friends. I thank you for all you’ve done for me, and I direct you to go with God.”
Captain Gringo nodded and started to kiss her goodbye, but Mimi blushed and turned away, saying, “Please, Deek, don’t spoil it. What if someone should see us?”
He laughed and said that sounded reasonable. So they parted with no further ceremony. As he and Gaston trudged on, Gaston asked, “Was that wise, Dick? Her grandfather was part of that smuggling gang and we still don’t know what they were up to.”
“Forget it,” Captain Gringo said. “She didn’t know anything about her late grandfather, except that he liked incest a lot.”
“Ah, that one can understand, perverse as it may be, given the choice of one’s hand or a beautiful young girl, forbidden by the usual customs or not. But to get back to his gang—”
“Hey, you get back to his gang, Gaston. I don’t give a shit what they were up to back there. I just want to get out of this crazy colony. Everybody we meet is up to something, and none of them make sense. The Dutchman screwe
d us out of the money for those arms. I don’t know who the fuck wants us to get Captain Dreyfus out of jail. And I’d say smuggling was a cottage industry down here. You think we’ll find a shady skipper with a boat out of here, once we reach Sinnamary? By the way, what the hell kind of a name is Sinnamary? It’s not Spanish or French.”
Gaston said, “It’s Holland Dutch. I told you they used to trade colonies down here. Another reason things are, how you say, so fucked up. The Dutch had all of Guiana or what they insist is Surinam first. The French and British decided they wanted to play, too. So every time somebody lost a war in Europe they reshuffled the deck. I think the Dutch gave up their claims on your New York in exchange for the British agreement not to take any more of Surinam from them.”
“How did the French get into this neck of the woods?”
“Oh, France wins wars once in a while, rumor to the contrary notwithstanding. I am trés vague on ancient history, but obviously Sinnamary was once a Dutch outpost. Now it is French. Cayenne and Sinnamary form the corners of a triangle with Devil’s Island at the point off shore.”
“Hmm, then Sinnamary imports prison labor, too?”
“But of course. Who do you think grows all this cane, people who don’t have to? Aside from the few free peasants, like the amusing girl we just left, almost anyone you meet down here without a necktie is a prisoner or paroled and involuntary colonist.”
Captain Gringo said, “Let’s get out of here before we meet too many more of them, then. You were about to tell me about a tramp steamer back to Costa Rica.”
“I was? Merde alors, I am homesick for the only country down here that seems undismayed by our survival, Dick. But I don’t know the knockaround crowd in Sinnamary any better than yourself. I thought I had friends in Cayenne, but as you know, the Dutchman and his gang are not as sentimental as myself about old comrades. The trouble with looking up French criminals in this country is that there are simply too many French criminals for them to stick together.”