The Boogie Man (Belize part 1)

When cruising it's important to keep your eyes open. Because as you travel from port to port you never know what or who you'll see. On this particular lazy thursday I was pillaging the buffet for all the ceviche and guacamole I could fit on my plate. I was dining with one of the ships designated cougars. She had spent the night in the cabanas with a twenty-six year old and I had spend the night with a late night room service order of gelato. As we piled on our plates another hot dish presented himself. I watched him by pass the seafood, the pastas, and the prime rib and go to the salad line where he placed 8 hard boiled eggs on his plate.

"Look at that hot queen," I nudged the cougar.

"How do you know he's gay?"

"Honey, he's eating quinoa and hard boiled eggs for breakfast, he's either gay or Calista Flockhart."

"Go say hello!" she nudged me in his direction.

"No these things take finesse. I've also got enough food on my plate to feed every elephant in Africa for a year."

We followed him outside to the poolside tables and strategically set up camp one table away. I pushed all of my food onto the cougar's plate and nibbled a saltine.

"Great now I'll look like a pig."

"The twenty-somethings don't wake up until 2pm it's nothing but geezers and hot gays back from the gym."

"I mean, I don't see the appeal there, he doesn't have a hair on his head."

"It's called a slip n' slide. Hairless yoga gays are like a new delicacy."

"Like fois gras?"

"But less fatty. Alright I'm going to make my move." But before I could bring my plate of saltines over another guy swooped in and took my seat.

"Cock block!"

"Shh, they can hear us," I said, and reclaimed my food from her plate.

I spotted my gay several more times in the next couple days. The ship was going to port soon in Galveston and my chance at a holiday fling was looking like a holiday flop. I knew drastic measures must be taken. On a ship this large there was only one way to attract attention. After eating going back to the buffet for thirds I cut myself off from fresh fish and moved on to fresh men. Back in the stateroom I unzipped the inner lining of my luggage and strapped to the inside was a ziplock baggie labeled FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY. I peeled it open and pulled out my special weapon. Every gay man must own at least one. It is like a homing device for other gays. I questioned whether or not I would even need such a device on this trip with this crowd. It was my teeny tiny red bathing suit.

Months back I was standing in the Marc Jacobs store eyeing two suits when a sales associate came over.

"Having trouble deciding?"

"Well, I just don't know when I'll have a chance to wear this," I held up the little red bathing suit.

"From my experience when you buy a suit like that the chance will present itself."

"One hundred and fifty dollars? Hmm, it's kind of a lot to spend on something with so little fabric."

"It's on sale for a hundred."

"I'll take it."

And sure enough the chance had presented itself. I'd be broadcasting my wares from here to Honduras. When an non-european steps onto a pool deck on a non-gay cruise wearing something that looks like this:

it will force attention on to you. Think of it like high beams for your crotch. Time seemed to slow down as I made my way to the central pool deck with nothing but a little quick drying fabric and a smile. My cougar found me immediately.

"Holy shit. I saw your ass from across the deck. You're like a lighthouse for cock right now."

"Are you sure I don't look huge in it."

"Sweetie, in shorts that small. Everything looks huge." 

"Okay, lets sit and tan and wait for the gays to find us."

It's amazing how much more attentive the servers were on the pool deck. Before I even sat down someone was offering to mist me with a chilled spray bottle of Evian. Yes, I'm serious. The servers walk around spritzing people with this:

And yes, it's completely fabulous. After my spritz he asked for our drink order. My cougar answered for us.

"I'll have a Dos Equis, and he'd like pina hold the colada--"

"Dos cervezas please," I cut her off. The server smirked and walked away."

"You're going to get dos, tres, cuatro pingas in that suit."

"I'd settle for one," I said lowering my glasses. There he was my slip n' slide.

"Adios chica, it's time to work the magic."

"But my beer?"

"I'm going to pretend I ordered it for him, now scoot so he has a place to sit. I think I saw Ashton Kutcher at the ice cream stand."

"Fine, but you owe me a beer."

Finally he came over after I shooed her away. After explaining that no that was neither my mother or my girlfriend I offered him a seat next to me. He shook of his shorts to reveal his own skimpy bathing suit. My Marc Jacobs investment had just paid for itself. And I would like to interrupt this flirtation for a quick note on authorial substitutions:

It is my usual practice to alter names and distinguishing characteristics about the men in my life to protect their identities. However in this case it undermines what is in my opinion a funny anecdote about his name. I am at a loss. My only solution is to substitute an equally ridiculous anecdote and name for the real ones. 'But why,' you ask, 'did I not simply tell the anecdote?' Good question, this brief interruption of the narrative is quite important, allow me to explain. If I had told the story you would have assumed I had changed the name therefore disbelieved the anecdote as the anecdote's humor is contingent on the name. So it is necessary to explain that I have changed the anecdote and the name to a corresponding joke, which will no longer even be funny as this extensive footnote has now set you up to expect hilarity when really the anecdote about his name would only amount for a chuckle if read on ordinary terms. This is, I'm sorry to say, why it is miserable and challenging to write nonfiction.

"My name's Jock, like jockstrap."

"That's a perfectly normal name."

"It's a Scottish form of John."

"As in long john?"

"So you're funny?"

"So you're Scottish?"

"I'm scottish, syrian, german, and jewish."

The server  returned with the drinks and more Evian. He asked if we'd like a cool down.

"I think I'll need one. Lower please. Okay mister that's low enough."

"So are you here with family?"

"It's Christmas, isn't everyone? What about you?"

"Oh, I'm a performer on the ship. Haven't you seen me in the show?"

The truth is I hadn't gone to a single one of the ship's shows. After a really awful date on the Spirit of Chicago I had a pretty low opinion of ship performers. I simply assumed they were all double shifted servers singing Norah Jones and going flat on the high notes.

"So then you're definitely gay if you sang a Cole Porter medley in a sparkly outfit. Why haven't I seen you at any of the gay mixers?"

"Oh I hate going to those things. Everyone looks at me like a pice of meat. And they think I'm slutty because I work on a ship."

"Maybe they think your slutty because they can see your balls through your bathing suit." I nodded to his junk pressing a clear silhouette into the suit."

"I just can't stand desperate guys, you know. I can smell desperation," he said scoffing. I nodded and smelled my armpits.

"I'm checking my perspiration to desperation balance."

Jockstrap agreed to meet me for a drink under one condition, I came to see his last show of DISCO, Blame it on the Boogie! He was headlining a disco themed cruise show, my opinion of ship performers remained low. But if he could smell desperation, I could smell easy, and this pickle magnet was easier than a TV dinner and just as likely to stain a couch. I decided to suck it up and see the show.

to be continued...