Jazzie 3

Rock Me on the Water

There is an unexpected presence on Gravity. Jeremy feels it in the list to port as he drowses on the berth. His first thought is that the Antiguan boy, John Carter, has returned for an unexpected visit. The kid is a bit of a truant. While Jeremy supervised the boy, the information finally flowed. He’s from somewhere in St. John’s, and stays with an Auntie in Cobbs Cross so he can go to school. I don't like it much, the school seems pointless. Not much to say about his home, but then Jeremy did not supply much to the boy in return.

The tread is too heavy, and Jeremy recognizes it with a sensual pleasure. Theo swings down the companionway, scorning the steps. He is in his school uniform. He flips the mosquito net back across the opening before acknowledging Jeremy. “Permission to come aboard?”

“As often as you like,” Jeremy smirks a smile that has stirred the breast of many a savage beast. “I’d have come up to Da Nang if I knew you were coming over.

Theo’s cock begins to stir. His Fergus stretches across the pilot berth beneath a sheet. The whispering vents cannot expel the heavy air, so a sheen of perspiration varnishes the brightwork of Jeremy’s body. Try an Ohio August, Jeremy replied once when Theo asked him what he thought of Antigua’s summer. My Fergus from across the water, Theo thinks. One foot always in the water just in case he has to do a runner again. Half a year together, they know each other very well.

“Knew you were chopping leaves and such tonight.”

“Done at 11:30,” Jeremy points out.

“My Fergus is a true grafter,” Theo murmurs. He sits across the salon by the table. Study books lay open where his boyfriend left them. “Rate you, Jem.” Sometimes Theo lets the London Dil-posh drop and Kingston, Jamaica slips in. “Had to swat out a paper after school. Easier in Da Nang; ran it off on the office printer just now.”

“Piece of brilliance,” Jeremy’s Middle America is replaced by a stab at Theo’s chosen accent. Theo hums agreement with a curated lift of a perfect eyebrow. They are long past self conscious seductions with each other. Theo gets the look.

“Easier to slog through World Wide Refugees without himself around to distract. Thought you could give me a final ride to school when the sun comes up.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“Oh, I know so.” Theo kicks off his shoes with two assertive thumps.

Jeremy learned to work his tangerine, but this exhibition is in Theo’s nature. The tie and shirt come off almost burlesque, but the young Jamaican is his own audience in this. Jeremy’s fingers run up his spine before the pants are open. The kiss they share is a light finger tap, and then there is a firm handshake and a brief collision. Everything mingles in the moment.

Belowdecks on a Dufour 29 are not the place for graceful exhibitions. It is more like slick snakes writhing through the confines of an angled tunnel, heading for the light: sex in a closet. It is as studied as servicing a winch. It is the abandon of turning your stern so you run the swells before the gale winds. They end in the confines of Gravity’s V-berth where water sounds fill the ear, the air breathes heavy with moisture, and a trickle of sweat is never cooled by the steady whir of the sconce fans.

First needs are served without familiar ritual. It is a dance nobody leads. Jeremy’s calf rides up to press on Theo’s thigh. It is enough of an invitation. First needs are served in silence, mouths finding better uses. They have neither matured to their final strength and form. Adolescent sex is lean and long and supple, and with these two, very self assured.

Jeremy teases Theo’s knots out. The welcome penetration comes as Theo’s ebony hair cascades around his face. Jeremy’s fingers try to tame the mane as they brush appreciatively over Theo’s temples. Then he simply drops his hands to his lover’s arms and surrenders to the pressures on his body.

A feature of the V-berth is that Jeremy can plant his feet against the roof. Theo caresses the quiver in the legs, sweeping his length across the constricting velvet. Theo can take this youth out of himself, but carefully. Theo’s Fergus came to him bruised. They share a taste for older men, come to that, the multi-folate diversity of willing men of all ages. His Jem has been hurt by the wrong sort of men. Theo is mindful of this. The tawny beauty of Jeremy jerks in sympathetic movements to Theo’s hunger; he will tear the boy apart, tear him down to a quaking ecstasy, but carefully, mutually.

It is hard not to be hard when you are eighteen. The partners have practiced quiet coupling. Which one-eyed-monk will blink first in the night watch? The boys have giggled with mouths full and found that candy must be crunched, regardless which orifice you try. Each time they try, they know their strength will be defeated in the inevitable capitulation to their need. This is not that. Tonight, Theo needs to slam into Jeremy.

Jeremy absorbs it all. The perspiration gluing the V-berth sheets to his back, the man-handling, the saturation of truffle-vanilla notes as he starts to inhale jagged breaths, Theo’s rampant cock is wicked inside him. The slamming slows while Theo jerks Jeremy’s cock so that his balls mash into Theo’s clipped pubis. Ah, the (first) release.

“I’ve got the weekend free for a change. Things are slowing down. I thought we could slip over to Basse-Terre.” Jeremy likes the French-freedom of Guadeloupe, fifty-seven miles to the south. With luck, a six hour passage, and Jeremy knows the waters well. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, en Guadeloupe? We can leave after school, anchor in Baie Mahault, crash Little New York again?”

They lie together, drowsy in their initial satisfaction. There is a not so adolescent male smugness in the fluid movement of their limbs. The flaring of desire has been quenched, the beast fed. Theo’s hand lays limp on Jeremy’s hard belly, just brushing the glory of his cock. Theo’s other arm cradles his boyfriend’s head. When Jeremy regains the inclination, he will roll over and nuzzle the softness of Theo’s armpit.

“Brilliant,” Theo smiles up at the open hatch above his head, liking the idea. He turns his head to look at Jeremy. “I’ve taken shifts all weekend in Carlisle Bay. My auntie set it up. Can’t hardly pass that up.” There is no apology. Work comes first for both of them. Jeremy’s ambition is his Yacht Master Ticket when he turns seventeen. Theo aims for university in America. His mother in Jamaica has worked her life for that. Neither read the tea leaves of their uncomfortably separate futures too closely.

“I think I’ll go alone then.”

Jeremy lies on his stomach, a cupped palm supporting his head. Theo traces the sculpted curve of Jeremy’s back down to the darkening cleft he just vacated. Infidelity means something else between them. Fidelity is supporting their individuality and spirit. It is not what Jeremy might find on an Antiguan beach or a Guadeloupe club. Theo’s hand traces the line his eyes followed. His boyfriend knows a Carlisle massage might lead to other things. Generous tips for special attention in resort rooms from men no longer hungry for their wives. Money Theo needs to live, and tuition money for university later. Theo curls around to kiss a dimpled cheek.

“Another time for both of us.”

Theo aspires for America, cultivates his London posh, but at heart he remains a Jamaican boy who loves jerked meat. Jeremy rolls over. He always feels so white-bread bland beside his boyfriend. Theo personifies the Caribbean. The latest stranger on the beach, the schoolboy who lingered through the day with him. Jeremy knows he is a foreign fascination for them. Theo’s everything is the intersection of his Cuban father and British-colonized Jamaican mother, striving for an American dream.

Theo’s tongue bongos on Jeremy’s flesh; familiar rhythms with improvisations. It is Jeremy’s turn to kiss the dimple on Theo’s cheek. His thumb rubs Theo suggestively. Theo releases Jeremy’s cock with relish. He accepts Jeremy, straddled across the youth’s slim hips. This allows Theo to focus on all Jeremy’s stretch: second wind.

“What’s this then?” Theo pulls John’s iPhone from the charger. “This one has certainly run up the odometer, Why am I not surprised?” He casts a heavy lidded gaze of mock reproach. They are cooling after their sensuous finish in the cramped head shower between the V-berth and Gravity’s salon.

Jeremy hands Theo a chilled fruit blend. “I had a visitor today, just a boy. I forgot he left it charging.”

“The times I’ve left something on the table, just so I could come back,” Theo gives Jeremy a knowing look. “I thought you were a bit shagged out.”

“Shagged? Oh really, you thought so?” Jeremy laughs at him.

“I had to work and work for it! A girl needs more than the look, you know.” The glass of fruit juice almost slops over as Theo attempts to wag a finger at Jeremy. “Will I find your number on this?”

“I think the kid is twelve.”

“You’re positively depraved.” Theo’s hand flashes to his mouth in shock. They are together at the galley station, right beside the companionway, where there is a chance some air might funnel down.

“I bought him a meal the other day.”

“Cheap date?” Theo frowns, “You didn’t buy me a meal!”

“I let you use my tablet and the office printer,” Jeremy points out, reasonably. “I can feed you now.”

“There’s the look, but can you really deliver?” Theo gives Jeremy a kiss. He turns back to the iPhone. “Let’s see what filth this lad snapped of you.” Theo fiddles for a minute. “Your electrics knackered, Jem?”

“Nope”

“Then this phone is.” Theo puts it down. He finishes his juice. “You said you were going to feed me.” He gives Jeremy a steady look.

“Well, I was thinking, potluck,” Jeremy counters.

“Potluck?” Theo smiles at this unfamiliar term.

“I bring something, you bring something.” Jeremy gestures for emphasis.

“Charming!” Theo moves in on Jeremy swiftly, propelling him backward through the head and into the V-berth.

Play Stupid Games, Win Stupid Prizes

John Carter sprawls with his back against the hardwood headboard. Six-year-old Eve sits primly beside him, her eyes riveted to the shifting screen. It never matters what program plays, John’s little sisters will stay glued. Eve is a quiet one, like Chloe. Step-sister Ruth is on John’s other side. She topples over till her head rests on John’s bare leg.

He’ll sit with them, tease them, but for all he worries about Chloe being overworked, the little ones are not a business for a boy. Television is stupid. Pudgee Funk’s phone is a satisfying pressure on his thigh. It should still have some charge in its failing battery. He could take it to a restaurant or sit on the road and use the guest WIFI. Maybe his ex-friend Nathan sees him sitting there, comes to sit beside him so they can share the screen. John bets the boys playing cricket would forget the teasing if they had a chance to share some funny YouTube.

He has pocket money. Take a table, order food like I do in Falmouth. Sure, and word would pass around Gray's Farm. Tayo would learn Jazzie is flashing suspicious Cheddar. Nothing good would come of that.

The front door opening distracts John’s thoughts. “Wa gwaan , my children!” Thomas Carter grins from the open door. Eve rolls off the daybed. Her father snatches the silk bouquet from the vase on the chest of drawers. “I brought you flowers, little blossom.” Eve giggles. “Look yah, Ruth.” The little girl on John’s thigh shifts slightly.

“No-See-Um, how yuh stay?” Thomas leans in to greet John with a hand clasp. John flashes his teeth in silent greeting. The man ruffles Ruth’s scalp. Both girls fall back into the television, the flowers are forgotten on the floor. “Where’s mum, then?”

“She’s lying down,” Eve pipes up. Susan Carter comes home late. Another mother might snap and hiss her exhaustion; John’s mother tries to gather in her children, grateful-guilty for Chloe’s babysitting, anxious about John’s roaming.

“Susan,” Thomas sings in a familiar coaxing tone. John’s father vanishes down the hallway. It is easy to predict how this will go. Dad is yes, and mum is no. If either answer, Me think on tha, John knows his father will forget, and his mother will do the thinking. The children rest easy with Dad. He is one of them. John trusts Chloe, because she is like his mother. He does not expect much from Eve, or Ruth, or Dad.

Thomas Carter is a charmer. The man is oil on the anger bubbling up in Susan. He is also the fire boiling her indignation with his wandering ways. John’s attention shifts to the conversation down the hall. “Jus something fu-me chirren,” Thomas’ voice rises above the television. The reply is missed. “Respect, woman, why are you pinching pennies with your man?”

Chloe comes in from the kitchen with Stephen on her hip. The little boy gets spilled beside the others on the daybed. She has a box of Oreos John brought from the bungalow. They get distributed and the flowers get returned to the vase on the chest of drawers. Chloe seems not to listen to their parents.

“You are so fine there on the bed. Maybe I give you a piece.”

Their mother’s voice finally lifts over the television, “If you wanted sex with me, you would stick around in a relationship.”

“I stick around.”

“Just looking for money.”

“Just something for ah-we chirren,” Thomas tries again. “Wah mek yuh ah act so? You a hard-hearted, miserly woman, Susan Carter.”

“Help me, help me, Sir,” John’s mother appeals to God. “I’m tired. I can’t manage it,” and this about her husband’s philandering.

“You should have thought about that before you denied me.” Thomas remembers and forgets things his own way.

“Go away! Leave me alone!”

John pulls his leg out from under the mashy-mess Ruth is fisting into her mouth. He pulls the red sheer curtain back. There is a new woman waiting on the street.

“I’ salt John, you give me some money.” John turns to look at his father. “I’ll go down the street and get ah-we some food. I’m hungry.” Papa sees the hand on the curtain. He knows John has eyes in his head. “Star, yu a like your mum. I know you have some cheddar on you.”

John crosses his arms. “I got no coil, except what mum gives me to catch the bus.”

“Chirren bellies come first, Me saying.”

Tip of the tongue to answer, Women and drink come first with you. This won’t come out because John loves this man. His mother loves this man. Pudgee Funk admires Thomas’ ways with women. That is the problem, too much loving. It is hard to know what is right.

The morning after John picked through the bungalow, he went back for his phone. The sailboat was all locked up. The locks looked like they could be picked, if John had the skills. He thought of going to school in Cobbs Cross, but he had the shopping bag. School is discouraging, so he left the food for Chloe in the young American’s cockpit and wandered about English Harbour toward Galleon Beach. Before long, Jeremy was back. Figured I'd see you this morning, the boat owner said, Charge isn’t holding, sorry.

Jeremy shared the rest of his morning with the boy. John followed the teenager around his fascinating boat. John helped pull the sails from storage bags and attach them to the mast. Jeremy, John liked calling him by his first name, Jeremy was sailing it to Guadeloupe, just because he could. John could not imagine that freedom. John asked questions and Jeremy answered in the voice a mother uses when her mind is elsewhere. Finally, Jeremy said he had to go to work and John had to leave.

Jeremy saw him walking the road back to Cobbs Cross, so John got to ride on the back of the old scooter all the way to the cricket grounds. They said goodbye a second time at the corner. I thought you worked in a restaurant, John commented. Jeremy did, but today it seemed he was working fixing boats in Falmouth Harbour. The teenager always worked. I work too, John told Jeremy. I have good eyes.

“How come you just don’t work?” John blurts out to his father. This is the eternal question on everyone’s mind.

Thomas Carter’s face looks troubled. “I had that small accident. I try, but they blacklist me, now. They’re afraid of the competition, don't want me to work.” This has been heard before. Sometimes they is all encompassing, sometimes specific. The Carter grin comes back. “A nu same day leaf drop it rotten. better times coming, No-See-Um.”

Chloe reaches into her pocket and extracts the money John shared with her, “Here, Papa.”

“Oh you my good girl, Chloe!”

His sister peels off EC$100 and holds it out for their father. “Hmmm,” Thomas eyes the remnant, so Chloe reluctantly gives him EC$40 more.

“Peace, children. I’ll be back with bread butter and cheese,” he tickles Ruth, “Banana sodas,” Eve gets a tweak. “You chirren mind your mum now.”

John punches the door when Thomas Carter leaves. “Why did you do that? I gave that money ah fu you, for you! I brought the food. That money was ah fu you, not he. Not for …” John won’t say what he knows his Papa will use the money for.

“Mum brings the groceries home,” Chloe cocks her head at John. It is like she is waiting for her big brother to admit his hand hurts from the impact with the door. John thinks he is a help, all proud with his bag of groceries. Any minute, he will vanish to his boy’s club car and leave her with the younger three. Morning comes, he will be off like their dad.

Susan Carter finds John sitting on the hood of the old coupe, his handsome-hurtful Thomas-face illuminated by the shifting images of some YouTube video on the problematic iPhone. In his white singlet, the echo of her husband is even louder. Susan’s grandmother would say, All cassava get same skin but all Nah taste same way. Susan hopes for better from her boy.

“So you have the iPhone now. Am I going to be able to chat you up?” Her little boy is slipping away. The daybed is Thomas’ to sleep on since she found out about the HIV. John takes it when the man is off about his business. Now John sleeps in Papa Jack’s gutted wreck, shadows trouble, and vanishes for days.

“It’s bricking.” The offending phone slips into John’s pocket. “He doesn’t have to talk about the HIV.”

“It’s a small island.” Susan ruffles John’s mop. “I worry about you, going away so, taking iPhones, the extra money in your pocket.”

“Pudgee Funk just give fu-he phone.” Susan raps John lightly on the head for slipping into Creole. “Gave me his phone. What’s the use of always talking posh like a dryland tourist?” He complains, but he knows her answer. Posh gets you jobs that pay.

“Gives you his old phone!” Susan scoffs.

“It’s not stolen!” John insists.

“That boy doesn't give, less he wants something. Everybody does for him. That Nelson Bird’s too lazy to get off the Chesterfield, make his own sandwich. Child, I’ve known that boy since he was Chloe’s age. The boy’s too lazy to pick the boogers out of his own nose. Used to let it run green into his mouth till his poor mama wiped it for him.” Susan hums out her disbelief. “Nelson Bird is too lazy to earn his own street name. I don’t like where your money comes from.”

Jazzie is not original either, but John feels tough when the men call him that. His mum is just being a mum, getting all worried about things a man has to do. She is definitely wrong about Pudgee Funk. “I love you mum. The money doesn’t come from Russian business. With Dad not working, I thought you would be proud of me.”

“Nothing good is going to come from spending time with Nelson Bird.”

“Well, someone has to bring in money to this family!”

“Don’t I work? Why are you being so disrespectful? Represent the energy that is in your head, young man. I work hard for my money, no?”

“Sorry mum,” John walks it back. He knows he cannot say how he came by his money. “This old iPhone hardly works. The money I gave Chloe, I got it working for an American in English Harbour. Two days, he had me fixing winches. Those are things you wrap …” John twirls his finger around an imaginary drum. “Then today, we took the sole up. That’s the floor. He had me looking everywhere for leaks.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jeremy has a boat; not a powerboat, just a sailboat.”

“I send you to Cobbs Cross to go to school; and what’ you doing on some rich man’s boat?”

“He’s just Secondary School, mum,” John assures her. “I go to school. Nobody phoning you about me missing, are they?” John learned long ago that Public School never bothers. Nobody at Cobbs Cross School seems to care if the HIV-Boy from clear across the island comes or goes. “I work after. Jeremy lets me sleep on his boat. Sometimes, it’s too late to catch the bus.”

“You just make sure you stay in school. Primary is coming to an end for you real soon. You keep your mind on those qualifying exams. God willing, there will be money for the Secondary.

“What about Chloe?”

“You let me worry about that. Hard enough getting your unruly self back in school. Meantime, keep clear of that Nelson Bird. I find out you are trying to gangbang with that boy, I’ll smack you upside of your head for real.”

“I stay in school and get those certificates, like Dad, I still won’t be working in nothing better than a gas station. Pudgee Funk’s got that right.”

Susan worries about her son. The boy is eleven and the changes start happening at that age. Why does he get to sleep in the car? Chloe asks. Boy needs his space, Susan tells her. The growing up in John needs to get away from a room full of sisters. Soon enough his garments will come to the wash, crusty. A mother can’t hold on too tight, her John is going to test himself, but Lord, her boy has no way out except through school.

John is growing wild. She knows they all need her here at home. She would make Thomas watch the children more. The man can do that well enough. But he wasn’t careful with his bad sickness. Somehow, Eve is HIV positive, so it is probably better he doesn’t try to be the mother for her children. Chloe has to stay home and John must stay in school. John’s loyal to his sister Chloe. He can be the bootstrap that lifts them all out of the crosses Thomas Carter has put them in.

“Pudgee Funk is smart, gives me respect,” John continues. “Certificates are not everything.” He is thinking of Jeremy knowing so much and not being in school. “More ways than school to be smart … anyways, I just do a thing for Pudgee, he does a thing for me.”

“Ants follow fat, fat drown im.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Someone who smiles to your face does not necessarily mean you well. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. You stay in school, not think you can run the street with Nelson Bird. That boy is going to poke his nose too close to real trouble and then you’ll find out how small he is in Gray's Farm. Enjoy the blessing of an education that is just handed to you till your sixteen. Then it’s better days for you, John.”

“We need better days right now, mum. School hates me, and Dad’s bad sickness follows me everywhere. I can be your blessing. I’m eleven. It’s my time now; you watch mum. It’s my time to shine.” John slides off the hood and walks off into the night. Susan watches him strut away, and sighs.

Your Body Perfectly Design, So Fine

Heroes Sports Bar is three blocks off Nevis Street, five from St. Mary’s where the disgorged cruise line passengers are lured along the streets with comforting shops and lucrative restaurants. It is near Heroes Park and the Paradise Casino, but outsiders are more likely to notice Burger King than Heroes, hidden behind a large building at the end of Prince Klass Street. It is very easy to miss and if Tayo was objective about it, very easily dismissed.

When the chattering companions come through the alley off All Saints Road, the unfamiliar bar is no surprise. The sidewalk below the sheltering balcony is full of evening loiterers. Not patrons of the bar, just neighbors gathering outside a clothing shop to share the evening news and catch the music from the bar above. The concrete balcony overhanging the street is almost empty. Tayo and his companions take the stairs up and then he is surprised.

The matte black bar is crowded. There is the mix Tayo expects. This is Heroes’ Drag Night. He anticipated the regulars tolerating the night’s theme. He can pick the regulars out. First timers, like his group, have come to deride-applaud the not-normal. The surprise is the outsiders. There are five tables of out-of-place cultural tourists headhunting memory-trophies.

Tayo’s group takes a table against the glitter coated charcoal wainscoting. The three not-girlfriends sit opposite the young men. The ladies are delighted with the drag queen. Tayo does not understand why. Tayo’s protective coloration for the evening is contempt. Multi colored disco lights flicker over the costumed entertainer. Three large screens continue showing football. The regulars watch and converse. Theirs is the disinterest Tayo needs to show. Instead, he lapses into silence and covertly watches the heavyset man lip syncing Soak It Up.

The ladies love the one piece tartan. The broad hips and chest are quite convincing. The Queen is backed into his corner. He is voluptuous; just the sort his friends appreciate. It is a vision in red and black. His head scarf might restrain a natural beehive. Scarlet lips mouth the lyrics with passion. Tayo’s two friends are more intent on ordering their drinks than disparaging the drag queen.

“Clap for Mona XY, everyone!”

The outsiders lead this with whistles and friendly cheers. The dancehall crowd raise their voices for their varied reasons. Tayo’s friend’s disgust is muted by their beer and female companions. The ladies do not share their negativity. They are more into the fluidity of the man throwing kisses to the crowd.

The menu is pricey. Heroes Sports Bar serves safe-unimaginative food. The ladies order something to share and the men confine themselves to drinks. Tayo is flush tonight, but chooses not to share.

Jazzie found a string of two story buildings overlooking Falmouth Harbour, High View Studios. The canny boy argued for a daylight snatch and grab. A beefy family, not yet cooked medium rare, just moved in. Jazzie works out that the place is ripe for picking once the day trip starts. Smash and grab the small loft in eight minutes. Smooth runnings, Trini and Tayo Hoovered up two bags of sell off goods. So, Tayo is flush tonight.

“Hey, hey, look, it’s dem next.” A friend leans across the table to catch the ladies’ attention. This is what they have come for.

“Marcus, Tee-Boy!” The table cheers. The pair grin and wave their way. “Looking star!” Tayo yells. The men are matched in paint-on stonewashed jeans. The lemon-lamé jackets expose their washboard bellies. “Look at them, hahaha, look at them!” Plum lipstick and Arctic Blue wigs complete the effect. Tayo smiles in agreement. Tee-Boy, Tayo would gladly sex with that boy. Tayo stirs at the undisguised maleness of Tee-Boy’s tight pants.

“Okay, okay, our next participants are—” The MC is stopped by Tee-Boy. The MC pauses to listen for a moment, and then turns back to his microphone. “Welcome the Boom Bwoys.” This gets a loud welcome from the crowd.

Marcus and Tee-Boy are keyed up, bouncing on their toes, waiting for the audio to start. It is a very old song that the Caribbean audience recognizes. The intro sets the room going.

The audience, decoding the lyrics, is less certain. Men at the tourist tables are not sure if they are witnessing queer expression hacking the space, or if this performance is a homophobic pushback at the sports bar’s experiment to drum up new business. Their clapping at the end is unenthusiastic.

Marcus and Tee-Boy take a victory lap through the bar; exchanging high-fives with the backseat patrons. This is distracting. When the pair land at Tayo’s table, Tee-Boy preempts the chair beside Tayo, pushing its occupant out. “Hard,” Tayo assures his friend. Tee-Boy responds with a shoulder hug. Then to cover the gesture, he takes a sip of Tayo’s beer. Tayo takes it from his hand. It stays between them. Tayo cannot allow himself to get too close. When Tee-Boy leans on the table to listen to the ladies’ chattering praise, Tayo can only sit back and allow one furtive glance at Tee-Boy’s spine where it meets the swelling of his buttocks.

Their reason for coming has ended and Tayo’s friends are ready to leave. Drinks cost money they don’t have. Tayo knows he ought to go with the flow, then the ladies say they want to stay. Not much the men can do to save face. Marcus rescues pocketbooks by declaring he needs to shuck these rags before the batty bwoys begin to harass him. “I’ll stay here with the ladies. You are too fine to leave to these opps grindsmen,” Tayo assures their female companions, gallantly. His friends assure the ladies they will be back. Tayo knows they won’t. None of them have jobs. Tee-Boy decides to stay close beside Tayo, alternating small sips from their shared beer.

“Theo!” Lifts from the table of outsiders closest to the microphone. His companions shift their attention back to the next performer, so Tayo turns away from Tee-Boy. The startlingly beautiful drag queen is dressed in a dolphin-hem bodycon in a vibrant egg yolk. Less makeup than the ladies across the table, heavy gold earrings, and his cascade of hair are his only costume. The drag queen might be Tayo and Tee-Boy’s age.

“That is one fine woman!” Tee-Boy offers Tayo in a husky voice.

“Away with you, fu-he hips and likkle bumbo smaller than Marcus, now.” Tayo nudges Tee-Boy with a snigger. “Pudgee Funk’s tits are bigger.” The drag queen’s elegant dress falls off the young man’s natural chest perfectly, clings downward to his narrow hips and thighs.

“A true,” Tee-Boy agrees, unconvincingly. He swings around to look Tayo in the face. “You telling me, he be a she, you wouldn’t sex with her?”

“Maybe I close me eyes and keep me hands to me,” Tayo grins slyly, “Maybe I give the batty-byoy what he’s looking for.” This is as close as Tayo can risk the truth with Tee-Boy.

Tayo does not remember the drag queen till he sees his partner from the beach. The teenage boy is settling on a drum set stool behind his beach-boyfriend. Tayo often thinks about the boy kneeling in the surf. He has looked for the boy, not expecting to see him in Antigua again. The two of them danced not-a-care together. Tayo thinks about that as well.

“Welcome Dil all the way from Miami,” the MC tones effusively. His high-spending tourists are clearly delighted by the next act. An older pair are blowing kisses. Theo is startling enough to catch the local’s attention as well.

Theo moves to the mic diva-graceful. Like his weekly show at Chandler’s Caribbean Cafe in Falmouth, he will own this seedy bar in St. John’s for the night. He is tragic-Dil mourning his lost Jody-Bobbie, and he is Theo Clarke with his Fergus-Jeremy happy consummation. Both identities define the young Jamaican-American man.

Theo leans into the microphone, “Brought my boyfriend along tonight.” He waves an elegant wrist Jeremy’s way. Jeremy is fussing with his guitar and the intimidating microphone the MC placed firmly in his face. He sketches a wave at the crowd. “Scared he is; just a virgin. Not like that, naughty girl!” Theo scolds one of his principal fans at the front. “So, it’s his first time here,” another indulgent look towards Jeremy. “Promised him I’d be gentle with him. You all be gentle too, ‘cause he plays like shite.” This draws a ripple of laughter. “The rest of the band is here in my pocket.” Theo pulls his phone out. He continues talking to the crowd as he connects his phone to the amplifier. “Just a sec. He’s Sting and I’m Shaggy tonight. You’re all Wembley Stadium. Oh and we brought the police, just in case Sting here tries a runner.” Theo points to a uniformed officer sitting at a table by himself.

There is a last reassuring touch on Jeremy’s shoulder before the music begins.

Another drag queen follows in a campy performance that loses regulars’ attention and is only sustained by the outsiders and the particular friends who came to watch. Tayo steps away to the lavatory. When he returns, fresh drinks and a plate of conch roti have materialized. One beer sits across from Tee-Boy, an overture from the ladies. Tayo prefers his former spot. He shares a second beer with Tee-Boy and watches Jeremy.

Tod Gillespie and Shari Abas invite Theo and Jeremy to join their table after the song. They are acquaintances from Theo’s recent massage appointment in Jolly Harbour. There is kneading and occasionally, something more. Jeremy might meet those sorts of clients. The names of the others at the table do not register. Retaining names and particular interests are the sort of thing Theo excels at. The partners accept the offer of drinks, and order something disappointing on the men’s credit card.

Jeremy has learned the language and mannerisms of men. He modulates his adolescent enthusiasm, restrains the shifts of envy, self consciousness, and youthful cynicism. Jeremy is bilingual, with the capacity to think adolescent and adult; which is perhaps the essence of adolescence, anyway.

Tod Gillespie, Theo explained, has come to Antigua and Barbuda from Singapore to set up an offshore financial center. Shari Abas is Tod’s personal secretary. They are Summer and Autumn; something prosaic in Jeremy’s journey. Shari is snack. He is a thirty-something, dimple-chinned hottie. Shari’s raspy jawline and smoldering eyes can make a sixteen-year-old melt over his groin like hot wax. Is it hot in here? Shari runs a big hand through his lustrous dark mane, eying Jeremy like he’s the snack. Jeremy is on his second run and Coke without a thought; bar glasses are so small, and damn, it’s hot sitting so close to the man.

Theo is demure about his Martini. His focus is on Tod Gillespie. It is an incongruous name for a very Malaysian businessman. Tod could teach Theo what authentic Public School posh sounds like. He is a slender bookkeeper, in wire rims. Tod is pocket-watch-precise. Apparently, Shari winds him up, so he keeps ticking. Theo liked him from the first massage (and something more) in the Jolly Harbour condo.

The two teenagers are a mystery to Tod. Theo Clarke was what he seemed from the moment Tod invited him into the condo. Young, beautiful to vanity, and dangerously fem-cliche. Tod Gillespie recognizes the pitfalls of first impressions. He faces them all his life. Theo talked Tod out of his first superficial assessment. Like most people, the Jamaican-American was interesting. Theo’s young American boyfriend is crushing on Shari. This is to be expected. To be polite, Shari is asking questions. Tod can see his partner’s interest grow as the teenager reveals depths about himself.

Tod finds both teenagers delightfully, innocently, mercenary. They are young Geishas, seemingly innocent in their artifice. Or perhaps he judges this wrong, they are interesting adolescents, hungry for everything. Theo lifts his martini to his lips, turns to amplify his boyfriend’s claims, and then his seductive eyes return to Tod, “Why wouldn’t you incorporate in Hong Kong, the Cayman Islands, or simply stay in Singapore?” The young pair might be in Singapore’s Chinatown instead of unwelcoming Antigua. Tod recognizes they will cheerfully say good night, or enthusiastically return with the men to Jolly Harbour. Their camaraderie is a tonic.

Tee-Boy beside him, and across the room, the teenager from the beach. It is not that his friend would welcome Tayo’s overtures. It is not like the American boy will leave the table and meet him somewhere quiet for an encore. Tayo can see that Jeremy has the attention of the good looking outsider. The others at the table are drawn to what he is saying as well. Tayo watches Jeremy hand out business cards to everyone. This prompts more focus on him. Where does he live? Tayo wonders, before he is drawn back into the pointless flirting at his own table.

The drag show flags. The MC senses the high paying outsiders will be edging to the stairs, taking their American dollars with them. He stops by the tourist table to invite the drag queen to sing again. Theo’s voice brings Tee-Boy’s attention back to the front.The first song leads to another. Jeremy takes a moment for a washroom break. While Tayo hesitates, the two men lean in to whisper, and then the men kiss to consummate some understanding.

Theo’s song reminds Jeremy of their first meeting in Falmouth Harbour. Jeremy’s future was more precarious then. It hardly feels different now. Back in Chillicothe, Ohio, Jeremy’s parents conceal their misgivings and sorrow at the way Jeremy has managed his shipwrecked life. They assert their support, and as in all things, Jeremy knows they have his back. They are there, he is here where he needs to be. I’m beautiful in my own way, ♪♫♬ ‘cause God makes no mistakes, ♪♫♬ I’m on the right track, baby, ♪♫♬ I was born this way. It is definitely less precarious sharing Antigua with Theo.

The balcony of Heroes Sports Bar is occupied by locals. Jeremy walks it’s length so that the proximate ocean air cools him. An unattractive building mass oppresses the bayside of the balcony. When Jeremy walks back to the doorway, he notices that he can see massive cruise liners rising above the rooftops. Mostly, the ambiance is the gritty alley street below and the tight core of St. John’s stretching off to the bejeweled hills.

“I thought you would be back wherever it is you come from.”

Jeremy glances at the young man beside him. Dark pupils holding Jeremy’s attention for a heartbeat. The face is an Instagram of gravity. The full lips are very memorable. That brings Jeremy’s quiet smile.

“You remember me, Star. Tayo? Your boyfriend, I recognize him too.” Tayo leans on the ornate railing. The American boy’s youth is more apparent under the bare-bulb string of lights above their heads. Tayo purses his lips to stop from licking them.

“Right, Tayo; I told you, I live on the island.” He does not elaborate. Jeremy peers over the railing feigning more curiosity in the mingling neighborhood than he actually feels. Tayo, Shari, the calculated measure in Tod’s bespeckled eyes; Jeremy clubs for this. He is sweet sixteen and relishes it. Tomorrow is a school day (after Jeremy’s fashion), tonight, Jeremy raves. “I remember,” the smile is directed to the night.

“Maybe you would like to walk the beach with me again? You give me your number?”

There’s the problem; Jeremy does not have this man’s number, yet. It was dancing. It was just the eb and flow of the primal tide one night on a beach; but just shifting his feet on the balcony activates Jeremy’s pelvis. Theo’s singing sword sheathed in silk and an exotic man pushing long bangs off his forehead, it is a fever.

“It’s a tragedy, you' denying your flesh the pleasure of my fine body.” Tayo’s eyes slide toward Jeremy’s freshness. They just lean on a balcony, strangers escaping the heat. Sadly, Tayo is too close to Gray’s Farm and the darkling beach is far away.

“Give me your number,” Jeremy is fey.

Tayo is back on the balcony with Tee-Boy half an hour later. He watches the street below, when Jeremy leaves with the two rich outsiders. The young American is just a boy, bouncing on his toes, gyrating on his heels, arms in motion, his voice slightly louder than the others. He is dancing, Tayo decides. Dancing along a beach of opportunities. Tayo runs his finger along the edge of the business card he found on the abandoned tourist table. Fourteen Gates, Gravity Charters, his perplexing boy on the beach is even more mysterious. Tee-Boy’s shoulder brushes his. Tee-Boy is watching the drag queen stepping gracefully beside the older man. Tayo imagines the incidental touch is something more, but this is St. John’s, so it is probably just the people crowding them together.

The Car is Driving You

It is somewhere in the Middle Watch and Jolly Harbour’s lights reflect on the wall above their heads. Jeremy simply bit his lip and fell backwards on the bed when Shari took him on a private tour. Elsewhere, Tod is slowly disrobing Theo, luxuriating in the young man’s naked muscle as he thoughtfully removes his own apparel. The teen’s turgid cock produced the smoldering reply to the Alpha’s challenge. Shari swept his hair back like a journeyman rolling up his sleeves, and Jeremy’s heart swelled.

Shari reaches out to clasp Jeremy’s hand. He pulls him off the bed and they kiss. Shari and Jeremy break first kiss, then strip like snakes shedding skin. The man’s weight topples the teen back onto the bed, pressing him down.

Sometimes, it is about this; the unequal contest where his bobcat clashes with the insurmountable strength of a larger animal. All Jeremy’s limbs go into motion. Teeth bared, his supple muscles test their growing strength. Sex is coiling holds and slippery breaks, and a labored breath that never speaks. It just turns into a keening noise voicing Jeremy’s urgency to be manhandled.

Shari is a Siamese Cat person (to Tod’s annoyance). Shari knows the struggle of caging cats with evil tempers. He wants the boy open to him, but each time he manages to lift a leg, a different limb slips in the way. You might say, Jeremy is making it harder for Shari. Jeremy finds leverage everywhere like a practiced wrestler. His suppleness bends and tenses as the man works for the pin. The contest pauses while they regroup. Shari slows his pace, inching recalcitrant limbs to splay, while Jeremy’s fingers explore the man’s contours and the prominence between his thighs.

The penetration is a cautious glide. There is only Jeremy’s parted lips to acknowledge the invasion. The teen relents by inches. They have captured each other's flags, but there is no surrender. A palm to Jeremy’s flush face is met with a sailor’s hook of the thumb. As Shari shifts within him, they arm wrestle. It is not safe to leave the hand once it is pinned to the sheets. It will return for more mischief.

Jeremy’s body wakes in different ways. This coupling is the adolescent adrenaline when you take the wheel of an overpowered muscle car. Youth testing the barely manageable power throbbing into your pelvis with each slight pressure of your foot. Take it to the redline and hold it there. He revels at the danger that if you accelerate too fast, everything will get away from you. Sex this way is the precarious balance between driver and helpless passenger. The car is driving you.

Jeremy’s mischief taunts Shari to a praiseworthy punishing finish. The man is a gentleman. He holds the door for Jeremy; lets him pass through (as it were) before he follows. They pause together past the portal, both appreciating the other. Shari has pride of place. He is thirty-two, smugly demonstrating his endurance. He would like to strip the slippery condom off, lubricate the feisty boy beneath him, and leave a pregnant memory behind.

Shari draws out, then in, so the memory of coupling is refreshed. He comes out completely and the dangling latex is caught on Jeremy’s delicate lips. Shari plunges back in bareback. A fist strikes up at Shari. He catches it. “I reckon I should worry more than you. I’m very safe. You’re very tight.” The clenched fist quivers against Shari’s palm. As the man’s pelvis begins to move, the fist relents. Bookkeeper’s like to audit their ledgers regularly, Jeremy consoles himself.

Shari has variations of the Usung Dian tattoos on his hip and thigh. Jeremy walks his fingers from one small rosette to another. He has a love-hate relationship with tattooed men. Tayo’s neck tattoo, for example. Shari’s we’re hidden till he stripped. Jeremy’s ready cock is a declined invitation to the man. Different strokes; Jeremy is philosophical about this. There are other mouths. The smoldering resentment that is Tayo, he is another disinclined to wrap his lips around a man. They slept till dawn, then Jeremy followed his own inclinations on the matter.

Shari lightly surfs flaxen hair before he reaches for the teen’s cock. The boy shaves peach fuzz, but the remaining body wealth remains untouched. Shari recalls the age. He imagines door jamb lines across Jeremy’s pale abdomen marking the timely advance of a youthful treasure trail. “Cool tats,” Jeremy compliments his thigh with a bite.

“It’s a work in progress,” Shari replies. His hand seeks the pert globes and damp crack. When he returns to Singapore, Shari will add another wild mango to the others. Tod sniffs at this growing Milkyway, sometimes tests Shari’s memory of past conquests. Shari’s breath catches. “Gently now, I’m going to shag you proper in a minute.”