The Lurid Sea

by Tom Cardamone

  We huddled with our fellow catamites. Everyone snuck looks at one another while whispering with comrades. Some of the more experienced participants stretched and limbered up like athletes before a javelin throw, or some such wholesome and banal contest. Well, it is a competition, I thought. Self-consciously, I began to mimic some of the neck exercises until Publius snorted, and I stopped. The eunuch briskly ushered everyone into line, and a drunk, red-faced man I recognized as the bath’s resident physician, followed by a slave hoisting a lamp, began examining us one by one. We all expectantly opened our mouths and stuck out our tongues as he peered inside, searching for cankers or disqualifying discoloration. He uttered a dismissive “tsk, tsk” as one diminutive prostitute resisted opening his mouth. The eunuch pried open the boy’s ruddy lips with the end of a phallus-tipped rod. The boy rolled his eyes and dropped his jaw. The physician sniffed the boy’s breath and peered inside. He shook his head and moved to the next catamite as the eunuch clucked his tongue and ushered the boy-prostitute down the smoky hallway. After the inspection, a somber young priest poured everyone a mouthful of strong wine with an aftertaste of unknown herb. I dutifully swallowed and looked to Publius for support, but his thoughts were on the coming games, mouth open in anticipation.

  The eunuch had finished inspecting us and was now arranging the men opposite by size. Some protested and insisted on a higher order. There stood the infamous gladiators Placidus, who was anything but, and Wido, a tribal warrior captured in the Black Forest of Germania. Ironically, the forest that sprung from his abdomen was the darkest I had ever seen, made more so as the long serpent that swung from within this unruly wreath was of such a pristine alabaster that its internal veins glowed an unearthly blue. Both enjoyed their position at the front of the line. They stretched and squatted in unison, flexing their thick, sword-and-trident scarred thigh muscles while pivoting their hips to better display massive, dangling cocks. To prepare for the games, they had oiled their bodies. Placidus’s form was almost completely depilated. The gladiators shone like Apollo’s stallions beneath the subterranean moons of torchlight.

  The strength of the herb concealed with the wine began to make itself felt. Steam undulated like luminescent seaweed beneath an ocean of lust. Meaning I was in my element. My vision darkened on the edges, my view of the room narrowed, and the men I was meant to serve came into greater focus. Defined chests and muscled stomachs or smooth scholars, effete slaves with renowned members, the kinds of pythonic cocks that inspire latrine poetics; short, tall, skinny, young, old; gladiators, senators, merchants, soldiers, dirty poets and crazy novelists, mad philosophers, and sunburned foreigners who had crossed violent seas just to participate. All here for the Fellatiolympics, a secret, sacred contest. The God Priapus was in this very room, commanding me and my fellow catamites to ride every cock presented to us with our talented tongues and knowing throats. I homed in on the meat meant for my mouth. I was not going to fall off. I was going to win. I deserved every pearl.

  Publius, in his excitement, had failed to brief me on the various competitions. I had lost him the minute the priests summoned us to action. I did not care. I did not need him now that we were competitors. Somewhere in the pit of my stomach was a thirst like a whirlpool, black waters overwhelming frail little me, and I was more than willing to be caught and drowned by the threats of desire.

  For the first event, we were commanded with elaborate, ancient hand gestures to kneel on individual worn marble wheels. My knees were tied down with thick leather straps as my hands were secured behind my back. Blindfolded, I was discombobulated as the wheel began to spin. I could not discern my role, as, picking up speed, a variety of cocks began to poke and prod at my face, slapping my cheeks, pushing up against one nostril or the other. Blind, in the darkest depths, all I knew was my sharpening need. I strained to catch a cock, latch on to any member, draw anything into my mouth and properly nurse it to its plumpest, most perfect state, until it populated my throat. And in striving to do so, I realized the rules of the game. Desperation would unseat me. If I fell, I lost the competition. Moderation was the aim here, to tease, not to please. These sexual warriors needed to fulfill their purpose throughout the night, and I, myself, was meant to last. Therefore, I imagined I was a dandelion licking the wind. And with that, the wind licked back. As the stone wheel picked up speed, this thickening, hardening pinwheel of penises began to slash my cheeks. Expertly, I stuck out my tongue and intuited shape and need. Thus, I was able to tantalize the assailing cocks, pleasing these hidden men to the extent that several members started awarding my tongue with those slow, initial convulsions of semen that lubricated the best of nights.

  * * *

  The next contests consisted of servicing standing and then sitting men. We were given a moment’s reprieve while we rinsed our mouths with watered-down wine. A trembling ephebe vomited up a torrent of moist morsels and several sad suckers leapt to lap up the milky porridge, to prove they were the most intemperate, as if additional medals were given for debauched hunger. We were then directed to squat before a line of centurions, senators, gladiators, and even some favored slaves, equal in their monstrous girth. Behind them, another phalanx stood ready. Diminutive slaves, plucked and primped, suckled and licked at their impressive lengths in preparation.

  My lips felt bruised. I swallowed. This night would try my strength, my soul, and definitely my lower jaw. My bare feet pressed into the smooth, slippery stone. The heat of the room rose, the sexual energy, the expectant breath, steam from the roiling furnaces, all gathered to form a cloud that clung like ghostly moss to the ceiling. My exposed and spread ass actually felt slightly chilly as the workings of the bathhouse above pulled all of the heat upward. The eunuch-priest made an elaborate, mystical motion, lit some incense, and we all placed our hands behind our backs as glans met tongue. The man I serviced smiled down at me, and that encouragement gave me everything I needed to make the extra effort; my mouth stretched near the breaking point. His thickness was that of a small arm, an arm that hoisted a palanquin, rowed a slave ship, so honed and veiny, pulsing, as if he were excreting muscle down my throat. I knew to relax and let him drive. Obsidio had taught me well; I bought time by paying slavish attention to the head, nursing the salty slit, edging my tongue inside as much as possible to halt his plunder and prepare for the inevitable length storming my throat. He grunted, I relented, and downward he dove. Filled, pummeled, I surrendered. My knees slipped on the floor beneath his unrelenting pressure. Past surrender, I imagined my body was an extension of his, the reverse of a serpent shedding its skin. He was pulling me on like a tight girdle, and I needed to empty myself, abandon any sense of my separateness, really. When I did, he was able to enter me more fully, and I steadied myself against his sweaty thighs. His rolling testicles separated to press against either of my cheeks, while my stretched lips were smeared with saliva and the slick ooze of semen, providing further adhesion. Out of the corner of my tearful eye, I could see the competition was, in equal measure, also nearly knocked senseless. Publius was close. The beast riding his face was none other than the gladiator Wido. Two priapic priests stood nearby in case he swooned, and, in fact, as the German bucked wildly, the boy’s bowels loosed and slender brown fingers of shit plopped out. Prepared for this eventuality, one of the priests calmly motioned for a slave, equipped with a small broom and dustpan, to collect the droppings. Though Publius never once let the cock slip out of his mouth and continued with renewed vigor, the watchful priests each raised an eyebrow toward the other. His score had been lowered. My Minotaur unloaded without warning, and I dutifully swallowed, extending my arms as if a bird in flight, in mimicry of the Phoenix, his voluminous cum the molten lava from which the fiery bird was birthed. Some in the waiting and watching crowd noticed this artistic flourish, which elicited no small amount of soft, appreciative applause.

  * * *

  A number of participants passed out. A few wept from exhaustion and begged to be excused, but most of us
were crafty soldiers long at war with our own lust and ready for unrelenting battle. The incense grew thicker, and it was harder to see. Not that we needed to. Blindfolded again, my fellow catamites and I were next led into a steam room where various participants lined the marble benches carved into the ornate walls. We were pushed to our knees and ordered to crawl toward our momentary masters. Asses up, feet crushed fingers, a few elbows nudged ribs, all quietly, as no one wanted points deducted. My hands found a pair of feet, hoary toenails and thick ankles. I dove in with my mouth and found a limp but weighty penis. Its massive form twitched at first and then slowly expanded as I gave it an initial lick and then nestled its rough head against my warm cheek. I gripped the owner’s thick calves as he grunted and spread his legs to accommodate my lithe form. I curled within the heat of his lap as his length wormed its way down my throat; his musk was of the darkest depths of the sea, a rich black salt of exertion and the taste of dried ambrosia, much like the mineral undercurrent of Obsidio’s spunk. I swooned but righted myself, blinking beneath the blindfold.

  Either his cock is magical, or this man is a god. Or cursed. What if his cock was cursed by some witch, and all my teeth will fall out? Or my tongue turns black? Or becomes forked, like that of an adder?

  I swallowed my panic and the last of the Minotaur’s semen that had been sticking to the roof of my mouth and went back to work. His pubic mass was the thickest I had ever encountered in my young life. It scraped against my brow like heavy palm fronds. Copious foreskin undulated within my mouth. The head further engorged, suppressing my tongue. It was a complex muscle, ridged beneath the foreskin, almost like gills. My efforts at ministrations had loosed the blindfold. I couldn’t see his face. It was obscured by a large, hard belly, as scarred as a legionnaire’s shield. The tip of his gnarled beard swung low like heavy moss. His length expanded my throat, demanding full attention. However, before I could again focus on gulping down more of his hard girth, a sharp pucker of purple glinted off his stomach. I squinted.

  Is that a barnacle?

  I gagged, and he grunted displeasure as the blindfold fell away and I pulled back. The unruly hair clogging my nostrils rolled like seaweed at high tide. I steadied myself by gripping his feet and discovered webbed toes. Like mine were sometimes, if I lingered too long in the bath or the deep end of the pool.

  I let his cock fall from out my mouth.

  “Fa-fa-father?”

  When did I see him last? When he swaddled me within the strength of one arm while Mother cooed over me. I remembered his smell: night tide, the sweat of drowning men.

  And now I knew his taste.

  “Nerites!”

  Neptune. He violently kicked me away from his saliva-drenched crotch. I skidded across the slick floor and actually turned circles, knocking into the other contestants who strenuously pushed me back toward the middle of the room, their expert servicing mostly uninterrupted.

  “You. Nerites, you are the lowest of the low.”

  Neptune. Lightning flickered at the corner of his eyes. I tried to hurry away, but the floor was so slick with semen, saliva and condensation from the steam that I wheeled about in place, terrified.

  “You are nothing more than a sea roach, scurrying about at the feet of filthy mortals.”

  His teeth sharpened and multiplied into those of a shark.

  “How dare you debase our holy ichor.”

  This echoed throughout the chamber, and though nothing could shake this fraternity of cocksuckers from their servitude, the men before them looked at one another wildly, trapped and fearful.

  Eyeless, wheezing emerald eels parted the white sea foam of Neptune’s interwoven beard and hair. Their black maws revealed needle-like fangs. He shook his head in utter disgust.

  “You want to sup on mortal members, little sea fairy? Well, so be it. Why don’t you spend eternity on your knees, licking the meek tridents of measly men? In fact, let it be as essential to you as the air they breathe!”

  Lightning crackled from out his eyes as he extended an Olympic fist within which his trident magically appeared. He pounded the end onto the marble floor, which cracked. My fellow suckers finally slowed as their partners all lifted their feet and tried to somehow retreat into the wet walls behind them. Ocean water flowed up through the newly formed fissure, ushering in luminescent white crabs and twisting, furious blue sea snakes while the central darkness of this emerging tide pulled me forward. My last sight was father, his attention already turned away from the disappointment of my petty being and toward a cowering, effeminate boy stuck between the legs of the unconscious gladiator Wido, who, overcome by the sight of an angry god, had passed out.

  As Neptune beckoned the little slave to finish what I had started, water washed over my head, and the eddy that would swallow me time and time again gripped my body and my mind as a familiar thirst, one that had defined my short life up until that point, guttered within me into a permanent, spiritual drought. One that I would forever work and fail to quench.

  Chapter Eight

  Night and Snow

  The water churned as I surfaced, and I gasped and blinked and the tiled mural of samurai came into focus. Some of the warriors stood naked and aroused, some were about to disrobe, taken by surprise by an enemy army while bathing in a river. Kimonos neatly part so the viewer may study the pink swords of their erections. The vast battle scene covers an entire wall, as intricate as it is simple. The rippling folds of withdrawn foreskin revealed the proud and martial helmets of flesh, as red as the carp nipping at submerged heels. How I relished these excursions onto Japanese soil. As far as I could tell, the most sexually civilized population on earth, an island nation truly apart in terms of refinement and beauty. This magnificent country was not known to the Roman Empire during my youth, but I can only imagine what foes or allies they would have made. I savor Japanese men, the quiet wolf of their masculinity untamed by unnatural religions or desultory cultural demands. Their bathhouses are always meticulously clean. Simple oases of austere communal bathing, places offering respite as well as sexual release, the Japanese sauna has been one of the few places that remind me of the Roman baths because they often have intimate reading rooms neatly lined with books. These compacted versions of scrolls are still undecipherable to me, though the illustrated texts are pure marvels of carnality. Whenever I arrive in Japan, my stomach growls in anticipation of not only the wholesome sperm I would gulp down but the delicious neon sodas, the skewers skinny golden boys roast over charcoal-filled braziers, red knees separating white towels as they lean close to sear meat over flame. These dark dens of fucking, feasting, and napping, how I loved the little waves of snoring and sighing that rose from the matted sleep chambers as their occupants rested between bouts of sodomy.

  I emerged from the tub, and astonished men stared, then looked at one another for confirmation. An old man squatting on a small plastic stool, vigorously scrubbed himself. At his gnarled feet, a handheld showerhead dribbled warm water. He looked up at me and smiled. He remembered me from decades ago when he was young, when Osaka had more wooden houses than concrete apartment complexes. He was not at all perplexed that I had not aged. He gave a slight nod as I passed. I patted his head lightly and paused, trying to remember the way to the sauna. Maybe he thought I was a lost and horny river kappa. No, his smile deepened after our brief interlude. The erotic is eternal. To touch is to forget your age or inexperience and simply commune. He giggled and rose, thinking to capture me again within the folds of the steam, salt my mouth and therefore link again with his younger self, a wormy our ouroboros of timeless semen. I nodded in affirmation but wished for a stroll before taking his now pert penis between my eager lips. He settled again into his ritual of washing, a physical meditation, really. One I was happy to partake in soon, for I had planned to settle into this bathhouse haven for as long as possible.

  * * *

  Kappa. A perennial pest in the otherwise aquatic paradise of Japanese saunas. These green duck-billed gob
lins are some of the only relics from the country’s mythic past. Most creatures were content to fade into other realms as freeways unfurled and high rises rose, but not the persistently obstinate kappa; they simply adjusted, relocating to sewers and saunas. When a young, buff man ignores the insistent attentions of what he dismissively considers a troll, he is sometimes closer to the truth then he could imagine. However, to be rude to a kappa invites reproach. Towels go stolen, wallets disappear, shoes are suddenly a size too small. Some of the older sauna employees are wise to their mischief and discreetly place cucumbers, the kappa’s preferred food, behind the used towel bins in an appreciated act of appeasement. When that is done with regularity, socks rarely go missing and keys are never lost.

  * * *

  The tub wooden, water a perfect temperature, I soaked and splashed around alone, luxuriating in the knowledge that I would stay here for a while. It must have been late at night, though. The bathhouse was quiet. No one had entered the vestibule where shoes were removed and coins deposited. Dim rooms with bunk beds stacked with sleeping men. As always, the sauna and tubs were fastidious and sparkling. A thin young man entered, naked save for a small hand towel he held discreetly before his bulging genitals. Tufts of the blackest hair, like a shock of pine needles, poked out in every direction from around the clutched cloth. He froze when he realized he was not alone, and he hesitated before continuing into the steam room. I remembered this sauna from previous visits and knew he had just emerged from a warren of small rooms within the basement; you needed a secret password to enter as it was meant for men under the age of thirty. I had gained entry on every visit, me, the oldest being to ever grace the premises, excusing the kappa, who likely do not age. I certainly do not age. I just swim through time.