Marinheiro só
Todo de branco
Then he pulled off his pants to reveal only a sequined G-string covering his manhood. The rest of his exquisite body, to the crowd's rowdy delight, was completely and beautifully naked--except for the combat boots that went up halfway to his knees, and the white sailor's cap that tilted rakishly atop his buzzed black hair.
Marinheiro só
Com seu bonezinho
Marinheiro só
Rosa rubbed his shoulders, then kneaded his round, perfect buttocks as he buried his head in her neck. She locked her thumbs into the G-string and pulled it down his body, teasingly, until it dropped easily onto the stage between his black-booted feet.
He kicked it to the wings.
The realization that he was now completely exposed sent a crazed cheer up from the crowd, and at once the music changed from the languid torch song she'd been caterwauling to a panicked, cheesy dance beat. Rosa then went from singing the words in Portuguese to lip-synching the lyrics (badly, Arthur noted) in English, while the boy rubbed himself on her, and one hand kneaded his ass while the other fiddled with the cock that was buried, at that moment, in her sequined folds.
I am not from here
Lonely sailor
I don't have love
I am from Bahia
From São Salvador.
Suddenly the young man spun around to wag himself at the crowd, and the audience released a barrage of whistles and howls and whoops, and Rosa held his backside against her body and tugged at his cock enticingly. Arthur looked over at Jeremy and Carlo and saw they were gaped-mouthed and their eyes were huge and blood blushed their cheeks and they were sitting ramrod straight.
Oh, sailor, sailor
Who taught me to swim?
Was it the sinking of the ship?
Was it the balancing of the ocean?
The sailor jumped from the stage and made his way from table to table as the dance beat spun, and he allowed everyone he encountered to grope him and tug him and knead his ass and kiss his beautiful crimson lips.
But when he arrived at Arthur's stool he climbed up onto his lap, then grabbed his hand and pressed it flat to his chest. And Arthur laughed in spite of himself, and squeezed the hard, hot, muscled flesh, and cradled his manhood before kissing the boy's neck. Next the young man did the same to Jeremy, while virtually ignoring Carlo, and Arthur saw Jeremy grasp the bobbing penis and pinch his nipples while the dancer rubbed the fabric atop Jeremy's crotch with both hands.
Finally the dancer jumped down and bounded up onto the stage, where Rosa, standing behind him, caressed his torso with one hand and jacked him with her other, and he threw back his head and bowed his legs and ejaculated onto the filthy stage.
Here he comes, here he comes
He is happily arriving
All in white, with his little cap.
The crowd roared, and Arthur glanced at the boys and saw that Jeremy's eyes were alight, but Carlo's smile had vanished.
At once he became self-conscious and regretted what had occurred; he knew better.
He should have pushed the dancer away--politely, of course.
But why?
Because each at the table knew the other was a rabid man-lover, but Arthur and Jeremy had never displayed any manifestation of their shared sexuality to the other; it felt now as if they had peeked into each other's bedrooms while the other was engaged.
The music finished and the curtain dropped and the three faced one another.
"I want another beer," Jeremy announced happily, but Carlo shook his head.
"I'm kinda tired," he told him. "I went to bed really late last night and didn't sleep on the plane. And I want to get an early start tomorrow so I can find my cousin--
he's up in one of those big stinky favelas we went by."
"But there's another show right now," Jeremy argued. "You can't see stuff like this back home."
"Jeremy, we do have a big day tomorrow," Arthur countered, nodding at Carlo. "I think we should probably get back. But we shouldn't walk from here, and the later it gets, the harder it is to find a cab."
"All right," Jeremy said, his voice heavy with resignation."I've seen more tonight anyway than I thought I ever would." Then he shot Arthur a leer.
* * *
The cab dropped them off under the portico of the hotel, and moments later they were breathing the fresh, refrigerated air of their suite. The young men wished Arthur good night, gave him a hug, and then rushed off to their quarters so that Jeremy, in accordance with Carlo's facetious demands, could sterilize his hands.
Arthur, in turn, shut himself into his own room for the night, shucked his clothes and slid between the cool, freshly pressed sheets.
Moments later it became evident that the boys were playing, and the gentle moans coming through the walls, along with the last hour's contact with the stripper's sweating muscles, made him hard--so he flipped over and buried his face in the pillow.
He heard a rap on his door, so he pulled on his jeans.
Jeremy stood with only a towel around his lower half. "Sorry." He giggled.
"Not a problem. What do you need?" He tried to hold Jeremy's eyes with his own, so his gaze wouldn't drift down that perfect torso to the tube of flesh tenting the white towel wrapped around his waist.
"Do you have any lube?" he asked, shifting his stance into an alluring contrapposto.
"I think I have some in my shaving kit." He opened the door wider, and Jeremy followed him. "You need condoms, too?"
"Nah," he replied, while Arthur rummaged in the bathroom. "Carlo got tested, and he's the only guy I've ever been with."
"I'm not going to lecture you about safe sex," he said, while handing him the tiny bottle, "but you know there's more than just HIV that's transmissible, right?"
"Sure," he replied dully. "So what about you, Arthur? You always safe?" He shook the small plastic container suggestively back and forth.
"Of course," he lied, remembering how much Danny had loved to fuck him bareback. But then, they had been tested and were monogamous, as well. "But it's been so long that I can hardly remember."
"Well, I'll bet you get lucky on this trip."
"I doubt it," Arthur told him. "But if I do, I'll know where I can borrow some lube.
Now, go play with your boyfriend--I'm sure he's got his ankles tucked sufficiently behind his ears by now."
"Thanks, Dad," Jeremy told him, then sauntered away.
He closed his door, dropped his pants and climbed back into bed.
Dad, the word echoed inside his head.
He flipped onto his stomach and wrapped his arms around the fluff of the hotel pillow, as Jeremy's nearly naked silhouette haunted him.
Did he really want to bed him? What would he do if the situation were to come his way? He knew he would never pursue him; his years in the Marines had trained him to do without, to deny his urges and to appraise quickly any crisis, then respond accordingly--with equal consideration given to both the short and the long run.
I'll never again allow myself to imagine making love with that boy.
Instead, he pictured Jeremy in bed with him. Spooning. The heat of his back against his chest. His velvet buttocks against his cock, and the backs of his legs welded to his knees. He'd rest his chin in the crook of his neck and throw his protective arms around his shoulders and sleep.
He smiled into his pillow; then his lips kissed cotton.
Chapter 16
"Mr. Tyler?"
"Mr. Blauefee...this is," he murmured drowsily into the phone.
"Your car, she awaits for you downstairs, please."
"Thank you," he replied, hung up, and then looked at his watch.
Shit! He'd forgotten to order a wake-up call.
Less than half an hour later they stepped from the lobby out into the oppressive morning heat of the hotel's portico, where they saw the barrel-chested, bald-headed driver from the day before, smoking and chatting into his cell
phone as he leaned against the white Denali. The man's head jerked upward as they drew near; then he stamped out his cigarette and clipped shut his phone, while Arthur and Jeremy and Carlo, looking like out-of-uniform flight attendants, rolled their bags over to the idling vehicle. Moments later, with their luggage stored behind the seats and their armpits and faces moist even from that mild exertion, they strapped themselves into the backseat as the behemoth lurched away from the curb.
"Do you think we still have time to find Afonso?" Carlo asked Arthur. "The map I checked made it look like the favela Dona Marta is on our way to the airport."
"Why don't you ask your man?" Arthur suggested. "He's the tour director."
Jeremy shook his head, keeping his eyes focused out the window. "We're supposed to be at the airport by now," he said. "Sorry, but we got started too late."
Carlo's face reddened and his eyes narrowed. "But you promised me, Jeremy. You know how important this is to me--and it's not like we're taking a JetBlue flight. It's a private plane, so it'll leave when we get there."
"Oh, now you're going to keep a private jet waiting for us?" Jeremy asked with a sneer. "We'll find him when we get back. And you know how important this is to me."
"But Afonso's sick," Carlo pleaded. "What if something happens to him between now and then?"
"A few days won't matter. It's just gonna have to wait until we get back."
Carlo bit his lip and, with his arms crossed, looked out the window.
The driver snickered something under his breath in Portuguese.
" Cale a boca e dirija," Carlo told him crossly. And with that, none of the men made any more conversation for the remainder of their bumpy, frantic ride.
* * *
After being ushered through one of the airport's unmarked entrance gates, they rolled onto the tarmac toward the section that served as a parking lot for dozens of private aircraft. There the driver steered them down one row and up another, until hurtling finally toward a waiting Gulfstream III with its twin engines, like giant white lipstick tubes, sending heat shimmers above the outstretched, bent-tipped wings.
They stopped and unloaded; then, as they made their way toward the plane, the single clamshell door opened and extended tonguelike onto the tarmac. A slight, silver-haired man in a gray suit waved from inside the doorway, so Arthur raised his hand in reply.
After they'd pulled themselves and their bags up the stairs, the elegant man, who introduced himself as Mauricio, showed them to their seats--a narrow leather sofa paralleled by puffy leather loungers the color of marshmallows--where they sat down and snapped together their lap belts.
"This is so cool," Jeremy remarked as he ran his hands along a section of the glossy olive burl that ran the length of the plane's interior, and adjusted his chair's air-conditioning vents at his face. "I can't believe we're actually on a private plane."
"I thought I was about to get a cavity filled," Carlo noted sourly, pushing his lounger back into a reclining position. "I just hope the dentist washed his hands."
Jeremy snapped his head toward him. "Why do you have to say things like that all the time?"
Carlo raised an eyebrow. "You don't like me talking about dentists?"
Jeremy glowered. "You know what I'm talking about. Why can't you just appreciate where we are, instead of being so bitchy? It's not like you're ever going to do something like this for me."
"I'm just joking." Carlo's eyes rolled skyward and his lip curled. "What's wrong with you?"
"If you're pissed off at me, then just say it."
"OK." He leveled his gaze at him. "I'm pissed off at you. Really pissed off."
"About Afonso?"
"No, because I wanted the pink plane," he replied smartly. "Of course I'm pissed about Afonso! You promised me, Jeremy. You said that if I came along to help interpret, you'd help me find him. Today. like we discussed."
"And we will, just not today."
"Guys," Arthur broke in, and then did a head toss in the direction of Mauricio, who was sidling down the aisle toward them.
"You should've just gotten on this thing without me, so I could've found him,"
Carlo muttered.
"It's not too late for you to get off," Jeremy growled.
Mauricio drew up next to Arthur. "You have had breakfast, sirs?"
They all shook their heads.
"Omelets," he began, obliviously. "I buy them from Rio's best restaurant only an hour ago, sausage and cheese and almonds. And fresh bread. I will get them for you when we get into the air." He turned and marched off to double-check and shake and twist the handle of the exit door. After he was satisfied, apparently, that they weren't all going to be sucked out into a twenty-thousand-foot free fall, he disappeared into the galley as the whistling engines drew up an octave and the plane began speeding down the runway.
Carlo unbuckled his seat belt. "Is it too late to get off this fucking thing?"
"Shut up and sit down," Jeremy barked. "It's moving, in case you couldn't tell."
"Fuck you," Carlo replied. Then he buckled himself into his seat.
Moments later the nose of the aircraft tipped skyward. As they felt the landing gear tuck itself inside the belly of the plane, Arthur watched through his oval window as first some high-rise buildings, then the sandridged, cobalt bay of Rio de Janeiro tilted and shrank beneath them.
Because Jeremy and Carlo were still not speaking, he decided it was time to intervene. "Hey," he said, tapping on the glass, "they actually have cable cars going out to Sugarloaf. When we get back, you want to see that, too?"
Carlo looked over to peer through his window. "Yeah, sure. Maybe we'll get lucky and one of the cables'll snap."
"You're not making things better," Jeremy grumbled.
"Since we seem to be on such a tight schedule," Carlo began, shooting Jeremy a sneer, "I guess I'll just settle for seeing that King Kong Jesus statue. Do you know how you get up there?"
"I saw online that you can take these old red trams up to it," Arthur told him. "Or maybe they even let cabs go up there, too."
Just then, Mauricio appeared pushing a petite, chinkling cart laden with covered plates and pastries and coffee service. "Excuse me, sirs," he interrupted, "but if you want to see El Cristo, you must only ask Dom Fabiano. He can send you with the driver at night for a private tour; it is most amazing after sundown, then when everyone else has gone home."
Arthur was surprised. "They let private tours go up there?"
"For Dom Fabiano, they allow anything," he answered. "Look down there; El Cristo is already telling you to come back."
The three looked through their individual windows to see the enormous statue, glorious in the clear, full-day Brazilian sun, with its arms extended beseechingly.
"So what about this cousin of yours?" Arthur asked Carlo, while pouring himself some coffee. He'd decided, at this point, to ignore the fuming Jeremy.
Carlo grabbed a croissant and bit off half. "I only met him once, when I was a kid,"
he mumbled, then chewed and swallowed. "He was really nice to me, and he wasn't anything like my dad--I do remember that. He's gay, and he's sick, but I'm not sure with what. And I guess he'd be about your age now."
"And somehow, Carlo thinks we can help him," Jeremy added, cutting into his omelet.
"Help him with what?"
"Just give him some money so he can see a good doctor, if they have any down here," Carlo replied. "I don't have much money, but my wonderful boyfriend's promised me he'll do whatever he can."
Jeremy, looking completely exasperated, threw down his fork. "Look, I'm sorry. I promise the second we get back we can look for him...in three days, that's all I'm asking for. We'll be back in Rio in three days."
" Really? "
"I promise."
Carlo picked up his croissant, stuffed the remainder into his mouth, took his time chewing, and then swallowed. "Okay," he said with a satisfied smile.
"I think between the three of us we can find so
me way to help him," Arthur added.
"We'll just take this adventure one step at a time." Then he pushed his recliner back and tried to enjoy the flight.
The jet was flying over open water, with the coast of Brazil now only a low strip of dirty emerald on the eastern horizon; there was no turbulence, and the strong, reassuring whine of the engines was soothing. Out his window he saw, even from their altitude, Curaçao blue waters so perfectly glasslike that even the ragged coral reefs--like submerged continents and archipelagos--were clearly defined against the ocean's sandy bottom. He even spotted an immense school of silvery fish under the plane's trajectory, as fluid and reflective as a billowing cloud of mercury beneath the surface, shifting and turning in on itself as some dolphins raced in.
Then, far out toward the horizon, he noticed a loaf of clouds with billowy tops and flattened bottoms suspended low in the azure sky, their tips frosted vermillion.
It really was beautiful.
The plane banked gently and what appeared to be their destination drifted into view, looking like the oversized glossy photographs from the architect's conference room. As they drew nearer and the plane began its descent and the island grew bigger, Arthur began making out the details of the place: its crust of ivory sand and its broccoli-colored slopes, its shaggy, waving palm trees and its wrinkling, crescent bay. But the most startling feature of the island was the tremendous dung-colored monolith, like an immense granite breast that thrust up from the island's heart--as if from Yemanji herself.
The island, and its surrounding sapphire bath, was breathtaking and dazzling and unlike anything he'd ever seen before.
It was Hawai'i--as seen through the bewitched, doomed eyes of Captain Cook.
He tore his gaze from the window and saw that Jeremy was grinning at the glass, his dark eyes wide and his back ramrod straight.
"Oh, my God, Arthur, it's so beautiful!" he said. "Don't you think so, Carlo?"
Carlo nodded. "It's gorgeous, baby."
The plane banked more sharply, and they curved around to the other side of the island, where the resort emerged from the jungle. Arthur spotted the half-glassed skeleton of a modernist tower underneath a towering crane to the right, and next to that what appeared to be a meandering Spanish colonial town under construction, while at the farthest curve of the island a sprawling Tahitian village stood, with palapa roofs and an empty concrete lagoon rimmed with boulders. It looked exactly like the scale model from the architect's office, only halfway completed.
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