Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The High Seas with High Homos: Part 2

Like a luscious Botticelli painting, Cleopatra basked in the sun with Venetian girls and studly man-boys fanning her, incense infusing the air to cover the stench of slaves rowing her boat as she sailed from Alexandria to Rome. It must have been lovely. Vivid violet sails billowed in the stout ocean breeze, as the bronze-gilded bow penetrated the currents. My Atlantis cruise may have been just as gay as Cleo's, but my painting would appear less Botticelli and more like Burt Reynolds's Playgirl spread. Furthermore, I did not so much bask under lightly bronzing UV rays as I did sweat off the glitter from the previous night's Glitter Gala, yet there was a gay with a fan. Specifically, a thirty-year-old Honduran queen that looked oddly Thai, snapping open a fucking Chinese fan every time he rounded a corner, downed a piping-hot pot sticker or enviously leered at Popeye the Power Bottom. He adorned his greasy pompadour hairstyle with pink extensions and tweezed his eyebrows so thinly that I asked him to let them heal for a week or two. Needless to say, this sailing was my seamen's wet dream.

On the third day of the Reynoldsian voyage, my ears heeded a rumor of a mythological land at sea: a nude deck. In a desperate effort to reduce the appearance of my tan lines and evade the Honduran hot mess, I braced myself to sunbathe on the nude deck. Historically, nude beaches never piqued my proclivities. I have never been conscious, sober and nude at the same time in a public setting, so this decision proved momentous, or at the very least supremely narcissistic. I grabbed my towel and sunscreen and took a frenzied walk from the Lido Deck to the nude deck, perched at the highest level of the boat at the bow of the ship, beneath the place where they keep the steering wheel. My friends knew not of my whereabouts, my solo adventure into open-air nakedness. As I entered, I marveled at the sea beyond the open space of the wood-planked expanse, peppered here and there with clusters of unfriendly, unyielding aqua blue sun chairs made of vinyl and rattan mocking. The deck was almost deserted. Yet, as I trekked further I lurched across the first nudist, a morbidly obese homosexual with about seventy years behind him. He lay prostrate, however, his body overflowed atop the chair. As he shifted to look at this tall, emaciated-looking newcomer, his pannus jostled, and I glimpsed at his previously hidden penis and ball sack. At the base of said penis and ball sack circled a cock ring. HE WORE A COCK RING WHILE TANNING IN THE NUDE.

I became suddenly flabbergasted and stood still for a moment, five feet away from the member-cinched hippo. After a quick shudder and a thought as to how hot his metal contraption felt in the heat, I discerned the rest of the demographics. There were about ten to fifteen other gentlemen, most of whom would remember the Hindenburg disaster, and several of them sported phallic entrapment bands as well. I quickened my pace to the farthest plastic cluster, faced it toward the sea away from the bare-assed octogenarians and slumped onto the chaise. It was then time. I ceded a large heave and shimmied out of my green Andrew Christian speedo and tucked it beneath my back for quick retrieval. I'd barley stripped down and placed my penis toward the sun when an ungodly short man walked up, stared at me for a second too long and asked if the seat next to me was taken. This nudist decision of mine had quickly devolved into disaster territory. I gawked at my own crotch and whispered that the seat was, in fact, available, for I could not look him in the face. Once he plopped down and let his little pecker air out, the four-foot-eleven-inch-waif-of-a-white-man, who incarnated a middle-aged hippie on the verge of late-breaking pubescence, immediately attempted to strike up a conversation. Due to his disability, his face lined up with my pelvis.

4'11": You have the most interesting tattoos. What do they mean?
Me: Oh, this one on my torso? It says "Faking the real me…"
4'11": What does that mean?
Me: Exactly what it says.
4'11": But why'd you get it?
Me: Okay, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm about two feet taller than you. I'm finding it rather difficult watching you speak directly to my penis, especially without the requisite cock ring.
4'11": You know, this is where the dick deck is at night?
Me: I've been wondering where the public sex section was. Wait, they stack up and clear out these deck chairs before nightfall, right?
4'11": Ummm, I don't think so. I laid on one last night and…
Me: Do they fucking hose these down with Lysol?

Later that night, Tommy, Chuck and I prepped for the White Party. I decided to dress in all black so that I would not blend in to the crowd like I tend to do. By this time, I'd plastered on and scrubbed off so much makeup and body glitter (which I would be picking out of a few orifices for the next week) that I feared my face would echo a cross between Beef Carpaccio and an Egyptian slave's back after a lashing.

I remember very little about the White Party itself, for my combination of starvation, vodka and a complete stranger's "Tylenol" impaired the data recall section of my brain. I do, though, harbor vague hazes of three things: I looked fantastic, as I did at every themed party and/or photo shoot on the cruise (pictures for proof below). A man with white wings or a white swan tried to pluck at my crotch all throughout the night against my repeated rebuffs. And, at the party's conclusion, we connived to covertly spy the goings-on at the dick deck. No sooner had we arrived than the tattoo-adoring-midget with peach fuzz for pubes from the nude deck walked up to me, winked and pointed to the same chair I'd lounged on earlier.

"Professional Photoshoot"

Beach Party

The Disco Ball

 The Glitter Gala

The Eighties Party

The Wild Things Party

The White Party

No comments:

Post a Comment