Sea Swallow Me and Other Stories

by Craig L Gidney

  Oliver grew hard. He could feel it straining against his trousers. The back of his neck was cool, with a slight moisture. Like someone had been breathing on it.

  He opened his eyes, and spun around.

  The breather wore a Coil T-shirt tight against his well-defined body. The I’s dot was in the center of a nipple, the right one. There was the indentation of a ring on the left one. The slacks were black, and immaculate. More than black—they had a supernatural blue sheen to them, like the coats of seals in moonlight. The shoes, not quite Doc Martens, were adorably scuffed. The breather’s skin was white. His hair was silver. His eyes hid behind dark, Italian movie star glasses. He smiled at Oliver.

  His jaw must have dropped; the guy laughed, and moved closer.

  “Hey,” he said, “I’m—” and his name was lost, in music, in crowd, in the noise of his racing pulse.

  “Listen, Oliver—cool name, by the way—we should talk. After the show.” And he turned toward the stage.

  Oliver nodded. When he turned to the stage, a pair of hands rested lightly on his shoulders. The rest of Ganesa’s set, only the hands—of ice, or marble, yet warm—existed. He could feel bone, the slightest whisper of blood, the texture of skin through the shirt. What was the breather’s (what was his name?) favorite Coil album? What was beneath the Coil shirt?

  For once, he wished the band would hurry and finish. The final Ganesa song was a wordless acapella piece. Her voice soared. Oliver’s heart raced; what he felt for—Silver—was beyond words, too. The lights dimmed; a puff of smoke obscured the band members, except for the glow of the singer’s bindi. The smoke smelled of coconut. The hands on his shoulder let go. Oliver turned around slowly (he didn’t want to seem too eager).

  Silver smiled. Before Oliver could say a word, he said, “Let’s meet outside, where we can talk.” He began pushing through the crowd. Oliver stood still, reeling. Did that just happen? A beautiful guy wants me?

  Pompeii interrupted his anxiety. “You OK? You look bothered. What was his name, sweetie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That bad? Well, this is Cameron.” Pompeii paraded his new trick (cute, young, impeccably dressed) before him, “and we’re going home together. You gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah…” What will I talk to him about? I’ll talk about Coil, and see who else he likes. Maybe he can come home and watch that Jarman movie. And then— “Oh, Pompeii. His number. Just in case.”

  His friend turned, and asked his new toy to write his phone number down. “I don’t know why he wants me to; there’s really no danger. I mean, if you piss me off, darling, I’ll rip you to shreds, cause I’m a real bitch. A velociraptor-bitch.” This was all said with a smile. When Cameron was finished, Pompeii handed the scrap of paper to Oliver, and kissed him goodnight. The two went out of the club.

  Oliver followed behind them a few seconds later.

  The night was hazy; a jaundiced mist smeared over everything. In the distance, the factories belched smoke, and tall antennae blinked red dots, like floating bindis. The smell of Baltimore—fish, rubber, sweat—filled Oliver’s nostrils. The mica in the street sparkled underneath street lamps, corrupted flecks of silver. He emerged from a billow of the disgusting haze.

  “I was about to go,” he said, sauntering up to him.

  “I’m sorry; my friend… he was going home with someone we didn’t know, so I had to stay behind and make sure—”

  “That’s cool. You’re a good friend, a real sweetie. Me, I’d say, fuck ‘em. If I’m not getting any, I’m sure as hell not gonna help them with their success.”

  Oliver laughed; Silver smirked.

  “By the way, I didn’t catch your name. The pounding music and all.”

  “That’s not true—you wasn't paying attention.” The man pulled his jacket tight. “Let’s walk about. Great weather; a bit H.P. Lovecraft, isn’t it? Any minute, some Nameless, Faceless, Indescribable Horror is gonna jump out at you. But that’s Baltimore for you: mixture of banality and evil. The banality of evil. Evil banality. Sounds like a great band name, doesn’t it, Oliver? What kind of music would it be?”

  “I dunno. Industrial, maybe.”

  “No. Wrong. I was envisioning a trio of scantily-clad women—one white, one black, one Asian—performing cookie-cutter pop music, written by, say, Babyface, or those guys who do Janet Jackson. It would be truth in advertising, at least.”

  They walked through a seedy area and passed by the cemetery where Poe was buried. They talked more. Oliver asked him about music. It seemed that Silver and he had similar tastes, though Silver was more adventurous. Coil, Cocteaus, Dead Can Dance, Aphex Twin, Current 93… And Silver rattled off names of bands he’d heard about, but never listened to.

  “I’ll have to come by and borrow some stuff.”

  “I know what else you’d like to ‘borrow.’” He winked.

  And Oliver felt good, for the first time in a long time. As they walked, he leaned into Silver; the man complied by putting his arm around his shoulder.

  Adrenaline rushed, as did blood. The touch was soothing, cooling; it dispersed the haze. They made a full circuit, walking past the cemetery again, heading for the Gotham club. Silver was elusive and enigmatic to all of Oliver’s prying:

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “How East Coast of you; back in SF, people would never ask that question. They recognized that a person has a life beyond their nine-to-five existence.”

  “So you’re from California?”

  “I didn’t say that. But you are a Baltimore native, through and through; I know that much.”

  “How can you tell that?”

  His tapped the side of his head. “Sixth sense.”

  They arrived in front of another club, where a few stragglers milled around.

  “So we’re here; and here is where the night ends,” said Silver, and gave Oliver’s shoulders a quick squeeze.

  Oliver was disappointed; the night wasn’t going to end with them curled together. “Well, let me have your number.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  The albino did not answer immediately. He smiled, then said, “The mystery would be revealed too soon.”

  “I’ll give you mine.” Oliver reached in his coat for a pen.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll get in contact with you, when I want to.”

  “But. Tell me your name, at least.” He was being toyed with, but he didn’t mind. Being toyed with was better than being ignored.

  “You know it already,” was all he said. “Now, I have to get going. We will see each other around, I promise. Don’t look so despondent, now. I want you to be happy.” Silver removed his glasses. His eyes were dark pink, with black centers, striated like the petals of a flower. The center of the flower held Oliver’s image, black against black. He leaned forward; Silver kissed him lightly on the lips. Oliver closed his eyes, tasting menthol, florid perfume, and sweet tobacco. The silver contact was broken, the flower-eyes concealed. The man turned, and walked away, into haze, into mist, black sealskin pants, Celtic tattooed armbands, and golden letters on dark: Love’s Secret Domain.

  He left Oliver with a painful erection, and frustrated. The fucker! He was just playing with me, and he’s probably laughing to himself. Turned on a black faggot, something he wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot pole. The thought of his black flesh mingling with silver would only tarnish it.

  When he was first came out—to himself—Oliver had been tormented by his feelings twofold: for men, and then for white men. The gay men he knew were obsessed with beauty—its Classical, Western definition. He was out. When eventually he found his way into the goth scene, that feeling of being a blemish was heightened. What was goth about, after all? The paleness of skin, black to accentuate the white, white pancake makeup to hide pigment. The wispy androgyny, the vague mysticism, and the harder, fascistic imagery were all aspects of the need for whiteness. They ignored him at first; then gradually to
lerated him. But he was a campy Blacula to their elegant, aesthete vampires. He’d never slept with a goth, though it was an abiding desire of his. No, his tricks were over 40, men who though that he was street trash, who would bring jungle and jive and abandon to their beds. He often complied, and when he was tired of complying, he stopped. His need to couple with pale flesh would be overwhelmed by his disgust at the role he had to fulfill. “Fuck me, my little black slave-boy,” was the refrain of one of his tricks. Yet, even now, as disgusting as that was, he would tolerate it. Damn him for turning me on! So close, and yet denied. Why did I ever give up drugs? When on E, it didn’t matter. The crispy, fuzzy love you felt for your fellow human beings crossed boundaries, and horniness was obliterated.

  Oliver closed his eyes, willing his erection away. He was determined not to have this night end with Harbor-side cruising, or in a smelly sex club. The sex clubs in DC were better; he briefly entertained going down there. But it was 50 miles away, and all of the clubs were in a bad neighborhood. Just give up, Oliver. You’ll never get what you need. Not now. He opened his eyes, and walked towards his car.

  “Hey, dude,” a voice behind him said. He turned, and saw that first beautiful boy of the evening, the one who had stepped onto his foot. (And ignored him). “Do you think you could give me a ride? I don’t live too far from here.” He looked so young and pathetic; in another world, if Burton had made the third Batman movie, this kid would have been cast as Boy Wonder. He’d been so rude to him, before. But then, he was white and beautiful; it was his right to be rude to those who weren’t.

  “All right,” Oliver said, “where do you live?”

  “Thanks, dude! I live just north of Little Italy.”

  The car choked as it started. The streets—or the ghosts of streets—slipped by, drenched in jaundiced mist.

  Boy Wonder chattered throughout the journey. “You like Ganesa? I think they’re cool. This was my third time seeing them. Each time, they get better.”

  “Yeah. Were you at their other shows?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you look familiar. Didn’t you used to have purple hair?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve outgrown it.” Boy Wonder had noticed him before?

  “I thought it was cool; you don’t see many blacks—I mean, African-Americans, you know, listening to this music.”

  Oliver gave him a glance. Boy Wonder smiled slyly. His teeth were uneven. He was breathing slowly. And he’d taken off his shirt. Beneath the Nine-Inch-Nails shirt, the stigmata of his nipples glistened with sweat.

  “What…”

  “It’s pretty hot and gross outside.” His sunken chest heaved, slowly.

  Oliver wasn’t sure how it began, but he felt a tugging at his crotch. When he looked down, he saw a pale hand massaging him.

  “You don’t mind, do you, dude?”

  “Not. At. All.” Oliver pulled over, and placed his hand on the kid’s crotch.

  “Not here. I have a nice place…”

  Two blocks later, down a sidewalk of mist like yellowed lace, and up some stairs (past a living room of stoned and ecstatic youths), they were writhing on a futon.

  The room was varying shades of blue. Cerulean for the ceiling, navy for the walls, cyan for the carpet. They were on the inside of some sea-colored jewel. Someone had placed glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, making random constellations. The stars glowed faintly, pale green. They nuzzled, kissed and bit for a while, the boy half-naked, him fully clothed. When enough sweat had generated, Boy Wonder whispered, “Dude…”, indicating that Oliver should remove his clothing. They parted, not completely breaking contact. He gripped a pale forearm as he removed his clothing, one-handed and using kicks and toes to assist him. When he got to his underwear, he had to let go. “Here, let me,” and the blond head peeled back soaked cotton and buried itself in tangy-scented public hair. Oliver closed his eyes, feeling. The sucking sounds, the smells, the softness of the futon all reminded him of the sea. He fell back, listening and stroking hair, unbelieving. An occasional warm drop of saliva would foam on his thighs.

  “Hey, let me…” he murmured. They switched positions. In his mouth, Boy Wonder had no taste. As he pleasured him, Oliver found himself developing a rhythm. Oceanic, tidal. A fan played light breezes on his back. His dark hands cradled buttocks, moans were animal and aerial: the cries of gulls. What music should be playing? Oliver thought the question a voice outside his head, one mocking, teasing. But the answer came to him in his own inner voice, so it couldn’t have been external. The answer formed into the sound of that music. Echoed, flanged guitar, swooping over watery bass and briny synth. No words to disturb the churning, oozing liquid feel: Cocteau Twins, or Slowdive. The music would have to be mythic and sexy at once. Good answer, came the reply. Oliver ignored it, drowning in surf and sand. Opening his eyes, Boy Wonder was foam, the sea at night. He molded him out of sand. Then Boy Wonder rode him like a surf-board. Oliver was hurtled beneath the waves, into himself. The stars on the ceiling floated far up, a layer of increasingly murky water separating him from them. The voices and the music were muffled, like a speaker system that has the bass turned up too high. He dove into the flesh, the spirit. Boy Wonder straddled him as he dove deeper, music and salt and beat.

  Oliver nibbled a finger, tasting it. Bone and blood and white. It was a taste that he couldn’t get enough of, it was irresistible. What do you look like on the inside? T-count, corpuscle, cell: they flashed on the screen of his mind, like names of bands on an MTV commercial. If Boy Wonder bled, would the blood be red, or white, the milky blood of dead fireflies? Would he have bones of calcium, or coral? Red coral, dark pink coral, the color of petals. And his eyes would taste of cool metal, sweet and icy at once. Inside him, Oliver felt the pulse and the beat. Oliver was flesh, dark, impure, and he was now with an elemental. Fucking the sea. He laughed and came with a shudder. And when he came, he thought of alabaster flesh, silver pubic hair, and fragrant coconuts.

  “Dude, that was good. Now I’m gonna—”

  Oliver looked to see anguished facial expression. When the first ejaculation hit him, he saw eyes open, wide and blue in terror. Then the ejaculations wouldn’t stop. It seemed his chest was decorated with splatters of something thick, syrupy and red, like grenadine. Boy Wonder screamed, as blood and cum, milky white and dark red ropes of the two liquids, flew out of his penis. Oliver gasped and screamed as well. The music playing in his head went into high gear, a 33 record played at 45rpm. Guitars were shrill, the beat frantic. It went on and on, forever, gore seeping out of the glans. Then Boy Wonder stopped screaming. He whimpered a little, before the light in his eyes went out. He fell over, dead weight. He smelled sweet and rotten.

  Shivering, Oliver lay beneath the body for a good while. He couldn’t tell if the body above him was breathing or not. He pushed the boy off of him, and went for his clothes. He sopped up the syrupy mess on his chest with his shirt. He didn’t want to know what it was. He got his clothes on in a hurry, and crashed the door open. He was sick to his stomach, and on leaving the room of ocean, was sick. Fire, beer, and Ramen noodles rushed out. The music stopped.

  Wiping his mouth on his arm, Oliver ran down the stairs. He saw a group of kids, passed out in front of a TV, blindly groping each other. The TV was on, snow buzzed on the screen, black, blue and silver. The door wasn’t locked, so he had no trouble bolting out into the night, shoving past the sidewalk and through the wisps of tattered lace-smoke.

  - - -

  Oliver had made the call at a payphone, outside his dormitory building, in the gray and yellow dawn. “There’s a dead kid, somewhere in a house north of Little Italy. I don’t have the address.” And the horrified hang-up, as he considered the call might be traced. Pompeii had dragged him out of bed by knocking on his door insistently, and holding him when had babbled incoherently about a boy coming blood. It was evening now, the blue and the gold wedding each other in the sky. It was a bad trip, that was all.

  “Listen,
honey,” Pompeii said between dramatic, Garboesque puffs of smoke. “I didn’t hear about no death or nothing in the evening news; he was just tripping. You sure you wasn’t on something?”

  “Yeah,” Oliver said miserably.

  “Well, you had been drinking.”

  “Just a couple of beers.”

  “I don’t know. I give up. I just think you were freaking out over something and what seemed like one thing was really another.”

  They sat in a small café on Charles Street, sipping iced lattes and eating pastries. Pompeii had taken a couple of bird-like nibbles of his chocolate-hazelnut torte and was done with it (“A girl has to watch her figure”). Oliver had dismantled the levels of his napoleon; his fork made gentle fractures in the zebra-striped top. He ate listlessly, chewing, yet not tasting the bitter chocolate and the rich cream.

  “I really ought to check it out, just to see if he’s okay.”

  Pompeii shook his head. “No. If something did happen, there’d be all these questions.”

  “But—”

  “Honey. Look, you did what you could: the police were notified, its in their hands. You didn’t do anything bad. But the police tend to look for the easiest explanations, and if you go walking right in there. I mean, that’s if something happened. I’m sure we’ll see that boy out again at Hippos, coked out of his mind.”

  Oliver didn’t reply; he knew what he’d seen. The pale blue eyes, open, unseeing. The stains of blood and semen stained his shirt. He’d have to throw it away. It was a shame; it had been one of his favorite shirts.