He smiled that smile again.
“Let’s meet in front of the church across the plaza. We’ll start there.”
“Okay.”
“And may I say something else to you?”
“¿Sí?”
“Usted es muy hermoso.”
“Muchas gracias.” He blushed, although I could not imagine him not used to being called “very beautiful.”
“Hasta mañana, Étie.”
“Hasta mañana, mi amigo.”
I started to leave, but I had to turn around and take one more look at him. “Are you sure you’re twenty-five?”
“Sí.”
“My God, Étie, you…you look so young.”
“My soul is very old.”
“Are you fucking him?” Sylvester asked when I showed him the four shots I had taken of Étie. We were the first in the parlor, waiting for our shuttle bus excursion to Boca Chica Beach.
“No, I’m not fucking him.”
“Well as phine as he is, you should be.”
“It’s business, Syl. Strictly business.”
“Down here, dude, fucking is strictly business.”
“Jesse?” Will entered with mild concern and a new young companion trailing behind him.
“Hey, Will.”
“What’s this I hear you’re not going on the tour with us tomorrow?”
“He’s got a photo shoot,” Sylvester cut in, just as the Hicks twins made their entrance.
“A photo shoot?” they asked in unison.
“Man, you’re not supposed to be down here working,” Myron Hicks fussed. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“Now, now, Myron,” Will defended. “If Jesse wants to spend his vacation taking pictures, then let him. We are going to miss you tomorrow, Jess. We have a fabulous itinerary lined up.”
“You should see what Jess has lined up,” Sylvester snickered.
“What?”
“Show ’em, Jesse.”
“It’s no big deal, guys.”
“What y’all talkin’ about?” Father Martin joined us, yawning, and plopped down at the table.
“Jesse found himself a hot model.”
“He’s not a model. He’s just a guy I met with an interesting look that I’m taking some pictures of.”
“Are you fucking him?” Father Martin asked.
“Damn, guys, why I have to be fuckin’ him?”
“Because that’s what you down here for, dude.”
“Well, one thing for sho’,” Sylvester said, “the boy is definitely fuck material.”
“He’s a nice kid.”
“Well, can we see?”
With a sigh, I passed around my camera. Eyes popped, teeth got sucked, and grown men purred like children eating candy.
“Goddayamn!!!”
“Now that’s what I call hot!”
“Not for me.” Doctor Moses, with vacation boyfriend Tomás in tow, grimaced. “A little too pretty for my taste.”
“He kinda looks like a dark-skinned Sal Mineo,” Father Martin said, as he thoughtfully analyzed the pictures.
“Who?” Jarvis, Art, and Henry asked in a dumbfounded chorus.
“Forget it, children. You way too young to even know what I’m talkin’ about,” Martin laughed, slapping Dr. Mo’s outstretched hand.
“Jesse, you sure you ain’t fuckin’ that?” Oliver Bevins asked, staring at the camera picture with hunger.
“I am not fucking the boy, okay?” I said, snatching the camera back and getting a little pissed.
Suddenly I was having some real misgivings about letting this gang of hounds even know about Étie. Yes, I know. I can be as sex crazy as any one of them, but Étie was a special project that had nothing to do with sex or them. Suddenly I began to feel very protective of him.
“Listen, guys,” Will said, gauging the tension building in the air, “what do you say we leave Jesse to his working vacation, and think about all the lovely gentlemen dropping in to see us tonight?”
To further ease the tension, Carlos appeared and announced that we were ready to go. We all gathered up our beach gear, piled into the hotel’s shuttle bus, and headed for Boca Chica.
An hour later we arrived at the beach adjacent to the small resort town of Boca Chica, a reef-protected lagoon of tranquil blue water and powder white sand. The still waters, only waist-deep a hundred yards out, were in great contrast to the beach activity, Will had earlier explained to us. In addition to the friendly Dominican and Haitian vendors that offered such goodies as silver and turquoise jewelry, beautiful indigenous artwork and paintings, hair-braiding and corn-row masters, massages, and some of the best fresh-out-of-the-water broiled fish dishes in the Caribbean, Boca Chica Beach was also known (to those in the know) as the quiet domain of a different kind of bugarrón; the beachcomber breed, topless young men with rock hard pecs, impossibly perfect abs and obliques, wearing only thin tight swim briefs that barely contained their manhood, packages made profanely revealing by routine dips in the sea.
And Will was totally correct. From our beach chairs and under our beach umbrellas, these beautiful men were experts in the art of beach seduction, and more than a few from our group indulged, being taken off to secluded cabanas and returned with smiles on their face.
Under other circumstances perhaps I would have indulged. After all, I had not had sex in quite a few days, but all I could think about was Étienne and our photo shoot the next day. Perhaps he could direct me to some desolate beach area to include in our shoot. For as beautiful as Boca Chica was, its bustling commerce did not seem quite the setting for Étie’s tranquil, nature boy quality.
Étie. Étienne.
I could barely wait for tomorrow.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning I woke with the rising sun. I had a million ideas for the shoot. Some of them came to me in my dreams; some were inspired by the places Señora Hilario had taken me, while others were spiritually motivated. The beautiful façade of the cathedral that faced Étie’s job would provide a moving and contrasting tableau of ancient art and Étie’s youthful beauty.
I sat at the little table in my room and made notes.
I could hear moans and groans from the room next door. I smiled and shook my head. It sounded like Sylvester was getting his early morning groove on.
By nine, I had my list complete and organized. I even made a note to ask Étie if he knew of a secluded beach where we could shoot. Dammit, I should have gotten his telephone number. I needed to ask him to bring swimming trunks. I rummaged through my bag and found two pairs of mine. I was a thirty-three waist. Étie could not have been any more than a thirty. The bagginess just might work. If not, I would resort to the old safety-pins-out-of-the-shot routine. I stuffed the trunks and a pack of pins in my smaller carry-on, along with towels, my groom kit, and my small contractible reflector.
I opened my camera case and checked my camera, the three lens attachments, my light meter, and my battery supply. Everything was fine and well stocked.
I shaved and showered, then dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts, and tennis shoes.
I stepped out on the balcony into the bright morning sun. It was exactly 10 A.M. In the distance I began to hear the tolling of church bells, and I knew. It was a sign. Those were the same church bells that drew me to that beautiful cathedral, the same church bells that drew me to Étie.
Cedric was at his computer behind the front desk when I came down the stairs, camera case and carry-on strapped and crisscrossed over my shoulders. The smell of fresh brewed Dominican coffee drew me to the coffee maker on the service table.
“You look like you’re going on safari,” Cedric said as I poured myself a cup.
“Well I’m definitely going to be doing some shooting,” I joked.
I got to the cathedral early and surveyed every angle of its façade through each of my lenses. The mid-morning sunlight silhouetted it perfectly and I just prayed that it would hold until at least eleven-thirty.
It seemed the plaza wore a different face on Saturdays. The monastery calm I had experienced two days earlier had taken on a festive tone. Children off from school and parents off from work skipped and strolled across the sacred marble as casually as a skip across a schoolyard, a stroll across a park. Merengue music pulsed from passing cars. A young boy played his mini-sax from the stone ledge that separated the plaza from the tree-shaded grassy knoll where locals chilled on leisure benches.
The cathedral itself had its own traffic, as every now and then worshippers and tourists and sinners and saints entered and exited the sanctuary with reverence.
And through all of this I saw him, appearing as if out of nowhere, approaching me, waving lightly, smiling broadly, his teeth as white as his crisp white dress shirt. The slight breeze danced a jet-black curl down his face as he bounced eagerly toward me. He was picture perfect.
“Hola,” he said, extending his hand.
“Hola,” I said, shaking it. “You’re early.”
“Yes.”
“Good. The light behind the cathedral is perfect. Come on. Let’s get started.”
I posed him humbled at the feet of sculptured saints sentried on pedestals near the sanctuary’s entrance. I captured his wonder as a flurry of pigeons ascended from the plaza to the sky, his laughter with children who beat him in a race across the plaza.
I zoomed in on his dark pensive profile, the scar across his left cheek, while blurring children playing in the background. The contrast was magical; a sweet saddened angel, wounded and estranged from the fiesta of celestial glory.
I still could not bring myself to take pictures inside the cathedral, so I captured him praying in the Gethsemane-like monastery garden.
We then bused and taxied all around the Colonial Zone where I captured his classic look against romantic ruins, his quiet walks through quaint and colorful colonial streets, his youthful glee in crowded marketplaces where he draped necklaces encrusted with native amber around ascended fingers and offered them to the sun. My camera had fallen in love with him.
Our final location was not a beach, but a small, secluded, black-rock cove hidden beneath the Malecón, not far from where we started. So near and yet so far away from the bustling thoroughfare, Étie told me that this small patch of land, dotted with gothic-looking trees, had been one of his favorite play spots as a child.
“My escape,” he said quietly.
“Escape from what?” I asked.
He stared out over the water, lost in some strange thought. I took the picture. The click of the camera brought him to. He turned to me and smiled.
“You show me the swim things?” he asked with a sudden brightness.
“Okay,” I said as I rummaged through the carry-on and pulled out the trunks and the towels. I handed him the yellow boxer-style ones, the color I felt most suited his skin tone.
“I go put on.”
“Okay.” I had to smile as he took the trunks and a towel and went to change behind a tree. His modesty was endearing.
While he changed I checked the battery on my camera then measured the shaded light with my meter. I then looked out over the sea where the sun sparkled brightly upon its water, which silhouetted the shore much like the morning sun had silhouetted the cathedral. It was a hauntingly beautiful setting.
“I am ready.”
I turned to him. As thin as he was I didn’t expect his body to be so perfectly sculpted. Yes, the trunks did indeed hang loosely from his small waist, but from the slightly hairy, well-defined chest and arms, the modest six-pack and flat stomach to the perfectly formed calves and beautiful feet, he was a work of art.
“Yeah, we’re gonna have to do something about those trunks,” I finally said.
“¿Perdóname?”
I went to my bag and pulled out the pack of pins. “Come, please,” I said, sitting on a rock. He did, and stood directly in front of me. I turned him around. Thank God for his nicely formed behind. It did hold the trunks up a bit, even though the hairy top of his crack peeped over. I pulled the trunks up a bit, gathered it at the waistband, and carefully pinned the gather. I took another pin, tightened the play between his cheeks, and pinned it with a tailor’s neatness.
“Okay, kiddo, turn around. Let’s see what we have here.”
A bit confused, he did manage to turn around, then waited for further instructions.
“Now step back a bit,” I gently commanded, throwing in a pushback hand gesture for good measure. He backed up a few steps. I stood and surveyed the fit. I smiled and gave him the thumbs up. He smiled and returned the thumbs up.
This final leg of the shoot was the best in a series of greats. We had come to understand each other’s language, had created a shorthand, and he was definitely in his element, playing in and around the water. It was easy to see why his body was in such great shape. He was an excellent swimmer and boasted that he had been swimming almost every week since before he could walk.
We laughed and joked and got downright silly out on that cove. Confessing that his favorite foreign television show was America’s Top Model, he vogued along the shore with abandonment.
“Look! I am supermodel!” he declared, striking a pose that completely reduced me to convulsing hysteria. I don’t know if I really thought about whether he was gay or not, but watching him camp it up truly gave me pause. But whatever it was, he expressed a special freedom out there that I had not witnessed before. It truly was his escape. From what? I did not know.
The shoot ended at around four o’clock. Étie was truly wonderful, so natural in front of the camera and so photogenic that the pictures took themselves. He had more than earned the one hundred dollars I paid him.
“You were fabulous, kiddo, you know that?”
“Really?”
“Totally.”
“Thank you, Jesse.”
“In fact, what are you doing tonight?”
“Nada mas, why?”
“I wanna take you to dinner,” I said, “to show my gratitude.”
“But you already pay me.”
“Well, consider dinner a tip.”
“Tip?”
“Extra. A gratuity.”
“Dinner.”
“Yes. I would be so honored, Étie.”
“Okay,” he finally said. “Where?”
“Hmmm. Let me think. The Hilton, over by the Malecón?”
“Oh yes. It is not far from here.”
“Let’s say we meet in the lobby at eight o’clock.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
We stood there, staring at each other for a long time. We both blushed. And then he extended his hand.
“I go home now,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, shaking his hand, holding it maybe a bit longer than I should have. “See you tonight.”
I watched him as he walked away. He knew I was watching him. I could tell by the look on his face, the smile on his face, when he turned around and waved at me. I waved back.
Before returning to Casa de Mita, I stopped off at the Hilton and made dinner reservations.
It was a little after five when I got back to Casa de Mita. It was pretty desolate, save for Cedric at his post behind the front desk and in front of his computer. The guys had not gotten back yet from their city tour, and actually, I was rather glad. I wasn’t really ready for the Spanish Inquisition.
Cedric and I greeted each other as I rushed past him and up the stairs to my room. I couldn’t wait to download the pictures on my laptop. Once done, I put them on slide show.
“Damn, I’m good,” I had to confess to myself as I watched shot after shot of Étienne in complement and contrast to his country’s beautiful setting.
I let the slide show continue as I picked up the phone and dialed my baby sister’s number. I hadn’t talked to her since leaving Los Angeles. I know part of it was because I had not told her my real reason for coming down here. Not that I thought Frankie would be bothered that I was coming down here to p
ay for sex, but it was just a little embarrassing. Now that I had this great photo shoot, I had something else to talk to her about.
“Junie!” she screamed gleefully after picking up on the first ring.
“Hey, Doll.”
“Now why the hell are you just now calling me?”
“Sorry, sis. Been having too much fun checking out the sights, getting drunk, and partying my ass off.”
“You always did know how to vacation.”
“And besides, that works two ways. You ain’t called me either.”
“Well yeah, you right,” she confessed.
“So what’s his name?”
“Huh?”
“Whenever you go MIA, sis, means you got a new man in your life.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” she laughed. “You got me. His name’s Burt, and it’s just a temporary thing. He’s a bit too needy for my taste but the sex is off the hook.”
“You just never change, do you, baby girl?”
“And why should I?”
“So what are you up to? What’s going on there?”
“Well actually, I’m working.”
“What? Good for you.”
“I booked a guest-starring spot on How I Met Your Mother. I’m playing Neil Patrick Harris’s piece of the week.”
“Well all right!”
“I’m at the studio now. We’re on lunch break. Now, enough about me. How’s it going with you down there? Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Loving it! It is so beautiful down here, and the people are so friendly. I’ve taken a lot of pictures.”
“Cool, can’t wait to see them.”
“And Frankie, I met this guy—”
“Really?”
“A Dominican who is sooo drop-dead gorgeous—”
“Okay.”
“I just finish doing a whole photo session on him. I mean this guy could really be a great model. There’s just something really magical about him; in his eyes, in the way he smiles, the way he moves. It’s almost unearthly.”
There was a long pause.
“Junie,” Frankie finally said.
“Yeah?”
“Not another model type.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you learn your lesson with Sean?”
Visible Lives Page 24
