They sit up slowly in the puddle on the floor, the hose still running, and look around them. Lydia looks down at her own body – the blue is everywhere their bodies touched, and spreading. She clasps Will’s hand in her own. “Do you feel like you are coming down with pneumonia?”
“Actually, my lungs never felt better.”
She nods. “Mine, too. In fact, all of me . . .”
Before she can finish, the door swings open to reveal Ambrose. He flicks on the light. There is not even a moment for anger to register on his face before horror and fear set in. “Get me out of here!” he shouts, as he runs down the corridor. That sets Will and Lydia to laughing. A short time later, Steve calls on the intercom and they tell him about the oil, the water, and the change. “You’re safe if you don’t handle the jars,” Lydia tells him. Her hands are touching Will as she speaks. His are exploring the hollows under the arms, under her breasts, anywhere he might have missed. Lydia’s voice is breathy as she speaks. “We’re safe so long as we stay wet. Are we still at anchor?” she asks. Steve’s voice through the speaker says yes. “Good,” she says, and takes Will’s hand again. “We’re going for a swim.”
Dregs
Claude Lalumière
According to an old folktale, nightmares once covered the night sky, blotting out the stars. When those creatures of darkness invaded our dreams, the night sky opened up and the stars revealed themselves.
I found the book that contained that particular story at Lost Pages, one of my favorite teenage haunts. It wasn’t the only bookshop I frequented, but the books I found on its shelves were . . . unique. What I mean to say is that I never saw any of these books anywhere else. Not even in secondhand bookstores – the patrons of Lost Pages apparently valued its treasures too much to hawk them off in such a fashion. Or perhaps the secondhand bookdealers were too canny to let such books onto their grimy shelves once they acquired them from those desperate or ignorant enough to sell them.
Bizarre bestiaries. Dictionaries of dead, obscure languages. Maps to lands that may never have been. Essays on religions with names I had never encountered elsewhere. Obscure mythologies. Accounts of wars no history teacher had ever mentioned. Such were the wares of the bookshop that fed my teenage dreams.
I left my home town after high school. I took my first trip overseas, and, shortly after that, went to university in another city. Lost Pages was left behind, like a passing fancy of adolescence.
My parents had offered me a two-month-long voyage abroad for, as far as I could tell, two reasons – only one of which was voiced. One, they felt they could afford this luxury because, unlike most of my graduating class, I showed no interest in automobiles; most of my classmates were rewarded with a shiny, fashionable car for coming out of high school alive. The other, unspoken, reason was that my mother and father worried that I was spending too much time in my own head. They often commented, with varying degrees of tact and concern, on my lack of friends. They judged – as it turned out, wisely – that being dropped alone in the middle of foreign lands would make me take notice of the world around me.
And so I did. I stood next to the sea at dawn, inhaling its pungent aroma. I walked through streets too narrow for automobiles, yet bustling with human activity, loud with unfamiliar languages and cacophonic sounds that swirled through my ears. I ate delicately spiced foods, enjoyed an undreamt-of variety of meats, greens and fruit. I wandered city avenues where lovers danced and kissed in the moonlight to the tunes of street musicians or their own hearts.
And there was so much more that I experienced. This whirlpool of exotica awakened in me many unfamiliar lusts.
Two weeks into my trip – on a hot summer night periodically lightened by an elusive cool breeze – I was in a port city whose hectic nightlife clustered in a busy quarter next to the docks. Club music blasted through open doorways, mixing with the sounds of outdoor performers. The women wore short, tight dresses, advertising their physical charms to potential suitors. The men, overdressed in the heat as was the fashion, sweated the night away dancing athletically, careful never to let their eyes wander from the women they coveted.
I was mesmerized by the nimble performances of these dancers, the precision of their movements, the sway of their hips and shoulders, the sweat spraying from their brows as they swirled to the rhythms of the dance music.
I was tempted to dance myself, but there was no one I wanted to impress or seduce. It was a notion I could barely contemplate. My new experiences had yet to include sex – I had never even masturbated! The sexual energy that, unknown to me then, was yearning to break free was intensifying the self-consciousness I felt over my awkward body. Not being a fashionable young man, I was dressed to be comfortable in the heat: thin cotton pants and a T-shirt. My awareness of my appearance emphasized the sentiment that I was a child among adults. I remained a spectator.
As the evening wore on, I grew increasingly frustrated at my inability to join in the festivities. I felt cheapened by my voyeuristic role and I was tortured by an inner conflict – the desire to abandon myself to the surrounding merriment clashing with an unshakeable fear of embarrassment. Burdened with self-loathing, I decided to make my way back to the inn where I was staying, hoping to calm down enough to fall asleep.
I had been in this city for three days. Each succeeding night, I was further entranced by its vigorous night life, by the soulful music, by the simmering sexuality.
That night, as I walked back to the inn, I was overtaken several times by an extreme dizziness and had to brace myself against walls or lamp-posts to keep myself from stumbling. I was not tired – quite the opposite! I was a nervous mess: exhilarated by the intensity of my experiences and angry with myself for my cowardice.
A block or two from the inn, while I was suffering another bout of dizziness, my hand failed to find a steady purchase, and I fell. A young man – he looked about my age – rushed to my side and helped me up. The contact of my rescuer’s hands on my bare arms as he bent down to help me caused me to suffer the most intense bout of dizziness yet.
I took a deep breath and, with the stranger’s help, I got up and steadied myself. He looked vaguely familiar: slightly taller than I, dark eyes, olive skin smooth and dry despite the heat, strong sharp features, a pronounced nose, stylish black pants and white shirt. I was dazzled by what I took to be a trick of the light: highlights of green, blue and brown shimmered in his dark hair. Probably I had seen him at one of the clubs, or in the streets among the strollers and dancers.
His gaze locked with mine as he asked me something in a language I could not understand – he spoke so fast I couldn’t even be sure which language he was speaking. He seemed genuinely concerned. I tried to mime that I was all right, livening up my risible performance with a few simple words in my own language.
He laughed at my antics. I surprised myself by laughing along with him. I was such a serious young man. Laughing at myself was a novel experience. It lifted a heavy burden from my shoulders and somewhat attenuated my feeling of self-loathing.
Looking at my companion, I remembered the handsome men dancing to seduce the eager young women watching them. I was overcome with a vision of my new friend dancing as I had seen those men dance: his hips and shoulders swaying confidently, his seductive smile directed towards me, his eyes never straying from my body . . .
The next thing I knew his lips were closed over mine, his tongue exploring my mouth, just as my own tongue was tasting his warm, wet mouth . . .
I panicked. I shoved him away from me. The dizziness was stronger than ever; I felt I would faint as easily as dust catches in the wind, but I struggled not to succumb to this weakness and ran to the inn.
Inside my room, I fell into the chair, closed my eyes and took long, slow breaths. Eventually, exhaustion conquered my restlessness. I got up and started to undress, eager to climb into bed.
Taking off my pants, I was startled by the sight of my erect penis. Of course, I’d had erections before, but I’
d never paid any attention to them. This one, huge and dripping, refused to be ignored. At that moment, it occurred to me that I had felt its pull all evening.
Nevertheless, out of naivety and habit and ignorance, I still neglected it.
Why had I never masturbated? Even now I can’t really say. Not out of prudishness, and certainly not out of some strange belief that it could be evil or bad in any way – I simply didn’t.
I crawled into bed, determined to fall asleep – despite my over-engorged penis – and put this troublesome evening behind me. Tomorrow, I thought, I would check out and head for another city. I was compelled to flee. I was too young to know that no matter how far I fled, I could not escape myself.
The erection made it difficult for me to get comfortable. Nevertheless, I did succeed in falling asleep quickly.
I awoke trembling with violent pleasure, and, before I could take stock of the situation, an inner explosion sent aftershocks of ecstasy rippling through my body. I was unable to make out any distinct sensation. My sense of touch was now so acute that all contact with my skin – air, sheets, anything – contributed to the sensation of being enveloped by a warm sea of delicious comfort, like a foetus blissfully floating in its world of amniotic fluid.
Slowly, I regained the ability to distinguish sensations. I felt my back bathing in a pool of sweat. I felt the cool breeze from the open window next to my bed. I felt a warm mouth around my spent cock.
My fellator was the gorgeous young man I had met earlier in the streets. His kiss had been my first. And now he had given me my first orgasm.
He must have sensed a shift in my posture; he took his mouth off my penis and straightened up to look at my face. There was enough moonlight coming in from the window for me to make out his seductive, mischievous smile.
I recalled how he had so easily succeeded in making me laugh at myself. Again, looking at him towering over me, I could not help but recognize the comical nature of my behavior earlier that night. What a burlesque figure I must have cut! Running scared from my own body, from my excitement, from its fulfillment, from my new friend’s beauty, from the possibilities his body offered me.
As he smiled at me, I burst out laughing. Instantly, he was infected by my outburst. He leapt on me, and we hugged as fiercely as we were laughing.
After hours of exploring each other’s bodies, we lay silently in bed, my head on his chest while he stroked my hair. The first light of dawn was seeping through the window. He kissed my forehead and disentangled himself from me. I closed my eyes, savoring the lingering sensations of his touch.
I heard him fumble around the room and, moments later, I felt his hand on my stomach. I opened my eyes to see him offering me a drink from what I took to be a bottle of wine. It was transparent, clearly revealing the amber fluid within.
Seeing me hesitate, he took a sip himself. Overcompensating for my timidity, I grabbed the bottle away from him, more roughly than I’d intended. I kneeled on the bed and, theatrically, raised the bottle to my mouth. I swung my head backward and let the dark liquid cascade down my throat. I nearly gagged as a result of my eagerness to show off. Rivulets of amber flowed through the burgeoning hair of my adolescent chest. He snatched the bottle away from me before I spilled the entire contents.
I coughed to regain my breath, but found myself dizzy and drowsy. The shapes around me were losing their definition. Once more, my seducer kissed me. His tongue playfully explored my mouth as I felt his fingers gently tighten around my scrotum.
I did not lose consciousness; but I could no longer differentiate my body from my surroundings, nor my self from the world.
I saw fabulous creatures burst from exploding stars. Was I myself one of many laughing monsters frolicking amongst the flames of the sun? I witnessed great migrations of majestic undersea beasts. Was I the great primeval ocean in which they thrived? I underwent uncounted metamorphoses, limbs turning into wings turning into tendrils turning into leaves turning into ripe fruit turning into stone turning into molten lava turning into dark ambrosia trickling down the throat of unfathomable deities turning into a thin old man wracked by ceaseless physical pain turning into a glowing snake changing colour with every flick of its tail while negotiating a path through high and dense grass turning into a pantheon of gods smashing planets asunder for their amusement turning into a stomach growling to be fed turning into a baby suckling at its mother’s teat turning into a host of dark shapes writhing in the sky. I was a silent, stunned spectator to this torrent of hallucinatory visions, if visions they were.
My companion kissed my chest, and then rose from the bed. He drank the amber liqueur down to its dregs. He looked at it longingly, then bent down to kiss me. I tasted his tears. He carefully left the bottle on the night table. Did his feet and hands turn into claws? Did scales sprout from his flesh? Did his moist mouth take the shape of a beak? Did wings with feathers of green, blue and brown rise tall above his shoulders? Did he fly through the ceiling and into heavens as strange as those I had just glimpsed?
I lay in bed immobile, listening to the furious sound of beating wings.
When I could move once again, I stared at the empty bottle. Were it not for the evidence of that bottle I might have dismissed the events of the last twelve hours as feverish delusions. No, my erotic adventure had been real enough; the delightful tingling that lingered on my skin and the musky smell of sweat and semen attested well enough to that. But as to what came after I drank the mysterious liquid. . . . Had my lover slipped me a powerful hallucinogen? To what purpose? Stupidly paranoid, I immediately convinced myself that he had robbed me.
I sprang from the bed in search of my pants. I found my wallet undisturbed. I rummaged around the room and calmed myself down. Nothing was missing. It would be many years before I made any sense of my bizarre encounter.
I enjoyed the remainder of my holiday more than I had previously anticipated, as I eagerly explored myriad new worlds of taste, smell, sound, beauty and sex. I returned home only briefly. University was a few days away.
My parents immediately noticed a change in me. I was more alert. My eyes were brighter and I smiled much more easily. My parents deluged me with questions about my trip.
Ordinarily, I would have fled from such a barrage of attention. But I knew they were only happy to see me, and that they would miss me once I was gone to university. Also, I was very grateful for their gift to me – that vacation that I couldn’t have known how much I needed. Of course, I would answer their questions, but I also knew that I could not be entirely candid.
They asked about the empty bottle I had brought back as a souvenir. I answered coyly that it was to remind me of someone special. They did not press the issue, not wanting to embarrass either me or themselves. Their thoughts were transparent. They were imagining some exotic girl, nice but not too nice, who had deflowered their shy son. The reality would have shocked them, as, in fact, would the extent of my sexual escapades. So I gave them a nice, polished version of my travels: enough details for them to know that their idea had been a success. But I was also vague enough to let them understand – by omission – how much of one it had been.
Yes, I had kept the bottle. It was not quite empty. There were some dregs, some few lingering drops. I had carefully sealed it and packed it. It escaped customs unquestioned and unbroken.
I was both tempted and scared to sample the liquid again, even in the tiniest amount. I did not know what to make of its effects – if indeed it had been responsible for my vivid hallucinations – and I was loath to waste it. I thought of diluting the remains in water. Drinking the result only occasionally, slowly learning to understand the visions it bestowed upon me. It was too soon. I put the bottle away, intending to leave the decision to a later time when I would have the leisure to think properly.
The few days between the return from my voyage and my departure for university went by with alarming rapidity. Did it occur to me at the time to visit Lost Pages? I can’t remember – but eve
n if it had, I would not have been able to find the time to go. And how could I have known what to look for?
To facilitate my preparations, my mother had already packed most of my things. My clothes were neatly folded into old suitcases. All of my books had already been stored in boxes, ready to be shipped to my dormitory.
In this new life, my time and mind were now occupied with my studies and the string of tedious jobs I had decided to take in order to afford an apartment that would secure me the privacy dormitory life failed to provide.
I taught myself to cook and used my lovers, mostly men but also the occasional woman, as guinea pigs for my culinary experiments. As time wore on, the dismal failures grew farther apart, and my guests grew to eagerly anticipate the food I prepared for them. I was discreet and avoided permanent entanglements. I attracted – and was attracted to – those who yearned for an intimacy that would not shatter their daily lives or their other, more public, attachments.
I rarely returned home to my parents. They saw me for some, though not all, of the customary holidays and family events. Those visits were short and never included enough time to visit my old haunts. It was as though my previous identity had been supplanted by a new one that recognized no continuity with the past. Everything I had experienced before university – more precisely, before that summer trip that changed everything – might as well have happened to someone else.
Eventually, teaching assignments supplemented the scholarships I earned, and the two sources of income allowed me to quit migrating between minimum-wage jobs to support myself.
One night a young woman – a mischievous student whom I had met the previous semester while teaching an undergraduate survey class – noticed the bottle on a shelf among other knickknacks nestled between piles of books.
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