All I knew was I was getting mine, and a week into my Caribbean sexcapades, I was enjoying the hell out of every minute of it.
Or was I?
Chapter Eight
Okay, I had determined that I was going to fuck, suck, and pluck Sean right out of my mind, and Lord knows I tried my best. But you know something? That’s a lot of work. Not that I had any lingering feelings for Sean outside of contempt, but that’s exactly the point. There’s really not a lot of satisfaction in revenge sex, only symbolic vindication.
Yes, the beautiful young men that lingered leisurely, seductively, invitingly, in the foyer and parlor areas of Casa de Mita like so many Tennessee Williams boy toys, were choice indeed, as beautiful as a—picture, and Cedric’s supply of lube and condoms was nearly depleted by us twelve disciples of carnal indulgences.
Yes, I did spend my first week in the DR taking beauty after beauty up the stairs to my room, and paying them for all kinds of sexual favors, and, yes, it was a total turn-on.
And to be perfectly fair, we dirty dozen did occasionally come up for air. During the day we often headed over to the Condistre, the Colonial Zone’s main pedestrian walkway, a cobblestoned street lined on either side by a kaleidoscope of chic sidewalk cafés, fifteenth-century fountains, electronic stores, Internet call centers, souvenir shops, even a Pizza Hut, and peopled with tourists, street peddlers, and aggressive little boys selling shoe shines and, yes, alluring bigger boys selling themselves.
Yes, we would head over there, not always in a pack, and people-watch, take pictures, have a drink, and soak in the local atmosphere. Sometimes at night we would head over to the gay clubs and dance and flirt and be flirted with, or hang out on the dining patio and play dominoes and Uno, which Carlos taught us all to play.
But for me, after a week of primarily all-night fucking, I was feeling…numb. Sean had slowly become a nonentity. I was becoming one, too.
I stood on the balcony of my room and breathed in the moist air of the city, hoping to clear my mind, hoping to re-assess my hopes, dreams, desires, and purpose; hoping to re-assess myself and make some sense of me. I thought I knew what I wanted in life, but then, as a thirty-eight-year-old black gay man paying men for sex, I wondered if that dream was possible in a world where legal commitment was denied those who loved, liked, and lusted like me. I wanted what my parents had, what my little brother Andre had with his wife Dee. I wanted what Uncle Mickey and Aunt Till had, what my fool brother Craig had with his wife Rebecca. At the very least, I wanted the dream that my lesbian cousin Laura shared with her partner Cheryl.
But as second-class-citizen as that was, I didn’t even have that, and I can’t blame that on legal marriage restrictions. I have to blame my own callousness, my impatience with the cultivation process that allowed my parents’ love to grow and flourish over time.
I wanted to fall in love with some man’s heart and soul and being, not the hole he shits out of. But that doesn’t happen overnight, and it’s foolish of me to think that some flying fairy godfather with a sparkly wand was going to zap me, and the love of my life would suddenly appear in a cloud of pastel stardust.
Instant gratification is easy, that I know. But according to those who truly know best, love is hard. It only looks easy.
Carlos had earlier knocked on my door and in charisma-ese let it be known that an Uno game was starting on the dining terrace and all American suckers needed to apply, especially considering that some of the daytime bugarrones were at the table, booking customers.
The announcement did little for me, well, except for maybe the game of Uno, which I had gotten quite good at. But sex with the bugarrones had become too steady a diet of candy and cookies.
Here I was, standing on this balcony, overlooking this beautiful city full of beautiful people and history, and most of my time was spent locked in a room having sex with a stranger. Wouldn’t it be nice to make love to someone I knew?
I showered and dressed in my white linen shirt, my long, loose-fitting khaki shorts, and a pair of sandals. I strapped my camera on my shoulder and checked my camera bag to make sure I had plenty of batteries, and walked out of my room.
As I walked down the stairs I was gleefully struck by the ruckus that poured from the dining terrace outside. A game of Uno was indeed in full swing. Cedric was parked at his computer behind the front desk. He looked up, saw me, and smiled.
“Hola,” he said in his usual friendly tone.
“Hola,” I returned, staring out toward the terrace where my American friends and their Dominican guests competed and partied and drank Cuba Libres and Presidentes.
“You’re not going to join them?” Cedric asked with allure.
“Nah,” I answered, “I’ll check them out later.”
“So where are you off to?”
“I’m going to go and check out your beautiful city.”
“Well, just be careful out there.”
“I will.”
“And don’t get lost.”
“Don’t worry, Cedric. I think I can find my way back.”
Chapter Nine
“So where have you been?” Sylvester asked when I entered the foyer at sunset, just in time for dinner. The young man he was ushering out of the building was obviously worth every dime he had paid him, if lingering looks had a say in it.
“Sightseeing,” I beamed, as Sylvester waved at the boy who, crossing the street, waved back with a devilish smile. “Just out being a typical tourist.”
“Did you meet anyone interesting?” Sylvester sighed, watching the boy disappear down the street.
“Actually, yeah.”
“Hmmm,” he purred, still watching the boy. “You better be careful. Will said the bugarrones who come here have all been pre-screened and Cedric has copies of all their IDs. I wouldn’t venture too far off the reservation, if I were you. I hear street trade can be dangerous.”
“Oh no,” I said quickly. “It wasn’t anything like that, Sylvester. I met this wonderful older lady. Her name is Señora Lupe Hilario.” As I continued my story I scrolled up the photos I’d taken of her. “She’s a walking history of the city.”
“My God, she’s ancient,” he said, finally looking my way and checking out the photos. “How the hell old is she?”
“Come on, Syl, I’m a gentleman. I wasn’t about to ask her her age.”
“So what else did you do?”
“Oh, man. I got some great shots of the Catedral de Santa Maria,” I said, scrolling them up.
“The what?”
“The Cathedral of Santa Maria,” I said, showing him, “the oldest cathedral in all the Americas. It was completed like in 1544. Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Fabulous. How’d you find it?”
“Señora Hilario took me.”
“Took you?”
“Yeah, on her moped,” I said.
“Really?”
“And then she took me to this ancient fort, Fort Ozama, built in 1507, and it has this staircase that goes all the way to the roof of the tower. And, man, you can see the whole city from up there. And then it has this side building, which has the most beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary inside,” I gushed on, flipping through picture after picture. “I mean, check this out. Can you believe it?”
“Fascinating.”
“You really need to check out the city, dude.”
“Well, I’m not really the touristy type. I came down here to lay up, relax, and get laid.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I ain’t missin’ shit,” he laughed. I laughed right along with him. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “you made it back just in time.”
“What?”
“After dinner, there’s somebody I want you to meet, the crème de la crème, baby. His name is Edgar; hot as hell and right up your alley, or can be, if the price is right. I had him last night, and he’s coming back this evening. I highly recommend him.”
“Thanks, man, but I thin
k I’m gonna turn in early tonight. Roaming all over the city kinda wore me out.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. Oh wait. Check this out,” I said, scrolling down to the shots of the House of Gargoyles.
“So you really were out there being the tourist.”
“Yeah, man.”
“Damn, Jess. All this good-ass boy-pussy down here and you runnin’ around taking picture of monasteries?”
At dinner I shared the photos I’d taken with the other guys in our group. Will was particularly elated and used the opportunity to remind us of our trip to Boca Chica Beach the next day and the city sightseeing tour on Saturday.
As I lay in my bed that night, I felt comforted by all that I had experienced that day, particularly my enchanting encounter with Señora Hilario, even though she stiffened a bit when I told her where I was staying. I had no idea that Casa de Mita had such a notorious reputation. “There is much more to us than you think, young man,” she had said to me knowingly.
I also remember trying to give her money for her time and kindness, but she absolutely refused to take anything. “You are a guest in our country,” she said with a sweet sternness. “Our hospitality is not for sale.”
After I thanked her and we said our good-byes, I found my way to the Malecón, the picturesque boardwalk that lay between the bustling city’s touristy commerce district, which included a Hilton Hotel and Casino on one side, and the ancient mocking sea on the other. It was, quite surprisingly, within walking distance of the Casa de Mita.
The next day I rose early and, armed with my trusty camera, headed back to the Malecón, had breakfast at the little outdoor café that jetted out over a rocky ledge above the water, and took pictures of the beautifully diverse locals as they started their day; opening their shops and businesses, setting out their wares, hawking fruit and vegetables from horse-drawn carts, push-carts, and bicycle baskets. Uniformed children skipped along the Malecón headed off to school, while gray-haired men loaded fishing gear onto fishing boats and headed out to sea.
So many smiling faces and interesting-looking people indulged me as they passed my way, glad to let me take their pictures. Some would even stop and pose, and school kids gave me the victory sign.
As the traffic began to thin out and the people reached their destinations, I decided to head back to the hotel, which was only four or five blocks away.
But the sound of a church bell ringing mysteriously drew me in. Was it the fresh tropical morning air upon which rode the tolling bell? Was it the memory of the smiling, sun worshipping citizens, young and old, along the Malecón, in their school uniforms and sundresses and work jeans and fishing togs? Was the bell calling out to me as it had called out to them; had been calling out to them all their Catholic lives, lulled into the security of their spiritual devotion and the romance of their simple and complex existence? Was it the tolling bell marking time every hour on the hour that hypnotized them into a calming humbleness that freed them to move along their island paradise as easily as the palm trees swayed and rustled in the gentle breeze?
I was hypnotized by it, helpless in my resistance, yet lucid enough to still fancy its magical hold on things. I followed the sound without realizing I was moving toward it. It rang ten times. I turned the corner and saw the ancient dome just as the ringing stopped. The haunting echo hung in the air.
I gasped. The beauty of the castle-like cathedral took my breath away. Its sand-white façade lured and frightened me. The detailed carvings round the base of its roof were so perfect and caring that decades of artisans’ sacrifice and devotion was its own reward. Giant statues of saints and Madonnas of all sizes posed on pedastels carved into the walls. I was transfixed by it, unable to lift my camera, unable to do much else but let my eyes slowly take in the structure that was older than my country.
A large marble plaza lay out before it, and a wide four-step staircase made from some kind of alabaster granite with tiny flecks of gold led up to the grand and holy entrance.
All I could do was stand there and stare. The splendor was almost too much for my eyes to bear, the plaza too beautiful to cross.
I finally aimed my camera, and captured the cathedral’s beauty at every angle.
I then crossed the plaza, and stopped in front of the massive sacred structure, aware of how small I was as I looked up and tried to take in all its towering glory. I then slowly walked up the stairs to the wide open doors and entered its sanctuary.
Inside, a woman, her bowed head covered in white lace, was kneeling at the altar. Candles flickered gently in front of her, flanked her. She finally stood, crossed herself, and walked past me, her brown face glowing. She was at such peace that I was compelled to turn and follow her with my eyes; I watched her leave the dark calm of the sanctuary and enter the bright morning sunlight of the outside world.
I looked around at the beauty: the gilded walls and ceiling, the stained-glass windows, the cloisters and the ancient monastery garden visible through a side entrance near what seemed to be confessionals. I fingered my camera, but could not bring myself to commit what somehow seemed like blasphemy.
I took pictures in my mind, and left the sanctuary in its stillness, undisturbed. I do believe from the bottom of my heart that that one moment of restraint, that tiny regard for sacredness was being rewarded because when I stepped out into the sunshine, I saw the perfect picture.
Chapter Ten
I don’t know what it was that made me notice him, providence perhaps, but there he was, across the plaza, for one brief moment. He stepped out of the little shop called Bodega Colonial, placed a stack of newspapers in the stand, looked up at the sky, and stepped back in. But in that brief moment everything about him registered. The picture of him in my mind was as indelible as my mind’s picture of the beautiful cathedral, and seemed just as sacred. I had never seen a face so striking in my life. I had to take his picture.
I crossed the plaza and headed toward the little shop he had reentered. I got to the doorway, and stared in. He was standing behind the counter, placing bottles of Coca-Cola in one of those old-fashioned coolers. He looked up and saw me standing there. He smiled, and I thought I would faint, but somehow held on to my cool. Up close he was more beautiful than one man had a right to be; the baby face, the midnight eyes, the sparkling jet-black hair and goatee, the sweeping lashes, the perfectly plump and soft-looking lips, the beautifully pronounced nose, the smooth smoky-gold complexion, the small scar across his left cheekbone, the modest muscles peeking out from under rolled-up sleeves, the stomach flat against his tucked-in shirt, the small waistline.
“Hola,” he said.
“Hola,” I said, transfixed by him. He returned to stocking the sodas and I finally pulled myself out of my trance, and walked over to him at the counter.
“Perdóname,” I said, running my fingers through my dreads. When he straightened up from the cooler I could see that we were the same height. We definitely weren’t the same age. He couldn’t have been any more than twenty, twenty-two at the most.
“¿Sí?” he asked with a merchant’s smile.
“¿Puedo tomar yo algunas fotografías de usted, por favor?” I struggled through my limited Spanish, and pointed at my camera hanging around my neck.
He chuckled a bit. “Sí, como no,” he then said.
“Gracias,” I said anxiously as I fumbled to adjust my camera.
I then stepped back and focused the lens. He stood there smiling. My camera was instantly attracted to him. I took four shots and stopped. I didn’t want to push my luck.
“Muchas gracias,” I said.
“De nada,” he answered, looking at my dreads with curious admiration. “¿Usted es jamaicano?”
Jamaicano. Jamaicano. I ran through the Spanish-to-English dictionary in my head. Aha! Am I Jamaican!
“No. American.”
“Ahhh.” He smiled again. “I speak some English. Not good, but some.”
“Ahhh,” I said, inadvertently mimickin
g his inflection, and wanting to kick myself. “What is your name?” I asked.
“Étienne,” he said, extending his hand. “Étienne Saldano. Étie.”
“Jesse Templeton,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it. “You have a very interesting look, Étie.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out my business card. “See? I take pictures. That is my profession.”
“Oh.”
“I would like to take more pictures of you, all around the city, especially here in the Colonial Zone, maybe some in front of the cathedral across the plaza.”
“It sounds okay.”
“And I’ll pay you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“¿Cuánto?”
“How much?”
“Sí.”
“How about…twenty U.S. dollars an hour?”
“Each hour?”
“Yes. For about five hours.”
“That is good.”
“Great.”
“Pero only on el sábado.”
“Saturday?”
“Sí. Saturday. Mañana. The day I no work.”
“Okay. Mañana. Is eleven o’clock in the morning good? I wanna make sure we have very good sunlight.”
“Yes. Eleven o’clock is good time.”
“Do you have a white shirt, like one you would maybe wear to church?”
“A white shirt? Yes.”
“Good. Wear that. And the jeans and shoes you have on now will be just fine. By the way, how old are you?”
“¿Qué?”
“¿Cuántos años tiene?”
“Veinticinco.”
“Twenty-five?” I was astonished. “My God, you look like a baby.”
“Is good, no?”
“Is very good. Your skin. It’s astonishing!”
“Astonishing?”
“Muy excelente.”
Visible Lives Page 23
