THE  HAPPY  WANDERER - V

PYRAMIDS, TEMPLES, and TOMBS

© 2009

BY:  GERRY YOUNG

WITH THE MUCH APPRECIATED ASSISTANCE BY:

TICKIE

[AUTHOR'S NOTE:  In regard to the names 'Luxor' and 'Karnak', please do not be confused in the reading of the first part of this chapter.  There is the modern city of Luxor, which is home not only to the Temple of Karnak, but also to the Temple of Luxor.  And in addition, there is the small tour-boat, The Luxor, and mention of a later and larger tour-boat, The Karnak.]

By now, tears were even beginning to flow from the corners of Y'An's eyes.  But he wiped them away and continued.  "I guess I wanted to be—FOR YOU—a male version of that wonderful, wonderful American movie character, 'Auntie Mame'.  But now, that won't happen."  Again he raised his hands to silence them.

"Some minor changes have been made in your itinerary.  Enjoy them.  And Muti would like to stay with you until you leave Egypt.  Allow him that, please."  He turned his back to them, and while taking his leave, said only four words:  "Good-bye, Gerry.  Good-bye, Ted," and he was gone.

"Come on, now," Muti finally said.  "Cheer up.  There's a lot to see and learn about Egypt.  Let's go down to the thirteenth floor and get ready for tomorrow's flight to Luxor."

CHAPTER  THIRTEEN

From the time Gerry and Ted had left Y'An's penthouse, Muti had seemed happy, or at least as cheerful as possible under the conditions surrounding the termination of the plans for the dinner and the proposed "orgiastic entertainment".  But Muti refused to add any details about Y'An's surprisingly rapid disappearance.  He simply pleaded ignorance at any mention of his "Master's" actions.

Day 6:  December 18

The next morning, with all the hustle and bustle of people and luggage at CAI (Cairo International Airport), neither Gerry nor Ted noticed the four men-in-black already seated at the rear of the aircraft.  Luckily, they (Gerry and Ted) and Muti had been among the first to board, and would therefore be among the first to deplane.

Egyptair's Flight #137 departed CAI at 10:45 a.m., and the small commuter plane arrived LXR (Luxor Airport) at 11:45 a.m.

After deplaning, Muti led his two friends to a waiting limousine, which took them to what would be their home-away-from-home for the next two-and-a-half weeks.  As Y'An had arranged, it was to be a small tour boat named "The Luxor", and was the very one from which, thirteen years later, a larger replica would be built under the name of "The Karnak" to be the scene-of-the-crime in the 1978 movie, "Death On The Nile".  Other than the difference in size, the outstanding difference between the two was that The Karnak's exterior was painted solid white—probably so that she could more easily be seen during nighttime shoots.

The Luxor, however, was a beautiful young maiden, as far as paddle steamers are concerned.  Her forward stateroom and four suites, dining room, smoking and relaxation lounge, two aft cabins, and even her exterior hull glistened with the beauty of finely shellacked woods.  The pungent aroma of oil of camphor (somewhat like creosote) announced her presence even before boarding her, and the fragrance of cedar wood permeated her interior.

Stepping out of the limousine, Gerry and Ted were agog, but for different reasons. 

"This can't be our tour boat.  There must be some mistake.  It's too small to accommodate everyone on the tour," Gerry stated his queries to Muti, as Ted seemed anxious to rush across the gangplank and board the beautiful little paddle steamer.

"Oh, no, my friends, there is no mistake.  My Master arranged for your travel upriver in luxury.  You will be much more comfortable aboard The Luxor than in the relegated smaller quarters of the usual 120-passenger riverboat that the other tourists will be squeezed into for the remainder of the cruise."

"YOUR MASTER, again!" Gerry yelled in anger as he stood his ground.  "Will we NEVER get away from his damned unwanted generosities?  WHY the hell did he choose US, to ruin our first trip together?  Our 'HONEYMOON' trip?"  he further explained himself, not caring who might hear his tirade.

Ted was halfway across the gangway when Gerry began his shouting, but turned back and rushed to his side.  "Shhhhh, baby.  Shhhhh," he said, wrapping an arm around Gerry's waist.  "You don't want to get into trouble with any of the Tourist Police around here."

Gerry looked around and noticed at least a dozen white-uniformed Tourist Police stationed here and there along the wrought-iron and chain-linked fence that separated the main roadway and sidewalk from the riverbank itself;  each man had an Uzi in hand.  They were there to protect the 'wealthy' tourists from the 'poverty-plagued' locals, but they were also there to keep the peace among the foreigners.  It was well known that Dollars, Pounds, Francs, Deutschmarks, Lira, Yen, and other foreign currencies kept smiles on the many shopkeepers' faces—if not in their hearts.

"I don't give a good bloody fuck WHO hears me, Ted!" Gerry continued on a somewhat softer note.  "I don't like the fact that your goddamned RICH boyfriend has his fingers in everything we DO, and everywhere we GO!"

"BOYFRIEND?" Ted stepped back in shock at what Gerry had said.

"Please … Gerry … Ted … my friends!" Muti pleaded.  "Please … keep your voices down and let's…"

"Don't tell me to keep my voice down," Gerry shot back angrily.  "I don't know how you keep in contact with your … your … FUCKING MASTER, but however you do it, tell him to just leave us alone.  I don't want any more of his … his … GENEROSITY!  And I don't want to be on this LITTLE boat!  We have reservations on THAT boat…" he pointed to the four-tiered cruise-ship that was being loaded by four bus-loads of other tourists."

"I'm sorry, Gerry … Ted … but your rooms there have already been filled by others.  There are no more empty cabins available, and besides … like I said before, you'll be more comfortable…"

"Come on, Ger," Ted begged.  "Let's just board The Luxor and go to our room.  And let's try to enjoy what we came here to see."

After a few more minutes of bickering and discussion, Gerry conceded.  Muti retrieved their luggage from the Limo, and the three crossed the gangway to the relative luxury of The Luxor.

Muti guided them to the forward stateroom.  It was huge, in comparison to the over-all size of the little paddle steamer.  AND it was luxurious in its decor and furnishings—a larger-than-normal four-poster 'opium bed' (draped at the corners by mosquito netting), the head-board wall was covered in padded tapestry depicting a desert oasis on a moonlit night, and the twin divans, opposite, upholstered in an Arabasque-patterned cotton.

"Beautiful!" Ted exclaimed as he took a flying leap into the center of the massive bed.

As fate would have it, just as the three entered their stateroom, a small bus pulled up beside the limousine, which was just leaving.  Eight men exited—four tall, mysterious men garbed in hooded, gray galabeyahs, and the four 'men-in-black' whom neither Gerry nor Ted had noticed sitting in the back of the airplane on the flight from Cairo.

Soon, Gerry and Ted had unpacked their luggage and hung their clothes in the ornate wardrobe, much to the chagrin of Muti who had unsuccessfully tried to get them to allow him to 'serve' them in that way.

"You're not planning to stay in this room are you?" Gerry asked Muti, but before he could answer, Gerry continued.  "Not for the two-and-a-half weeks we have left?  This is supposed to be our honeymoon trip;  we need some privacy—just the two of us."  His glaring at Muti demanded a reply.

"Ger ... honey ... he's just doing as he's been ordered;  don't be like that..."

"Yeah, he's with us twenty-four hours a day, and I'm sure ... SOMEHOW ... he's reporting everything we do, back to that ... that ... Y'AN!  ARRRGGGHHHHH!  I wish we'd never come on this fuckin' trip!"

"We'll have some private time together," Ted tried to console Gerry;  "won't we?" he asked the Egyptian.

Muti looked dispirited, but he looked up at Ted with the hint of a smile.  Then he looked to Gerry.  "I'm sorry if I've infringed on your privacy, Gerry ... Ted.  All the other suites and cabins have been booked, but I can sleep on the floor if that is your wish."

Gerry scratched his chin, thinking, debating within himself.

Finally, he looked at Muti and said, "It's not you.  It's your damned 'MASTER' that I'm angry with ... taking charge of everything we do."  He gave forth a deep sigh and said, "Of course you won't be sleeping on the floor—well ... not unless you WANT to;  that's kinky."  He held one arm out to Muti, and the other to Ted;  they all embraced in a three-way hug.

"But it's good for the back," Muti replied with a relaxed smile, as he wriggled his eyebrows.

"But you WILL arrange for Ted and me to have some time alone ... won't you ... SLAVE?" Gerry teased.

"Yes ... Master," Muti answered, backing away and bowing his head ... just before he softly snorted, trying to conceal a snicker.

<Ding, ding.  Ding, ding.  Ding, ding.  Ding, ding.>  It was the ship's bell that they heard.  Eight bells.  Noon.

"Time for lunch," Muti announced, "and then we can stroll around the town of Luxor … perhaps visit the Bazaar.  I can show you where it is.  You know, your Christmas holiday is only a week from today, and maybe you'd like to buy some presents."

Arms across shoulders, the three made their way to the dining room.  For the moment, they were the only guests and were seated on the starboard side (right) with a view across the Nile to the ancient town of Thebes.

No sooner had they been seated than the four men-in-black entered the opulent room, much to the astonishment of Ted and, particularly, Gerry.  Again, the four were attired in their black leathers.  Excitedly, the Americans spoke over each other, calling out each other's name.

"Waldo!  Gerry!  Wayne!  Ted!  Willie!  Muti!  Waylan!"

"What the hell happened to you guys?" Gerry asked.  "I haven't seen any of you since that … that…"

The Americans were hugging each other;  Muti stood aside, observing the goings-on.

"You wouldn't be-lieve!"  Willie and Waylan (aka 'Wee-Wee' and 'Spanky', respectively) answered together.

"Yeah!" Waldo agreed in his throaty, 'Froggy', voice.

"Shit!  Right!" echoed Wayne, the 'Mamba' of the foursome.

"Muti…" Ted said, breaking away from all the back-slapping, ass-grabbing, and group hugging, "why don't you see if you can get a coupla the attendants to give you a hand in moving that table over there, over here?"

Soon, the tables were end-to-end, and the guys were seated;  Muti, however, had reverted to his servile manner and remained standing off to the side, hands behind his back, feet spread about equal to the distance between his shoulders, and his eyes looking straight ahead.

The attendant waiters then began serving the generic, touristy-type lunch to all, and Muti disappeared for a few minutes, presumably into the kitchen.  While he was gone, the conversation continued.

"Guys!  Guys!" Gerry interrupted the boisterous revelry around the tables.  "I want to apologize for the way I reacted to everything the other night, but what happened after Ted and Muti and I left the dinner?  This is the first I've seen any of you guys."

"No need to apologize, Ger, ol' buddy," Froggy croaked in his deep, throaty voice.  "With what happened afterwards, we've all come to the realization that WE were out of order."

"Yeah," the other three McAllister brothers agreed.

"I still can't believe what happened," Spanky said.

"Did you see any of what happened after Tariq showed up?" Wee-Wee asked.

"Tariq?" Gerry asked.  "When did he…"

"I didn't know Tariq was there," Ted added.

The McAllisters all started talking at once.  Ted and Gerry looked from one to the other, grabbing a word or a phrase here and there, trying to picture what had happened.

After relating the scene in the dining salon with the four "genies" suddenly appearing at Tariq's summoning, Mamba continued the tale.  "We seemed to pass out—or something—but when we came to, we were back in our rooms … IN our leathers … and we all had our cocks and balls where they're s'posed to be."

Reminded of that, all four brothers reached down and groped themselves.

"It's like the whole damned ev'ning never happened," Mamba commented.

"Yeah," Wee-Wee and Spanky—the twins—agreed in unison.

"Somebody musta put some Acid or sumpin' in our drinks or food," Wee-Wee suggested, "but it sure as hell musta been some bad shit.  'Tweren't pleasant at all!"  He giggled.

Muti reappeared and returned to his self-appointed "space".

A movement at the other side of the dining room caught the attention of everyone at the tables.  All talking ceased as, one after another, each turned his head to see the four tall, mysterious men garbed in hooded, gray galabeyahs quietly enter and sit at another table.  Even Muti broke his slave-like stance and turned his head to see the new-comers.

After a moment of silence, Muti leaned down, slightly nodded toward the men-in-gray, and whispered something to Ted, who then whispered something to Gerry.

"Arrrrrghhh," Gerry mumbled to himself in disgust.

"What?" Froggy softly asked.

"What's goin' on?" Mamba wondered aloud.

"What gives?" the twins inquired, leaning over the table as far as they could toward Gerry and Ted.

"Never mind," Gerry mumbled as he waved them off, not wanting to get into THAT subject.  Then in a louder voice, he asked to no one in particular, "So what happened after you found yourselves back in your rooms?"

"That fuckin' Tariq was there, that's what happened.  He told us that we were NOT to leave our rooms until this morning when we went to the airport."

"Tariq was there, too?" Ted asked.

"Yeah," Froggy growled, "and he told us that if we DID leave the rooms, they'd send us home faster'n we could scratch our balls with itchin' powder on'em."

"He said THAT?" Ted asked, laughing his head off.

"Well … not those words exactly, but you know what I mean," Froggy answered.

Gerry and Ted were still laughing uproariously, and if anyone had looked up at Muti, they would have seen a slight smile creep across his face.

<><><> 

After lunch, Muti became a personal tour guide around Luxor for Gerry and Ted.  Elegant hotels with verdant landscaping, and other buildings—popular with foreigners—dating from the 1800's;  the Luxor Museum;  the Youth Hostel and the YMCA Camp where visiting soccer teams stayed and played some of the country's sponsored games.

Black-haired, golden-brown-skinned, bare-chested teens in their butt-hugging little black or red soccer shorts ran across the scruffy, sandy field and kicked the black-and-white balls, or tackled and piled on top of each other as their mates rushed toward the netless goals.  Their torsos glistened with sweaty sheen in the intense desert sun even though it was past mid-December.  Some of the older boys very obviously had ripped abs, while most of the younger boys looked too slim to have any muscles at all—but the spirits of all soared as they gave the camaraderie and the game their all.

Leaving the stimulating vista, Muti led Gerry and Ted down El Cornishe, the main street that paralleled the east bank of the Nile.  They walked slowly past numerous little shops and anxious vendors plying their wares of cotton goods, hand-blown glass trinkets and exquisite perfume bottles, Egyptian art hand-painted on sheets of papyrus by students at the Osiris Papyrus Institute in Aswan, and souvenirs, souvenirs, souvenirs.  Everywhere!

The three continued their walk, and Gerry noticed a couple of shops that interested him, but with an ulterior motive, he didn't pay them much attention.  On they went and Gerry bided his time before he asked, "How much farther is the Bazaar you mentioned earlier?"

"Oh, not far," Muti answered;  "just a couple more streets, then we go left for two or three … uhhh … 'blocks', I think you call them … and we're there.  Why?  You getting tired?"

"No, no.  Not tired at all," Gerry responded with a serene smile on his face.  His voice was soft, and his words were slow but heartfelt.  "You know … for the first time … the very first time in my life, I feel like I'm home … really home.  The smells, the sights, the sounds, the history around us, the culture, the language everyone else is using is all so different from what I know, but I'm … I'm … comfortable.  Yeah, that's the word—comfortable.  I feel like I belong here."  He seemed to have a tear in his eye but a paradoxical sad-happiness in his voice.

"Awww, Babe," Ted said, putting an arm around Gerry's waist.  "You wanna go back to the boat?"

Gerry stepped away from the little affectionate embrace.  "No, but why don't you guys go on to the Bazaar—I know you're gonna love it, Ted—and I'll just walk around this area or sit on the riverbank or one of the benches over there…" he pointed across the street to the places he was talking about, "and just take in everything.

"I know that over there…" he pointed upriver to his left, "just beyond those hills, is the Valley of the Kings…"

"Yes," Muti confirmed.

"… and isn't that little speck over there…" he pointed across the river to a cream-colored dot on the darker hillside, "… the mortuary temple of Queen Hatshepsut?"

"What little dot?" Ted asked.  "I don't see any cream-colored dot over there.

Astonished, Muti asked, "You can see that?"  Gerry nodded in the affirmative before Muti continued.  "Not even many of the locals can see that."

"I've done a little reading," Gerry flushed at the indirect compliment.  "And I know what to look for."

"You sure you haven't been here before, Gerry?" Muti asked.

Gerry looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.  "Not in THIS lifetime, anyway."

A slow grin grew across Muti's face as he studied Gerry and winked at him.  Ted, however, shook his head, not understanding Gerry's meaning.

"You guys go on.  I'll be fine," Gerry tried to shoo them away.

"You sure, Ger?  You'll be okay?" 

Gerry nodded.

"But is it safe for an American who doesn't speak Arabic, to be on the street by himself?" Ted asked, looking back and forth between his lover and his friend.

"Look around," Gerry waved his arm;  "there's Tourist Police everywhere."

"He's right, Ted.  He'll be safe here."

"Well … if you're sure, Muti," Ted struggled with making the decision.

"I'm sure.  Let's go," he urged.

"I love you," Ted mouthed silently to Gerry.

"I love you, too, Babe," Gerry said softly, then blew him a kiss as he and Muti turned and walked toward the Bazaar.

Gerry turned toward the river, closed his eyes, and took in a deep slow breath.  Hundreds of ancient Egyptian scenes flashed through his mind, albeit if he had stopped to think about them, he would have realized they were from the many different movies he'd seen.  But when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw across the street, was a Pelican, looking straight at him.

'I didn't know there were Pelicans in Egypt,' he thought to himself.

Little did he know that to the ancient Egyptians, the Pelican symbolized a foolish child.  But oh, well.

Once Ted and Muti were out of sight, Gerry retraced his steps for about a half a block and entered a little shop specializing in gold ornaments and jewelry.  As he was looking over the glass display cases, an older shop keeper in a tan galabeyah approached him and asked, "May I help?  All piece—one of a kind—long buried in royal tomb in Valley of Kings or Queens."

His English was broken and his silly grin showed spaces where two teeth HAD been.  Gerry remembered that Tariq Pasha had warned the tour group that the Egyptian vendors and shopkeepers thrived on bargaining on disputed prices.

"I'm looking for a gold chain and a gold Ankh for a Christmas present," Gerry stated, using his index fingers to trace the line of a necklace around his own neck.

"Ankh for Christian?" the shopkeeper asked with a shocked expression.  Gerry nodded.  "La la la.  I have no Ankh for infidel," the older man grumbled.  "Have no Egyptian cross…" he spit to the side, "… in this shop."

Peeved at the attitude, Gerry was about to turn and walk out when he spotted something in his peripheral vision.  Moving a couple of feet to his left and looking directly at the beautiful two-and-a-inch long by one-and-a-quarter-inch wide Ankh that looked like it had been fashioned from nuggets of the precious metal.

"May I see that one?" Gerry asked, pointing to the beauty in the case.

"Not for sale," came the response.

"Everything's for sale, or you wouldn't have it on display," Gerry countered.

"La la la.  Not for sale.  Have many chains for neck.  Even collars.  Think you maybe look good in gold collar," again—or 'yet', as the case may be—his nasty, toothless grin beamed forth.

At the mention of a collar, Gerry's first thought was of a clerical one, but almost immediately remembered Muti's. 

"I'll find what I want somewhere else," Gerry said, turning once again to leave. 

He heard a little click behind him and his heart jumped as the shopkeeper's "La la la la la" boomed one more time.  "Wait, meester;  wait.  This poor, humble servant make deal—GOOD deal!"  He rushed to Gerry with the ankh and several golden chains in-hand.  You want?  You buy."  He quoted a price in Egyptian Pounds.

The click Gerry had heard was a key opening the sliding glass door in the display case.  He turned and saw the shiny proffered items in the shopkeeper's hands.  His pulse returned to normal.

Delicately, he picked up the Ankh from the man's hand.  Turning it over, he saw the "21 K" hammered or stamped into the back of it.  'Not what I wanted, but good enough,' Gerry thought to himself.  Then he picked up each chain, examining them for the tiny authenticating tags.  "21 K" on each.

He was happy but didn't show it as he made a counter offer equal to only HALF of what the man had wanted for the Ankh by itself.  "Total … for BOTH!" Gerry said.

They haggled for several minutes—the man coming down in price as Gerry went up in his offers.  Finally, with a deep, disgusted sigh, Gerry came back with his original, very low offer.  "FINAL OFFER!"

Shocked, the man snatched the items from Gerry's hands, raised his own hands to the heavens, and wailed, "I am cursed."

"Probably," Gerry nonchalantly said as he turned and walked out the door and turned right, toward another shop that had earlier caught his eye.

"Wait!  Wait!" the old toothless haggler yelled, chasing after him.  "O.K., O.K.  This poor merchant will accept your offer."  He grabbed Gerry by the arm and started pulling him back to the little shop.  "By Allah … you must be thief from Baghdad.  You must be swine of Ali Baba's veins.

By this time, two Tourist Police had grabbed the man by HIS arms and were hauling him back to his little shop.  Egyptian law does not permit vendors and shopkeepers to go more than two meters (a little more than six feet) in pursuit of a prospective customer.  They were chastising him in Arabic as they entered his shop.

Gerry followed them inside.  "Excuse me, gentlemen, but we had already agreed on a purchase price, and I would like to pay for it and leave as quickly as possible."

One of the policemen looked at him and asked, "You do not want to charge him with excessive trying to procure your business?"  His English was very passable, though not perfect.

"No.  No charges;  thank you, Sirs."

After a brief, heated dialogue in Arabic with the shopkeeper, the Tourist Police left.  Then, the man put the Ankh and chain in a small tan cardboard-like box, Gerry paid him the finally-agreed-upon price, and walked out of the shop with his Christmas present for Ted.

"American pig!" the shopkeeper mumbled.

Turning right again, Gerry walked another block or so and entered another shop.  He could actually smell it before he got there and entered—the scents of Patchouli and Musk and Ozium wafted through the open door. 

Sitting back in a chair with his feet crossed on the top edge of the desk in front of him was one of the hottest flower children of the hippie era Gerry had ever seen.  Long black hair pulled back in a ponytail, a tie-dyed A-Frame undershirt showing off the most kissable, lickable hairless shoulders he'd ever seen;  as a matter of fact, there was no man-fur showing anywhere on his muscular arms at all.  But what WAS there were TATTOOS—all in Egyptian—serpents coiling around his upper arms, scorpions at his wrists, a crocodile or two, their mouths ready to dine on the waterfowl, trying to fly to safety.  The artistry was fantastic and there didn't appear to be an uninked silly-millimeter of muscular arm-flesh anywhere.

The nearer to the supposed proprietor Gerry approached, the more hairless skin he could see in the ragged holes of the man's faded, blotchy jeans—holes high on the insides of his thighs VERY near his crotch, holes over his knees, and showing more smooth skin on his calves.  Typically, the bottoms of the legs of the jeans were frayed over his naked ankles and sandaled feet inked in scarabs [dung beetles] and spiders.

As he began to spring a boner, Gerry wondered if the guy's entire body was hairless and covered in tats.

"Hey, dude," the guy said, quickly jerking his feet off the desk so he could "hide" the obviously porno magazine with a muscle-guy on the cover in one of the drawers.  "You American?" he asked, standing up and adjusting his crotch.

Gerry nodded with a gulp, gazing wide-eyed at the protruding mound where the man's hand had been.

"Feel like I'm back in the States with all the Americans dropping in today," the man said.  "What can I do you for?" he asked with a grin.

The words were mixed up, but Gerry wondered if he had meant for them to come out that way.

"You the artist, here?"

"Yep.  What'd ya have in mind, dude?"

"Oh, was thinking about a palm tree with some initials in the trunk."

"How big's your 'trunk', man?" he asked, stepping out from behind the old desk and groping Gerry's 'package' as if it were an every day occurrence.

Gerry jumped back.  "Not THERE, buddy!" he scowled.

The man held up both hands in apology and said, "Sorry, dude.  Wrong impression.  Where do ya want it?  And what size?  To show the initials, it can't be very small—they'd totally disappear, man."

"Oh … uhhh…" Gerry began to hem and haw, a little embarrassed.

Before he could say anything else, the man offered, "Hey, it's cool, dude.  I've done tits and ass, cocks and balls [which drew a painful groan from Gerry], and everything else from top to bottom.  Not an inch of skin hasn't felt my magic touch on some broad or stud, hetero or homo.  You tell me where, man, and I'll do it.  Even did a bright red rose once, around a sweet little fag's rosebud.  Smelled so sweeeeeet, and looked good enough to stick my nose in and lap up all that de-liscious nectar just oozing outta there.  Pool little fuckee wasn't able to sit down for at least two weeks.  Had to stay naked all that time with his asscheeks spread wide to let his fuckhole heal.  Bet his succulent lips got to work double duty all that time."

His descriptive language was enough to turn Gerry's stomach.  He didn't know whether to trust the stranger or turn and run, but in a weird way, he was intrigued and drawn into the daunting lair.  The more he heard, the more nervous he became.  And it was obvious.

"Don't sweat it, man;  just yankin' your chains;  just seein' how much ya can take.  Don't mind me, dude; I don't care how you get your jollies.  Male or female, flesh is flesh;  as long as it's warm and moist and walks on two legs, I can get into it.  But ya gotta remember this…  Oh, by the way … you ever get a tat before?"

Gerry shook his head in the negative.

"Didn't think so.  Butcha gotta know that there's a little pain involved.  Always is.  Ya DO like a little pain ever now and then, don'tcha?" he asked with a grin and a couple of wriggles of his eyebrows.  "Sure ya do.  Ever'body likes a little pain, whether they admit it or not.  I use a light anesthetic rub over the area before actually beginning the inking, so it shouldn't hurt too bad.  Now, let's see what kind of palm trees I've got," he said, reaching for a notebook/portfolio of different designs he could copy.

He sure was a fast talker.

Flipping page after page, he quickly came to the section he wanted, and turned the book so Gerry could look through pictures of palm trees.

"THAT one," Gerry said, pointing to a palm tree in the book.  "I think that one would look real nice."

"Good choice," the man agreed.  "Now … about what size do you want?  Covering the whole back?"

"Good Lord, NO!" Gerry exclaimed.  "Not that big!  I was thinking more like six inches tall … or something like that."

"Gotta tell ya, dude … the initials would totally disappear on something that small.  How about eight inches tall?  I think that'd be better.  You'd like a good eight inches, wouldn't ya?" he asked with another smirky smile.

"Well, another two inches wouldn't matter that much.  I guess it'll be okay."

"Ohhh, I think you'd be much happier with a good eight inches, than you would be with a puny little ol' six inches;  I really do."

Gerry suddenly realized that the hippie might be talking about something other than the tattoo, but he'd come this far—he might as well see it through.  "Okay, let's do it."

"Now… where do you want it—on your chest?  Arm?  Leg?  Up on your thigh?"

"Nooooo," Gerry softly drew out the word, imagining where he'd like it.  "Was thinking the bottom of the trunk could start at the top of my butt crack and go up from there."

"Good.  Very sexy."

"And could you leave the initials without any ink in them, just letting the color of the skin show through the trunk?"

"Sure.  Anything's possible."

"Great.  How about dark green palm fronds and brown for the trunk, with everything outlined in black?"

"No problemo, amigo.  But being on top of the spinal column, though, is gonna take a little longer 'cause I'm gonna have to be very careful.  You okay with that?"

Gerry thought for a minute then nodded, answering, "Yeah … my friends are gonna be wondering what happened to me, but I'll work it out."

"Super-duper, buddy.  I think you're gonna be happy … or at least your boyfriend, partner, husband … whatever … will be happy with the way I'm gonna give it to you," he said, grinning.

Gerry shot him a look.

"Decorate ya, I mean," he said seriously, slightly changing his wording.

"Oh!  Okay," Gerry said.

"Let me just lock the door and put up the 'Closed' sign so we won't be interrupted," he said, moving to the door.  Then as he returned, he placed a hand in the middle of Gerry's back and guided him back through a colorful Middle Eastern beaded curtain into the notorious 'back room'.

It was spotless, sterile, even antiseptic.  No windows were in any of the walls.  Two ceiling fans gently moved the stifling air in the room.  A single brass-shaded light fixture hung over what looked to be a padded, brown leather massage table.  Nearby stood several white enameled surgical carts on wheels—one with neatly folded sheets, towels, sponges, gauze pads, adhesive tape, etc.;  another with quite a few bottles of what looked like ink, and with a few gizmos that Gerry imagined could only be for the tattooing, itself.  God only knows what the implements were called.

"Oh, by the way … most of my clientele call me 'Scooter, the Shooter', but you can call me 'Scooter'.  And I usually get paid in cash.  You okay with that?"

"Sure—depending on the price, of course—and you can call me Gerry or Ger.  They shook hands and expressed their gratitude at meeting each other.

Scooter quoted a price, and Gerry frowned.  "That's a bit steeper than I'd planned on paying…"

"Let me ask you something, Ger," Scooter interrupted any further remark, "but are you doing this for yourself—which you'll never be able to see without a couple of mirrors—or are you doing it for someone special, someone REALLY special to you?"

Gerry looked at him for an unspoken moment, but softly admitted, "For someone else—as a Christmas present."

"He'll love it.  I know he will."

Gerry jerked his head toward Scooter.  "I didn't say, 'HE'."

"But I'm right … RIGHT?"

Gerry blushed as a small smile curved his lips.  "Yeah … you're right."

"Thought so … and it's okay by me, Ger.  Been there;  done that.  Nothin' wrong with it.  Nothin' at all.  Ever'thing's good.  I always thought that as long as ever'one's at least of a legal age, and no one's forced into doing sumpin' he or she doesn't want to do, and no one is hurt physically … OR emotionally … it's all good … especially if love is the main ingredient … but then … a little lustful fun is good, too, don’tcha think?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

'Wow!' Gerry thought.  'This guy's something else.  Got a good heart in him.  Doesn't sound selfish in the least.'

"Now then," Scooter began as he spread a clean sheet across the leather-padded table, "I'll need for you to shed your pants AND your underwear."

"Why the underwear?" Gerry quickly inquired, beginning to have second thoughts.

"I understand your concern, but it's S.O.P.—Standard Operating Procedure.  I'm gonna wash your back with alcohol, then do the anesthetic rub, and I'm gonna go down a couple of inches between your ass cheeks—make sure everything's clean and a little numb.  And there will be some blood … not much, but just a little … and we don't want to get any of it on your clothes."

The explanation seemed logical, if not entirely ethical, so, with some hesitation, Gerry began removing his trousers.  Finding it difficult to get the legs over his shoes, he took them off, too, and soon stood there, bare-assed, in his shirt and socks.  He wiped some sweat off his forehead.

"You're already getting a little nervous, I can tell," Scooter said.  "Ever'body does the first time.  Nothin' to worry about, I promise ya, but with no air conditioning and no windows, it's gonna get more stifling in here.  Why don't you take off your shirt and tee?  If you start to get chilled—as happens to some people when I'm inkin'em—I can drape a sheet or some towels over you."

'What have I gotten myself into?' Gerry wondered.  'But I'm doing all this for you, Babe,' he thought as an image of Ted popped into his consciousness.  Soon, the shirt and tee joined the discarded trousers and tighty-whities.  "Now, what?" he asked.

"Stand here at the end of the table and lay the upper part of your body on it," Scooter instructed with a gentle hand on Gerry's naked back.  Gerry did as he was told.

"Now spread your legs a little … a little more, please."  Again, Gerry followed the requests.

Scooter then knelt behind him and began binding Gerry's left knee to the left leg of the table with a Velcro strap.

"Hey!  What's going on, here?" Gerry demanded, returning to an upright position.

"You don't mind a little bondage, do you?" Scooter asked with a little chuckle.

"I didn't know…"

"I'm just securing you to the table so you don't jerk around and maybe ruin my art," Scooter said by way of more explanation.  "Lay back down, now."

A few minutes later, both of Gerry's legs were secured to the nearest legs of the table, and his hands and arms were likewise secured to the other two legs.  Blocks of wood were clamped on either side of his hips as well as his chest—"… to keep you from wiggling to one side or the other."  Gerry could now only slightly move his hips up and down.

Scooter rubbed his hands over Gerry's lower back and upper ass-cheeks.  "Nice skin, Ger.  This tat's gonna look really fine when we're finished."

"Unhhh, thanks … I think."

"Not startin' to chicken out, are ya?"

"Nah.  Let's just get started and get it over with," Gerry mumbled, his chin resting on a thin pillow that Scooter had provided.  He couldn't see anything behind him.

"Now, lift your butt.  I'm just gonna reach under here for a minute…" Gerry felt a hand slowly slide between his upper thighs, then under his balls and cock, and gently pull them back so that they hung off the end of the table. 

"Nice package, guy.  Real nice package," Scooter said, softly squeezing Gerry's cock and rolling his fingers over his baby-makers.

"What'd ya pull'em down there for?"

"Usually, guys get hard when I'm workin' on'em, and it can get a little painful layin' on top of your tackle … even on a padded table.  This way, if ya DO get excited, your cock can pulse and jerk, and your balls can squirm around all they want to."

"Really?  Even with the pain of the needles?"

"Really, Ger.  Would I lie to ya?  I shit you not.  I've even had some big, macho guys shoot load after load while I work on'em.  Some of'em really get off on being tatted."

"Shit!  I can't imagine."

"Oh, I think you'll do more than imagine, Ger.  You're already startin' to plump-up, I see."  He slapped Gerry on the right ass-cheek.

"HEY!"

"Just a little affectionate pat—getting' your mind off what I'm gonna be doin' pretty soon."  He leaned down and kissed the ass-cheek … just to make it 'feel' better.

"HEY!" Gerry exclaimed again.

"Okay, okay, I'll quit playin' around … though … from what I can see, I'd LOVE to carry this further."  He smiled, then licked his lips.

"That's not what I'm paying you for."

"I know.  I know.  All right.  Let's get started."

"Yeah," Gerry shivered in anticipation.  And then he heard a rustling behind him.  He turned to see, but being restrained the way he was, couldn't turn far enough.  "Whatcha doin', now."

"Getting' in my work clothes."

"Work clothes?"

"Yeah.  It's gonna start getting' hot and humid in here, and I gotta be comfortable." 

By this time, Scooter had stripped out of ALL his clothes and was as naked as Gerry.  He pulled at his sticky crotch, separating his goodies from the sweat and pre-cum that had been building up. "Gotta let the boys breathe a little."

"Huh?" Gerry asked.

"Yep," Scooter replied, avoiding a direct answer.  "Always wear just my birthday suit when I'm working."  Then before Gerry could say anything else, he continued, "Since you can't see back here, I'll tell ya ever'thing I'm gonna be doin'.  It eliminates a lotta the fear ya got goin' right now.  I'm sure you'll get to the point of enjoying what I'm doing after you get over the first little bit of pain—usually always happens that way."

"Yeah, I bet," Gerry said in a voice that sounded contrary to the words themselves.

"It DOES.  Really.  First thing is the alcohol."  With that said, Scooter bathed Gerry's lower back and a larger area than was going to be inked. 

"Ummmmm," Gerry moaned at the coolness of the alcohol, but his moan was cut short as Scooters fingers, covered by the damp towel, slid down the entire crack of Gerry's ass, even over his asshole, and then back out again.

"Hey!  Was that necessary?"  Gerry sounded angry.

"Just wanted to cool ya off, Ger.  Want me to give ya a body rub with the alcohol?  It feels great."

"NO!" Gerry grunted, and then added, "But thanks for asking."

"You betcha, buddy."

Gerry could hear a bottle being put down on the enameled cart, and the moving of other things.

"Now, I'm gonna rub the anesthetic in," Scooter announced as he put down another bottle and began to rub his hands together. 

The odor was vaguely familiar to Gerry, but he couldn't place it exactly.  "What's that?"

"Oil of clove.  Ya know you can use it to ease the pain of a sore tooth or sore gums?"

"Yeah."

"Well, the same principal works here, too—it eases the pain of the needles."  Scooter rubbed—well, it was more like a strong fingers-massage—over the same area he had done with the alcohol, even down the entire length of Gerry's ass-crack, and across his butthole.  Scooter felt the flinch and the constricting and relaxing of the little muscles.  He smiled.

"Ummmmm," Gerry moaned again.  "Oh.  Okay, but it smells like a bloody fruitcake or a baked ham."

"Delicious," Scooter remarked, then slid his spit-covered tongue up, first, Gerry's right thigh and then the left one.

"HEYYYYY!"

"You're startin' to sound like a parrot or sumpin', Ger.  'Hey.  Hey.  Hey.  Hey.  Hey.  Okay.  Here we go."

More unrecognized sounds came from behind Gerry.

"I'm just gonna do the outlines.  Now just try to relax.  Little pin pricks here."

One after the other, again and again, and the single needle left behind a line of dots of black ink.  Gerry flinched with each of the first several punctures, but not being any worse than they were, he grew accustomed to them, accepting the little pains that were becoming pleasurable. 

Scooter recognized when that time came, because Gerry's cock slowly began to engorge, which inevitably caused some throbbing and pulsing.

A few minutes later, Scooter said, "Now, we're through with the outlines.  That wasn't so bad, was it, Babe?"

The familiarity seemed uncalled for, to Gerry, but he let it pass.  "No.  It was okay … after I got used to it.

"And you started to ENJOY it, didn't you?" Scooter asked, grinning, while reaching down with a bare finger to retrieve a pearl of pre-cum from Gerry's piss slit.  He raised it to his mouth and sucked his finger clean.  "Ummmmm, nice and sweet," he said.

"Uhhh, I don't think…"

"Gerry … listen," Scooter interrupted as he walked around to the head of the table where Gerry could see him.  "These little extra things that I'm doing are just my way of getting your mind off the pain that comes with getting a tattoo.  I'm not falling for you, and you're not falling for me, but if I can give you a little pleasure while you're feeling some pain, the pain won't be so bad.

"They go hand-in-hand, ya know—pain and pleasure—just like sugar and spice, salt and pepper, cake and icing, black and white, and love and hate.  Ya can't have one without the other."

He stepped back and turned around, his arms spread wide, and Gerry could see that except for his hands, neck and face, Scooter's entire body was covered with tats, even that thick, eight-inch, uncut, bouncing part of him that stuck straight out at table-top height, in line with Gerry's open, moist lips.

Slowly, Gerry stretched his neck, and his tongue escaped the confines of his mouth.  Scooter inched forward and just allowed Gerry to lick inside the drippy dangling foreskin.

"Just a taste of what's to 'cum' later—pun intended," Scooter promised.  "Now let me get back to work."  He moved to the other end of Gerry and said, "Before I finish with the black ink, what are the initials you want on the trunk of the tree?  I'll just do a little outline of the letters."

" 'T.Y.' above 'G.Y.' "

" 'T.Y.' and 'G.Y. " Scooter repeated.  " 'G' for 'Gerry'?" he asked.

"Yeah.  'Ted Young' and 'Gerry Young' "

"Brothers???  That IS kinky," Scooter exclaimed.

"No, not really brothers," Gerry explained.  "He was adopted and doesn't know who his birth parents were, and when we applied for Passports, he also had his adopted last name legally changed to mine."

"Sweet," Scooter rolled his eyes, even though Gerry couldn't see his reaction.  "Okay, here we go."  Within a couple of minutes, the initials were outlined, and the black ink and needle put away.

"You okay so far?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," Gerry answered.

"Good.  Now, let's get the worst out of the way, shall we?"  Without waiting for an answer, he continued as he readied the 'implement' of six needles with the green ink, and began filling in the fronds of the tree.

Soon after he began the fill-in, Gerry began moaning from the pain.  That was his cue to put down the 'implement', pick up a little brown bottle, and moved in front of Gerry's face again.

"What…?" Gerry tried to ask. 

Scooter put the opened bottle under one nostril and said, "Take a deep breath."  When that was done, the bottle was moved under the other nostril, and another deep breath was taken.  Then he returned to his previous position between Gerry's spread legs.

He also slicked up his own rigid eight inches of man-flesh with some lubricant he purchased on the black market.

More green ink was applied with the six needles.  Gerry moaned louder.  Scooter pulled his more-than-adequate foreskin back and lined up the head of his rampant rod with Gerry's sweaty fuckhole.  He leaned forward, fully sliding his cock to the hilt as he reached around Gerry's head with the little brown bottle and let him take another couple of deep whiffs of the acrid stuff into each nostril.  Gerry's moans softened, but rather than painful, became more passionate.  His hips moved ever-so-slightly up and down with the slow push and pull of Scooter's hot prong.

Straightening up, Scooter continued with his needling, while pushing in from the right, pulling almost out from the left, then reversing from left to right, again and again.  Gerry's sphincter gripped and released, gripped and released with each thrust and withdrawal.

Eventually the green was finished.  Tiny droplets of blood oozed from Gerry's skin.  Scooter patted the area with a soft towel, sponging up the red liquid.  Then he completely withdrew, leaving Gerry feeling empty and unfulfilled.

"Ahhh, you're clean inside, I see," Scooter remarked.  "I like that."

"I clean out regularly—at least once a day," Gerry replied.  His cock throbbed and jerked, dripping pre-cum.

Scooter knelt where he was and, taking Gerry's cock in hand, raised it back between his spread thighs.  He then dived in, his nose at Gerry's winking pucker, and sucked in Gerry's cock.  He bobbed up and down, as much as the position would allow.

Soon, Gerry was writhing in ecstasy, moaning, gasping, shooting his hot, creamy spooge into Scooter's throat.  And then he relaxed into the sweat-drenched sheet on top of the padded leather table.

Scooter licked up and down Gerry's sweaty ass-crack, then stood and moved the enameled table closer to the other end of the table.

"Now, for the easier part," he said, with one hand picking up another six-needled 'implement' with brown ink.

Standing directly in front of Gerry, he reached under the table, released a hinge, and allowed that end of the table to drop down.  Now, Gerry's head hung completely off the table.  He stretched and twisted his neck, getting the kinks out from having been so restrained.

Scooter stepped closer.  Gerry lifted his head toward the slickened shaft and once again opened his mouth.  Scooter then began to enter, slow inch by slow inch until he felt Gerry start to gag.  "Can ya take the whole thing?"

Gerry stretched his neck forward in answer, took a deep breath through his nose, and swallowed.  Scooter could do nothing but suck air into his lungs through his tightly clinched teeth as he pushed in all the way until his hairless pubic area touched Gerry's nose.  He slowly pulled back until just the rim of his cock was against Gerry's teeth.  Back in all the way.  Back out.  The rhythm had been set.

Leaning forward slightly, Scooter began filling in the trunk of the tree with the brown ink, as well as filling Gerry's throat with his hot, thick ramrod. 

Gerry's painful moans grew once again, and again Scooter offered the little brown bottle as he paused in his inking.  But all good things must eventually come to an end.

Once the trunk was finished, Scooter quickly did the light background colorings.

Scooter had to put down his 'implement' as he shot his own load after load of sweet Egyptianized cream down Gerry's throat.  Luckily, the job was finished.

Finished, that is, except for more patting of more tiny droplets of blood.

"Wanna see it, Ger?

"Yeah, I guess."

Scooter released the restraints and helped him stand and move to a three-paneled, wrap-around mirror, like one would see in a clothing store, and handed him a hand-mirror so he could look behind himself.

"It looks good.  Thank you," Gerry said, not too excitedly.

"You feel some guilt about what we just did?" Scooter asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," Gerry admitted.

"Here," Scooter guided him back to the table.  "Lay down again and let me clean and gauze the area."

Gerry lay back down.  Scooter sponged the area clean once again, then covered it with protective petroleum jelly, which would keep the skin and scabs soft and pliable, eventually leaving no unsightly cracks or wrinkles.  Then, he lay a large pad of sterile gauze over the jelly and secured it with little strips of adhesive tape.

"Shower every day, and put new dressings on it until the scabs come off by themselves.  I'm sure … Ted … is that his name? … will be happy to help you with that."

"Yeah, that's his name, but I'm not so sure he's gonna be happy with what I've done.  We're on our honeymoon trip, so to speak, and have promised to tell each other IF something happens with someone else."

"You're joking!"

"Nope."

"Well …" Scooter suggested, "give him another Christmas present.  Send him over here to get his OWN tattoo … and other services … and you'll be even, and just know that once you go home, I'll probably never see you again.  Sooooo … I'm no threat to either of you."  He helped Gerry off the table once again.

They both laughed at the thought, and began to get dressed. 

"You have an answer for everything; don't you, Scooter?"

"Nope.  Not everything.  But I try."

Scooter stepped forward a little.  Gerry stepped forward a little.  They kissed—a simple kiss of friendship, not passion.

<><><> 

Gerry was laying face-down on the bed, his shirt removed, when Ted and Muti returned to their stateroom aboard The Luxor.

"Where the hell have you been, Babe?  And … … … WHAT … THE … HELL … HAPPENED … TO … YOU?"

With a pained look, Gerry rolled onto his right side and looked sadly at Ted.

"I've been screwed, blewed, and tattooed."

To be continued...

Comments welcome, please drop the author a note: 

Posted: 01/09/09