Bali Bule Hunter

by Michael Powers

  A Balinese waiter in tight lavender shorts and pink tank top pranced over to Greg. “Something for you, sir?”

  “I’m looking for a white man in his sixties and his Indonesian boyfriend,” Greg replied, smiling hopefully.

  “Ah, we got many couple like that,” the waiter winked. “Good luck to find.”

  After only ten minutes, Greg left Patar, but not empty-handed. He caught a taxi to Rainbow, reading napkins Patar patrons shoved in his pockets as he wandered around. Two dozen hastily scrawled notes invited him to have sex. One note had a detailed description of the delights waiting for him, but most were simply names and phone numbers.

  The next stop was in an area known as Seminyak, north of Greg’s hotel. Nestled among a row of trendy clubs, Rainbow bustled from midnight until the wee hours, so Greg arrived as the crowd was peaking. He wandered around the main floor, circling the large oval bar where nearly naked boys pranced back and forth. Then he checked the dance floor and outdoor patio. Next, he sprinted upstairs, searched the balcony, bar, and a cozy lounge area with some impressive original artwork, but saw neither Ted nor Donny. Greg went downstairs and parked himself at an empty spot by the large oval bar. Scanning the crowd repeatedly, he scrutinized each new arrival, desperately hoping to spot Ted or Donny. As he watched the dancers tease the crowd by tugging their thongs, one of them approached Greg seductively. Squatting next to Greg, the sweaty young man cupped his hands over his mouth, shouting above the music, “Hiya gorgeous! Wanna sex me? You so hot, I do free!”

  Greg shook his head politely which puzzled the dancer. His pouty frown demanded an explanation, so Greg hollered, “Thanks, but I’m with someone!”

  The dancer brightened and held up three fingers, indicating his interest in a three-way.

  Greg admired the dancer’s persistence, but shook his head.

  “Tomorrow?” the dancer suggested. “Offer still good, k?”

  Greg nodded politely, not wishing to offend. After another tour of Rainbow, Greg decided neither Ted nor Donny were there. Disappointed, he headed for the next place on his list, collecting more napkin sex invitations on the way out the door. By 2 a.m. he’d visited seven of the eight places on his list. He saved the Last Call disco for the end since it was where many Bali gays finished the evening. A short drive from Rainbow, the Last Call stood alone at the end of a road bearing its name. It was a small building, just big enough to store furniture, liquor, and other supplies needed to run an outdoor dance club. A circle of brightly colored lights surrounded by plastic tables and chairs formed the dance area.

  One of the first to arrive, Greg sat at a table watching the dance floor fill with new arrivals. He noticed many couples left the dance floor, heading for the beach, but none returned. Wondering what the attraction was, he discreetly followed a couple. Greg held back, staying behind a stone wall which ran the length of the beach. The young Indonesian led his older white dance partner to a tree, then gracefully tossed his pants and shirt on the sand. The young man aroused his older partner with his tongue and hands. When the older man was sufficiently excited, his partner slipped a condom on him, then turned around and offered himself. After several minutes of panting and groaning, the older man gasped, then zipped his pants and left the beach. The young Indonesian carried his clothes to the water’s edge, and then smeared mud all over his body. Wading into the ocean, he scrubbed his skin thoroughly, then rinsed himself.

  Greg had seen enough. Certain Last Call wasn’t his uncle’s kind of place, Greg walked back to the main road and caught a taxi back to the Kuta Sands.

  Exhausted from his four hour excursion into Bali’s night life, Greg slept until noon. He showered, then dressed in tan shorts, sandals, and a yellow shirt. Next, he checked his e-mail and found twenty-nine responses to his fake profile. None were from Donny, so he deleted the entire batch. He sent a brief report to Jaya, assuring him he was well and missed him. Satisfied he’d answered every e-mail which deserved a reply, he left the hotel on foot, in search of coffee and food.

  Ten steps outside the hotel, a thin layer of sweat covered Greg. Deciding a walk on the beach might be refreshing, he headed for the ocean. He had only taken a few steps onto the crunchy white sand when he was surrounded by children hawking everything from jewelry to drugs. They offered to take his picture, give him a massage, rent folding chairs, sell him bottled water, and more. Shaking his head had the same effect as swatting a housefly, so Greg retreated to the safety of the street.

  Rounding the corner from his hotel, Greg spotted Made’s Warung which promised great cuisine at reasonable prices. He sat outside, where he could watch the busy Kuta shopping district, sipping ice water and coffee as he enjoyed the show. An assortment of food vendors plied the streets with their carts. Despite the inviting aroma, Jaya warned Greg to avoid them unless he enjoyed food poisoning. The brassy street vendors hawking jewelry, sunglasses, and small electronics amused Greg at a safe distance. Rejection bounced off them like light off a mirror. Tourists were warned to avoid street peddlers, but the appeal to greed was too powerful for some. Greg watched a peddler persuade a young couple to buy expensive-looking watches. Later that day when the watches quit running, the couple would try to get their money back, but the peddler would be hustling his wares halfway across the island.

  As Greg chuckled at the peddler’s skill, he noticed an attractive Indonesian staring at him from his sporty motorbike. There was something familiar about the young man who parked, then strolled toward Greg’s table. He walked like a prizefighter who’d won his last fifty bouts. Despite his self-assured air, there was something very pleasant about him.

  “Mind if I join you, mate?” the young man smiled.

  “Please do,” Greg nodded, gesturing at an empty chair.

  “I’m Budi,” he announced, offering his well-manicured hand to Greg.

  Introducing himself, Greg was both impressed and surprised by Budi’s firm handshake, trendy haircut, and designer clothing. If they met in San Diego, Greg would assume Budi was a recent MBA grad. Since Budi’s skin was neither dark nor light, Greg guessed Budi was mixed race. Nearly six inches shorter than Greg, Budi had a muscular build with sharp, distinct features. His thick, v-shaped eyebrows fascinated Greg, making him wonder if they were inherited or custom-made.

  “I’m visiting from the States. Do you live here, Budi, or are you also a tourist?” Greg asked.

  “Bali is my home,” Budi declared proudly. “I own a couple salons here.”

  “Ah, that explains the good grooming,” Greg smiled. “I could probably use a trim. Maybe I’ll visit one of your salons.”

  Budi quickly offered Greg his business card. “I’d be honored, Greg. It’s always a pleasure for me and my staff to serve a client like you.”

  Greg grinned, not exactly sure what kind of client Budi thought he was.

  When the waitress placed a plate of tiny cakes in front of him and poured another cup of coffee, Greg invited Budi to join him. Holding up a water bottle, Budi indicated he needed nothing else.

  “Which state are you from?” Budi asked in crisp, clear English, with all the right verbs, tenses, and pronouns. Even though Jaya attended college at an American university, Budi’s English was far superior.

  “California. Know where that is?”

  “Of course!” Budi nodded eagerly. “West Coast, LA, Hollywood, Disneyland, San Fran. Very famous!”

  “Exactly,” Greg nodded as he chewed one of the tiny cakes. “I live in San Diego, near the Mexican border.”

  “SeaWorld, right?”

  “Correct!” Greg nodded, certain Budi had also studied in the States. “You’ve been there?”

  “No, I’ve never visited your country, but there’s a SeaWorld in Jakarta. I’ve been there twice.”

  “I didn’t know there were other SeaWorlds,” Greg admitted. “Hey, since you live here, do you have any suggestions for a tourist like me?”

  Budi nodded tentatively. “Depends on your interests. You like
the beach? Or historic sites? Shopping? Clubbing? Craters or volcanoes?”

  “All of the above!” Greg smiled.

  Studying Greg skeptically, Budi asked, “How long is your holiday?”

  Wondering where Budi learned his perfect American English, Greg replied, “Two weeks, but I can stay longer if I want.”

  Such flexibility heightened Budi’s interest. It meant Greg was probably single, and self-employed, or independently wealthy, all traits Budi sought when hunting for a mate. “You must have a great job or a very understanding boss, Greg.”

  “I teach high school computer science, so I don’t work June, July, and August.”

  Budi’s weak nod betrayed his disappointment, but he managed a positive spin. “Never get rich, but you’ll have a good life.”

  “Exactly,” Greg agreed, marveling at Budi’s candid summary of his career choice.

  “I’d be happy to be your tour guide, Greg. We could start in Ubud, with native Balinese temple dancers. Maybe have dinner at a restaurant with genuine Balinese cuisine on Keraboken Beach, then visit the Galleria Mall for shopping and a movie.”

  “Sounds great, but can you spend so much time with me on such short notice?”

  “Absolutely,” Budi smiled seductively. Even if Greg wasn’t wealthy, Budi decided his superior face and body made up for any financial shortfall. Eager to touch firm white flesh and real blond hair, Budi would let his business burn to the ground rather than miss this opportunity. “It’ll be my pleasure. Do you have a car or would you prefer to use my motorbike?”

  “No car,” Greg apologized. “I’ve never driven on the left side of the road. Can we use your motorbike?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s drop by my apartment first, okay? Not too far from here.”

  Greg paid for his meal, then slid on the back of Budi’s Honda sport bike, one of the most expensive available on Bali. It was a short, but thrilling ride as Budi weaved in and out of traffic on Jalan Pantai Kuta. There were a series of hairpin turns, each a near-death experience. Every passing car was potentially their instrument of doom. Finally, Budi slammed on the brakes, then skidded to a halt. When Greg slid off, Budi rolled the bike inside a fence, locking the gate behind him. “Thieves can strip a bike and sell all the parts in the time it takes to have a good pee,” he explained, arming the security system.

  “Great ride,” Greg moaned playfully. “I left my breakfast about three blocks back. Hope I didn’t get any on you.”

  “Naw, the great thing about a bike is that everything blows back, so I’m okay,” Budi chuckled. “Know why I love my bike so much?”

  “Cuz you’re a suicidal maniac with a death wish?” Greg guessed.

  “Besides that,” Budi smirked. “I love having something between my legs that’s bigger and more powerful than me.”

  “And a mini-scooter wouldn’t fill that need?”

  Budi shot Greg an annoyed look as they entered the apartment building. “Hardly!” he fumed.

  The modern apartment complex had polished marble floors and a lobby resembling an art gallery. “Nice place,” Greg murmured.

  “Thanks. I just moved here a few months ago and love it.”

  They took an elevator up six floors, then entered Budi’s apartment. The first thing Greg noticed was the ocean view. “Bet you never get tired of seeing that, huh?”

  “Not yet,” Budi agreed.

  Greg glanced around, admiring the polished marble floor and counters, teak furniture, and framed art. The apartment was small, but tastefully furnished. Budi disappeared into the bedroom, so Greg browsed the book collection on the entertainment center. Hearing the bedroom door open, Greg remarked, “I see you like the classics. Steinbeck, Hemingway, Fitzgerald. Must be why your English is so good.”

  Seeing Budi’s reflection in the glass case, Greg noticed he was naked and spun around. “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

  Stroking his erection, Budi grinned seductively as he nudged against Greg. “Clothes get in the way during sex,” he smiled as he fondled Greg’s crotch. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  Greg backed against the entertainment center, shaking his head vigorously. “No, Budi. What gave you that idea?”

  “I saw you at Patar last night, then Rainbow later. You smiled at me then, and again today at Made’s. I thought you were coming on to me.” Glancing down at Greg’s bulging crotch, Budi grinned wickedly. “Junior seems to like me. C’mon Greg. Let’s have some fun.”

  It took every ounce of resolve for Greg to keep his hands off Budi. From the thick, neatly trimmed black hair, to the firm mocha pecs, Budi was the most flawless man Greg had ever seen. Removing Budi’s hand from his crotch, Greg slid away from the entertainment center and crossed the room. “I apologize for giving you the wrong impression. I don’t remember seeing you last night, and I was being polite today. I came to Bali to find my uncle. I was hoping you might have some ideas where to look.”

  Suddenly embarrassed, Budi grabbed an afghan from the sofa, quickly wrapping it around his torso. “I’m so stupid. I should have known someone like you would never be interested in me.”

  “I feel very bad about this misunderstanding, Budi. You’re very attractive, but I never meant to give you the impression I wanted to have sex. Please don’t be angry.”

  Budi curled up on the couch. “I’m not angry with you,” he whispered. “I’m angry with myself for being so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid,” Greg insisted. “It was an innocent mistake. No harm done, okay?”

  Budi remained silent. The longer the silence, the more uncomfortable Greg felt. Desperate to break the silence, Greg asked Budi why he was angry with himself.

  With red eyes and husky voice, Budi replied, “My life has been a struggle for a long time. Finally, things started coming together for me. My business is doing well, I have a nice home, and good friends. The only thing missing is someone to share my life with. I have this dream, but I’m so stupid!”

  “What’s your dream?” Greg prompted.

  “I dream a tall blond white man will come to Bali, we’ll fall in love, and live together the rest of our lives.”

  “Nice dream,” Greg murmured. “I envy the lucky guy who ends up sharing it with you.”

  Budi glanced at Greg. “I was so happy thinking my search might be over. Guess life isn’t meant to be that easy for me.”

  Glancing around the apartment, Greg disagreed. “Looks like you have a pretty good life to me. You’re attractive, own a successful business, have a great apartment, cool bike, and I see a lot of pictures with friends. I bet many guys on Bali would kill to trade places with you.”

  “Life hasn’t always been this good,” Budi assured Greg. “It’s been a struggle for a very long time, especially for a three-time loser like me.”

  “Three-time loser?” Greg asked, hoping Budi wasn’t referring to a criminal past.

  “I’m Christian, gay, and half Chinese. In a country that’s almost ninety percent Muslim, that makes me a three-time loser. Trust me, local sperm banks aren’t knocking on my door, begging for my homemade love juice.”

  “You seem to have done pretty well despite what you consider handicaps,” Greg observed. “Did your parents help you get started?”

  “No,” Budi whispered. “They couldn’t even help themselves. I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen. My father lost the business he spent a lifetime building in a fire. He had no insurance to recover from the disaster. The stress of trying to rebuild from scratch was too much and he died of a heart attack. Mom caught typhus six months later and died because we had no money for medicine. The bank took our home, so I had nowhere to live, nothing to eat, and no money. I did what other hungry kids did…..stood on street corners begging passing cars for spare change, but I could barely feed myself. I was beaten and robbed by bigger guys several times, so I had to find another way to survive. Walking to a friend’s place in the rain one night I passed a cinema and a white couple asked if they co
uld buy my umbrella. They offered me a hundred thousand rupiahs for an umbrella that cost me five thousand, just so they could walk to their car without getting wet. Instead, I walked them to their car for fifty thousand rupiahs, and kept the umbrella so I could walk other people to their cars. The next day, I bought a dozen small umbrellas, then stood outside a theater and prayed for rain. When white couples came outside, I escorted them to their cars or taxis with my umbrella, then held out my hand for a tip. Sometimes they wanted to buy the umbrella, so I sold them one from my backpack. It was a short-lived career because greed travels fast. Soon umbrella escorts lingered outside every theater and restaurant in the city. I saved enough to buy some new clothes, and a bus ticket from Jakarta to Bali. I planned to live with my older sister here. We were never close, but I figured she wouldn’t want to see her little brother living on the street. I just wanted a place to stay until I could support myself.”

  “How’d that go?” Greg asked, fascinated by Budi’s resilience.

  “Things were fine for a few days. I accidentally left my handphone in the kitchen one night, so the next morning I found her browsing through my text messages and photos. She quickly discovered I prefer boys. When she asked if I’m gay, I didn’t deny it. She cried, and told me how disappointed she was, so I left and I’ve never been back.”

  Greg knew he was one of the lucky ones since he’d never suffered the disapproval of his family for being gay. “Where’d you go, Budi?”

  “I wandered around Kuta Beach, begging tourists for spare change, but it just annoyed most of them. Then I met a guy who persuaded me to be a moneyboy. Getting paid to have sex with men was appealing, but it didn’t take me long to figure out I wouldn’t choose to have sex with most of the men who paid for my service. Some of the things they wanted me to do were disgusting. Fortunately, I had a daddy to protect me and arrange for customers in exchange for half my fee. I could have worked alone, but that would have meant standing on street corners picking up drivebys. That’s the most dangerous, lowest-paying kind of prostitution on Bali. Only guys who are too old, ugly, or sick work street corners. Or new arrivals, who don’t know any better. The rest work out of Net cafes or massage parlors.”