The men cluster around me. From old to young, they are almost every size, shape, and tone that one can possibly imagine. Some are tall and lean, although many are shorter and more robust, like Nando. Some have dark hair, eyes, and complexions, while others are paler. All, however, from the big ones to the small, have a natural muscle tone, typical of people who move, work, and play—more like the sailors I knew down at the docks and not at all like the spongy-bodied hothouse plants or contrived gym-rats at university.
Once we’re seated, the flutes and xylophones begin to play again while small groups of young men—adolescent boys really—dressed in plain white like Nando appear, carrying what seems like an endless stream of food: steamed fish wrapped in banana leaves, pots of meat stew, loaves, buns, and flat tortillas, and arrays of roasted corn on sticks, mounds of potatoes, sweet potatoes, and other roots I’ve never seen before. There are piles of red and orange tropical fruit of all sizes and shapes, which—to my northern eyes—look like fruit from another planet.
Splayed out on a large platter is a stuffed baked snake with the skin still on. Someone puts a bowl in front of my face. I look and flinch in horror at its contents—large roasted rhinoceros beetles floating in a slimy-looking bluish sauce. My stomach rolls, and I start to gag. But rather than offending my hosts, my squeamish reactions entertain them, and they laugh and jeer with one another.
“It’s probably best you don’t tell me what I’m eating until tomorrow,” I whisper to Nando. “Or better yet, never tell me.”
Nando hands me a gourd. “Here, drink this.”
I hold the spout to my lips, tip my head back, and take a sip. The beer or the wine, or whatever it is—I’ll call it grog—is warm, thick, and viscous. I recognize the taste instantly from when I was ill. More than the sweet herbal taste, I recall the warm swaying feeling of bliss. After a few swigs, my initial discomfort flows away and I feel completely at ease, safe and secure, like I have just been reunited with all my dear old friends, rather than in the center of a strange ceremony amongst strangers.
I’m about to take another large swig when Nando gently taps the grog gourd in my hand. “Tsk, tsk.” He clicks his tongue. “Drink slowly. There is much more feast yet to come.”
I smile, amused at his ever-watchful maternal care, and continue to pick at what looks like a baked potato.
As the feast progresses, the men shift their seats, continually changing position and moving slowly closer and closer to me. Little by little Nando slides back on the platform until I lose track of where he actually is. I assume he’s somewhere amongst the gathering nearby. Almost imperceptibly, the men sitting around me and against me begin to lightly touch and stroke my feathers, hair, and shoulders. Whether it’s the natural easiness of the environment or the effect of the grog or both, I feel no apprehension or shyness. Their brushes and fleeting touches progress to caresses along my arms, legs, back, and stomach. All this touching somehow seems to compensate for our inability to speak directly. At some point, a radiant young man’s face appears inches from my own. With his hands gently on my cheeks, he captures my mouth with his kiss. From then on I’m, shall I say, lost. As his tongue moves in and out of my mouth, I feel my entire body being engulfed by licks and kisses, while my feather cape is being loosened and my loincloth unfolded. I do not resist. I lie backward on the platform, ready to give and receive.
Up until then, I had only experienced illicit gropes, furtive masturbation games, and drunken desperate liaisons in dirty dark hideaways, down at the docks in Montreal. Here, under an open sky and flickering torchlights in front of whomever cares to watch and join in, I have sex. It’s more than organs rubbing and penetrating following a hormonal imperative. It’s whole masculine bodies—warm, wet, hairy, and smooth—touching, exploring, and communicating. I swim through a sea of probing tongues, entwining limbs, and wriggling torsos, all moving with the same desire to please and be pleased. Moans and grunts and animal sounds blend with drums, flutes, and percussion. And just as I surrender to complete sensuality, content to remain in this hedonistic state forever, I feel my body tighten, and an enormous wave of orgasm flows through me.
The man who is sucking me at the time bears down, and I grasp his head with both my hands and pump vigorously until I can no longer hold it. I shoot into his mouth.
Immediately after licking the last of my spurts, he rises to his feet and dashes off. I just assume he’s going to spit. All around me, half beneath me, half on top of me, men are grunting and moaning their arrival. Hungry mouths engulf cocks, and as with me, once the suckers have their mouths full, they spring to their feet and disappear around the corner of the platform.
I should take more notice, but by now, a herd of pink elephants flying by wouldn’t rouse more than my passing attention. I lie there amongst the heap of sweaty, musky, and slippery men, and I’m one of them. For the first time in my life, sex does not feel dirty.
After resting awhile, some of the men began to stir, and water and grog are passed around. The drums begin again, and one by one the men get up to dance. They float in rhythmic unison like schools of fish. Their movements and gestures are like words from a poem in a foreign tongue. They slip in and out of the shadows, wrapping their bodies around each other as if they were snakes.
One young man with fiery red hair and freckles takes my arm and pulls me to my feet. I protest lightly, but admittedly I have never missed an opportunity to dance. I soon discover, however, that my stiff two-step attempts to follow the music leaves everyone in gales of laughter. Just as I’m about to resign myself to observer and not participant, two muscular men sandwich me between their bodies, rolling me like a wave. Like everything so far, all I’m required to do is relax and allow myself to be swept along. And I do. Floating through the night, dancing, drinking, and sex are my only measures of passing time.
But no party lasts forever. By the time the squawking birds announce the coming of dawn, I’m in no condition to stand, much less return to the cottage on my own. I suddenly realize that the man whose chest and abdomen I’ve been reclining on is Luca.
“Time to go home, party boy,” he says. “Kizo will carry you.” A giant of a man, who has a body that appears to be carved out of stone, lifts me into his arms.
“Pico, give us a hand,” Luca says, and a smallish man with a wiry body and an oversized head hangs on to my arm as he struggles to carry the bundle of costume I shed earlier.
Once inside my cottage, the little guy carefully sets my stuff in the corner. The giant places me into my hammock, and Luca rocks it. I try to kiss them to thank them, but I’m unable to find the strength, and I simply smile. Nando is fast asleep in a hammock near mine. Luca, Kizo, and Pico flop down together on a pile of pillows, curl up like a litter of puppies, and fall asleep.
I lie in my hammock swinging gently—still floating from the grog—and admire Luca’s face and body as he sleeps. But more than that, I admire the way he always seems at ease and in control of everything and everybody around him—including me.
I don’t know if I love him, but I do know I want to be like him.
GUY LEANED back comfortably in the sofa. “Doc. Let me say that in my lifetime, I have been to many parties: circuit parties, grand balls, theme parties, and orgies, with VIPs, royalty, common folk, and riffraff. But none have ever compared to that night I joined the Green brotherhood. God, what a night—and I was the life of the party.” Guy raised his hand triumphantly. “No, I was the party!”
Richard tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.
Guy slowly lowered his hand. “And after that night—” He grinned. “—I walked like a turkey for days!”
Richard’s lips parted, and he broke into laughter. “You know of course the cardinal rule of psychoanalysis,” Richard said, still giggling. “Never laugh at your patients, at least not to their faces.”
Guy beamed with satisfaction.
“Feeling better?” Richard said.
“As a matter of fact, I am. Th
anks, Doc.” Guy raised his cup to take a drink but stopped. “I just wish I could turn it off—this junk that keeps rattling around in my head—or at least turn the volume down a little bit.”
“That’s what we are trying to do here—make you more comfortable with whatever it is that is so difficult.” Richard glanced over to the recorder on the desk. The green light was still on.
“My problem is,” Guy said softly, “I’m no longer sure if the line between reality and fantasy is so absolute.” He rose to his feet and left.
Chapter 7: Fitting In
GUY WALKED into the studio humming. He placed the coffee on the corner of Richard’s desk and sat down on the sofa, still humming to himself.
Richard looked up from his e-mail and smiled. “Good morning.”
“Sorry,” Guy said too loudly as he pointed to the earphones in his ears. He removed them and then said in a quieter voice, “I like to listen to music when I’m out in public. It gives me a little space, protects me.”
“What do you like to listen to?” Richard fumbled around his desk until he found his tape recorder. He got up, went over, and sat down on the swivel chair facing Guy.
“Mostly simple pop tunes. In amongst the fluff and stuff, I always find one song that has something to say.”
“And what are you listening to this morning?”
“‘Y.M.C.A.’”
“‘Y.M.C.A.’?” Richard laughed. “My old aunt makes me dance that song with her at every family wedding.”
“Yes, but apart from being the anthem for tasteless breeding rituals”—Guy waved his hand dismissively—“that song is interesting because it uses two of the four principles of lying.”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me about it.”
“Oh yes.” Guy held up one finger. “First, give the people what they want to see and hear, and they will believe it. See, back in the eighties this group of clowns appeared on the scene dressed up like every gay cliché in the book, and everybody loved them—one big joke.”
Richard nodded in agreement. “Okay, I’m with you so far.”
“And second.” Guy held up two fingers. “The best way to hide something is in plain view. Even if it was nothing more than a marketing scheme, finally here was a song that spoke directly to us fags.”
“I guess gay people have come a long way since the Stonewall riots.”
“Have we?” Guy sneered. “So why are you still hiding?”
Richard’s expression went flat.
Guy continued, “Anyway, it was as if they were sending an encoded message in that stupid song that said there is a place where you can go where you will be safe.”
Richard interlaced his fingers and swayed the chair back and forth for a second, then stopped. “And where’s your safe place, Guy?” he asked as if he were making a challenge.
“I think we both know the answer to that, don’t we?” Guy smiled coyly. “Shall we go there?” He stared at the wall above Richard’s head and continued with his story.
THE MORNING following the party I feel self-conscious and don’t know how to react, but everyone I run into is so casual and friendly—like we are old mates—that in no time my shyness disappears. For the next few weeks Luca and I become caught up in some kind of tropical erotic fantasy. We plan our days and nights around sex: on the pyramid mound, in the jungle, on the beach, in just about every imaginable place and with every imaginable combination of men. We are the new boys in town: a curiosity, outsiders to this small community, no real threat to anyone and therefore of interest to almost everyone. Since we can’t speak their language, we let our dicks do the talking, at first gorging ourselves on the most beautiful men, like Den the ebony-skinned angel and Lalli, who looks like Michelangelo’s David.
Living arrangements are quite casual, and men pretty much seem to stay wherever and with whomever they want, provided they are welcome. I feel welcome with Nando, so I stay put. Actually, maybe I’m falling for him, even though he seems to be the one man on the whole island who won’t have sex with me. Meanwhile, Luca moves in with Kizo the Giant. In that silly old battered Spanish conquistador helmet and breastplate he always wears to ceremonies, Kizo looks kind of like a very big little boy playing pirate or superhero. Maybe it’s the contradiction between his imposing physical strength and his sweet nature that excites Luca. At first I’m a little jealous, but try as I might to the contrary, I can’t help liking Kizo too.
Pico, the skinny, spidery man who had helped deliver me home after my welcoming ceremony, is a constant presence at Nando’s—popping in suddenly, staying for as long as he pleases, and darting off just as suddenly. I figure he’s either Nando’s brother or best friend. They don’t seem to distinguish much between the two, and even when I ask I don’t get a straight answer.
Of course, life on the island is more than one grand sex orgy, and the daily routine has a funny way of making everything, no matter how exotic or unusual, seem normal. For the most part, the pace is slow and rhythmic, like a delicate Caribbean breeze, and the land and sea provide all that’s needed. However, collecting nature’s abundant gifts requires hours of manual labor, and it’s not long before Luca and I start going out fishing with Kizo and Pico every morning.
It’s still a good hour before dawn. Nando is up stoking the fire, making fresh corn cakes, and brewing coffee by the time Pico and I flop out of our hammocks. We wander out to the front veranda, yawning and scratching our bums. Nando smiles and passes me a gourd full of hot coffee. Then with his fingertips he gingerly picks a corn cake off the flat roasting rock and hands it to me.
“Watch. It is hot.”
I lightly toss it up and down until it’s cool enough to eat. Pico leans over and spears a roasting cake with a stick, holds it to his mouth, and blows on it.
I pop a piece of corn cake into my mouth, chew a couple of times, and speak with my mouth half-full. “When are you going to come out fishing with us?”
“I told you. I must stay and mind the children.” Nando looks a little irritated.
“I know,” I say. “It’s just that it would be more fun if you came along.” I cringe a little, hoping I haven’t revealed my growing feelings too much.
“I cannot, but if you bring home a big fish, I will forgive you for abandoning me.” Nando smiles and winks.
Pico grabs hold of my elbow and pulls me toward the steps. “It’s a deal.” I down my coffee and hand the empty gourd to Nando.
“Wait! Don’t forget your hat and sun cream.”
I wriggle my arm from Pico’s grip as Nando passes me a shallow basket and a coconut shell filled with a greasy white compound. Pico and I hurry down the steps and along the trail.
By the time we reach the beach, the men are already gathered, preparing their nets, yawning, and discussing the day’s strategies. Kizo and Luca are waiting impatiently with the canoe in the water, net, hooks, and spears ready. “Hurry, hurry. We can’t trade old fish for new potatoes,” Kizo calls.
Luca holds the canoe steady as Pico jumps in the bow and I climb in the center facing the stern. Luca gets in beside me. Kizo gives the boat a strong shove, hops into the stern, and paddles us out toward the reef.
As we glide out of the sandy bay and into deeper water, I gaze back at the dark silhouette of the hills. Halfway up I spot a procession of torches, like a giant glowing centipede. I can just hear singing over the sound of the surf, and I smile. It must be the women heading up to their plantations. At first I think it strange that Luca and I haven’t met any of the women, but by now it’s quite clear that there is a distinct separation between the men’s world and the women’s.
I turn and look ahead toward the reef and the melon-stained horizon. With every undulation of the sea, the morning becomes a little brighter. Soon the blistering sun will climb into the sky and beat down on my delicate skin. I take the coconut shell filled with a concoction of coconut butter, white clay, aloe, and herbs Nando had prepared for me. Precariously balanced in the center of our tippy
dugout canoe, I twist and shift as I spread greasy cream over even the tiniest piece of exposed skin.
“You look like a big mayonnaise sandwich.” Luca reaches over, scoops out some cream, and spreads it on my back. My skin tingles with his strong, gentle touch.
“Better a sandwich than burned toast,” I say as I fasten my basket on my head with a string tied under my chin.
Now, covered white, tip to end, with a basket tied to my head, I’m ready to greet the sun. I look at the other three, majestically posed in the canoe, the early morning light caressing their half-naked, tanned bodies, and I feel like a white toad sitting amongst gods.
Kizo paddles us out to our usual spot at a break in the reef. While he fishtails his broad paddle to steady the canoe, Luca stands straddling the gunwales and gathers the net in pleats. Then with a smooth sweeping gesture, he flings it out into the air. I watch it spread like the wings of a butterfly and settle flat on the surface of the water, making a gentle splatter. The weights pull one side of the net down with them, while the row of corks tied to the other side bob on the surface, and the net floats into place like a curtain. Kizo maneuvers the canoe away from the net, and all we have to do for now is wait for fish. Pico hangs over the bow, playing with his fingers in the water and singing a little song to himself, while Luca and I lean against each other and doze with the gentle rocking waves.
After an hour or so, Kizo senses the time is right and paddles close to the floating net. While Kizo steadies the canoe, Luca grabs the leads and straddles the gunwales. Then he pulls the net closed like a giant purse and hauls in our catch: yellow jack this time. As he hauls, Pico and I grab the slippery fish behind their gills, trying to avoid getting stuck by their dorsal spines as we untangle them and toss them into a couple of large baskets before they can wriggle from our hands back into the water.
Eating the Moon Page 7