THE  HAPPY  WANDERER - V

PYRAMIDS, TEMPLES, and TOMBS

© 2009

BY:  GERRY YOUNG

WITH THE MUCH APPRECIATED ASSISTANCE BY:

TICKIE

Gerry was lying 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."

CHAPTER  FOURTEEN

"YOU … WHAT???" Ted screamed.

Refraining from mentioning his visit with the old jeweler, for obvious reasons, Gerry began to relate his experience with Scooter by saying, "Well, Hon, it all started out innocently enough with wanting to get you an early Christmas present."

"And pray tell, what the hell was that?  An early Christmas present?" Ted asked with stunned concern.  "What kind of damn, fuckin' present would cause you to end up with a bandage on your back?  I don't understand."  He sat on the edge of the bed, gently resting an arm across Gerry's back just above the gauze bandage.

Silently, Muti sat in a chair out of Gerry's sight, observing all.

"Well, you'll see it when I take a shower," Gerry answered Ted's query.

"Does it hurt?  Are you in pain?  Are you okay?"  Ted's questions showed his care, his compassion, even though Gerry had insinuated that he'd had sex with someone else.

"I'm okay, really I am.  It just hurts a little bit, but still stings like the dickens."

"Did you have to go to the hospital?  Did you notify the Tourist Police?  Anything cut?  Or broken?"  Ted was becoming frantic, obviously wanting answers.

"No, no, Babe.  I'm okay.  Nothing cut, but there was a little blood.  Nothing broken.  No need for the police or the hospital.  It's just gonna take a couple of weeks to completely heal."

"Wha'd'ya mean, 'nothing cut, but there was a little blood'?" Ted asked, standing by the bedside and leaning forward.  "I wanna see it NOW!" 

Before Gerry could object with anything other than a loud "OUCH!", Ted had had forced Gerry over from lying on his side to lying flat out on his stomach, and had yanked the adhesive-taped gauze off his back.

"Oh … my … God!" Ted exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at the tattoo.  Then carefully crawling up onto the bed between Gerry's out-stretched legs, he leaned forward and supported his weight on his hands on either side of Gerry's hips, getting a closer look.

"You've even got our initials on the trunk of the palm.  Ohhh, that's sweet, Ger," he said, bending down and kissing Gerry's pants-covered ass-cheeks. 

Then he suddenly shot up onto his knees and slapped Gerry's ass, first with his right hand and then with his left.  None too carefully, he quickly shoved himself off the foot of the bed and roared, "But what exactly did you mean by that 'screwed and blewed' comment?  Huh?  Tell me!"  He had moved back around to the side of the bed and was talking only inches away from Gerry's face.  The force of the words sent droplets of spit into Gerry's eyes, nose, and mouth. 

Had they been making love, Gerry would have gladly accepted the spittle from Ted's moist tongue, but from the barrage of Ted's apparent anger, Gerry drew back.

"I didn't have any choice," he tried to excuse himself.  "He had me tied down to the table."

At hearing that, Muti sat more upright, listening intently, with just the hint of a knowing smile.

"Had you tied down?" Ted demanded.   "Wha'd he do?  Knock ya out or somethin'?  Didn't ya try to fight back?  Didn't ya?  Huh?  Well, answer me, dammit!"

"Please, Ted … just calm down.  Calm down and I'll tell you everything," Gerry pleaded.  He shifted on the bed and said, "Help me get up.  My back's getting sore in this position, and it's itching like crazy."  He reached back to scratch it, but Ted slapped his hand away.

"Don't scratch it, for God's sake;  you might get it infected," Ted instructed, then turned to Muti.  "Get me a clean towel."

As Ted helped Gerry to stand, Muti hurried to the bathroom and returned with the towel.  Together, he and Ted draped the tattooed area and patted and stroked the towel with the balls of their palms, thus relieving some of Gerry's itching.

"Ohhh, that feels good.  Thanks," he said.

As it was now near sundown, he asked, "Muti, why don't you go to the kitchen and have our dinners served here in the room … at least for me? You guys can eat out in the dining salon if you want, but I don't want to have to dress for dinner and sit, leaning my back against the chair."

"Right away, my friend."  And with that, he was gone.

"Okay, Ger … give!  What's the story?  What gives?" Ted inquired, slowly easing the towel away from the sticky petroleum jelly still on Gerry's back.

"Sit down, Babe," Gerry said, beginning to pace about the room.

Over the next several minutes, Gerry told all—Scooter the Shooter, an American hippie who, he found out later, was a sexy, walking, talking Egyptian art museum, himself, with tattoos from his neck to his toenails, and even including his eight-inch cock and low-hanging balls—how he was secured to the padded, sheeted table so that he couldn’t twitch or squirm, which could have been disastrous for the tattoo—how he had tolerated the outlining of the design—how, before beginning the fill-in,  Scooter had given him some poppers—how, when the pain became more intense, Scooter had slowly, sensually, seductively fucked him, momentarily taking his mind off the pain of the tattooing—how, when the fronds were finished, Scooted had pulled out of his ass, moved around to the head of the table and had Gerry swallow his cock to the hilt, then set up a slow, easy rhythm (with the help of more poppers) while he finished the tattoo, itself, and at the last moment shot his wad deep into Gerry's throat.

"I felt guilty about the sex part of it, away from you, Ted," Gerry said, as he stopped his pacing and knelt right in front of Ted, "but since, as you said, 'We're on vacation,' and we're both had sex with Muti, together and separately while the other watched, there was just something about Scooter that I just couldn't refuse."

During the telling of the afternoon rendezvous, both Ted and Gerry had obviously become aroused.  Kneeling there, Gerry rubbed Ted's thighs, letting his fingers roam around and across Ted's mound of his crotch.

They both were silent for a moment—Gerry, watching the pulsing, throbbing movement in Ted's trousers, and Ted, watching Gerry's hands and adorable, lovable face.  They both were beginning to breathe heavily.

Muti quietly slipped back into the room, unnoticed, and watched the two.  A smile crept across his face.

Ted slid further down in the chair, his crotch getting closer and closer to Gerry's, by now, slobbering lips.  Gerry's hands moved up and unfastened Ted's belt buckle and undid the top button of his chinos, but before he could do anything further, Ted yanked his hands away and ordered, "Use your teeth on the zipper."

Gerry's eyes grew large at the unusual request from his lover.  He looked into Ted's eyes and saw, not only passion and hunger, but also a playful desire he'd never seen before.  "Yes, Sir, my lord," he responded in playful style.

It took some doing, because he'd never done it before, but finally, the zipper was completely open.  Ted lifted his hips, and said, "Pull'em down!"

Down came the chinos.  Down came the tighty-whities, and down went Gerry's head, his tongue and lips slathering kisses and spit on Ted's anxious member, from inside the foreskin down and around to Ted's ample sack of twin walnuts.

Both men were moaning in exquisite pleasure.

Ted was holding onto Gerry's ears and pulled his head up and then forced his gaping mouth down over the entire six-and-a-half  inch length.  Normally, Gerry had grown accustomed to taking the whole fleshy rod, but under the mock-brutal treatment, he gagged, sputtered, and coughed as he jerked his head away.

"Betcha didn't do that when Scooter shoved his cock in your mouth," Ted said to the still-coughing Gerry.

"He didn't <cough> shove it in <cough>," Gerry struggled.  "He slid it in easily and without force."

"Oh, you mean like this?"  Ted put his hands on the back of Gerry's head and slowly, tenderly, gently pulled it back onto his slimy, pre-cum dripping schlong until he felt Gerry's nose against his pubis.  Gerry's throat muscles swallowed and then he moaned again.  Up and down, in and out he went, bringing Ted nearer and nearer to losing control.

Still standing near the door, Muti had raised the hem of his galabeyah and was stroking himself at the sight before him.  Softly, he cleared his throat as he swallowed what must have been an accumulation of spittle in his mouth.

Gerry was too busy pleasuring Ted to even hear the subdued sound, but Ted jerked his head to the side and saw that Muti had returned, albeit so very quietly.  Putting his finger up to his lips, telling Muti not to say anything, Ted used hand-movements to tell him to come over behind Gerry, remove Gerry's trousers and underwear, and to fill hill his ass with that long, thick Arabic cock.

Muti grinned and obeyed, lifting Gerry by the hips and off his knees, trying to be careful not to touch the once-again oozing tattoo.  When he reached around Gerry's waist to unbuckle and unzip his pants, Gerry tried to turn around and see what was happening.  But Ted held onto his head with more effort and ordered, "You just stay right where you are, and keep doing what you're doing, Ger."

After removing the trousers and briefs, Muti again hiked up the bottom of his garment, spit in his hand, stroked himself a few more times and, following Ted's latest technique, slowly, tenderly, and gently entered the delectable derrière. 

Gerry groaned in pain as his swollen, enflamed ass lips were once more assaulted, this being the second time (or was it the third?) within a few hours. 

Muti began an easy thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat.  Encouraged by Ted's sublime expression and the gripping and release of Gerry's sphincter, Muti's hips moved faster and faster.  Soon, the three were moaning in passionate pleasure when a soft knock came on the door.

"Enter," Muti called out in Arabic, without missing a stroke.

The door opened, and Abdul, one of the ship's attendant waiters, stepped in, pushing a dinner cart loaded with dishes, bowls, and goblets.  He froze in shock, one foot raised a few inches above the floor, his eyes as big as saucers, and his mouth hanging open.  He even appeared to have stopped breathing.

"It's okay," Muti said, still speaking in Arabic, as he motioned to where Abdul was to leave the cart.

Gaining some control, Abdul gingerly rolled the cart in the general direction to which Muti had indicated, but it bumped into the corner of the wardrobe, rattling the dinner china.  His eyes had not left the threesome, and he had begun to drool a little.

"Perhaps later," Muti told Abdul, "but leave us now," he grinned;  he snickered;  he chuckled as Abdul backed through the door with some "tented" difficulty, which he immediately tried to hide behind the waiter's towel over his left forearm.

Muti was beside himself.  Ted burst into laughter.  And Gerry … well … Gerry just collapsed onto all fours and rolled onto his right side, roaring hilariously.  It had been quite a day.

Day 7:  December 19

The morning was filled with a tour of the Temple of Karnak, which had taken sixteen hundred years to build, each pharaoh adding to the work of his predecessor/s.  The famous Hypostyle Hall coveed fifty thousand square feet (some say fifty-four thousand), and is said to be the largest religious building in the world, area wise. 

For a Virtual view of the Hall, click here:  http://www.panoramas.dk/fullscreen7/f22-karnak-egypt.html , and for more information on the entire temple complex, click here:  http://www.touregypt.net/karnak.htm .

Gerry was a little sore from the pervious day's activities, but braved what seemed like miles and miles of walking and gawking, taking in everything the public was allowed to visit.  Muti carried a backpack with cameras, canteens of water, and a few candy bars and other munchies.  But in Ted's excitement, HE bounded here and there, away from the group, to get a closer look at the fine details of the hieroglyphic carvings on walls, pillars, and statuary, mainly, but not exclusively, of Pharaoh Rameses II, the principal builder of the temple.

A little tired, Gerry, Ted, and Muti and all hundred-and-twenty of the other tourists, returned to the main tour ship for lunch and a refreshing respite from the constant 'go, go, go' of the morning's trek.

After a dash to the paddle wheeler for a change of dressing on Gerry's still oozing tattoo, off they all went again, this time to the Temple of Luxor,  about two miles south of the Temple of Karnak.  http://www.touregypt.net/featurestories/luxortemple.htm,

At one time, during the heyday of pharaonic rule, the two temples were joined by what is known as the 'Avenue of the Sphinxes'.  Hundreds of the sphinxes lined both sides of the cobblestone avenue, but not all were yet visible, many.

Over the centuries, the causeway had been covered by sand;  local Egyptians had built their meager hovels, huts, and homes on the sand, and only recently had the State of Egypt begun buying up the homesteads and returning the 'Avenue of the Sphinxes to some semblance of its original splendor—a truly remarkable humanitarian undertaking.

Later that afternoon, back aboard The Luxor, Gerry was really in pain.

"Let me go over to the main ship," Muti offered, "and have Tariq Pasha send for one of the local doctors to come over and give you some medicine or something."

"No, Muti.  Thanks for the offer, but I'll be fine.  I just need to rest a little."

Muti insisted again, but Gerry declined more vehemently, even with Ted's reasoning FOR medical treatment—"Maybe Scooter's shop was not so 'clean' as it appeared to be," Ted reasoned.

Unyielding, Gerry won out over his cabin-mates' suggestions—he would take it easy, and the doctor would not be required—"Perhaps tomorrow," was his final reply.

Reluctantly, Ted and Muti agreed.  Ted then yawned and stretched his own aching muscles.

"Muti…" Gerry drew his attention, "… why don't you give Ted one of your great massages?  And if anything comes up between you guys … I'm sure ONE of you will know how to 'handle' it."

Ted twisted and stretched again.  "And just WHAT are you planning on doing, Ger?" he asked with a sly grin.

"I think I'll go out there…" he pointed to the sliding glass door toward their own private deck on the bow of the boat, "and lie down on one of the sun-lounges just to absorb some more of the local … uhhh … 'ambiance' I guess is the right word."

"You sure you don't want to join us, Babe?" Ted asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Gerry replied.  "You guys go ahead … take a nap … fool around … I'm okay with it.  I'm having my own affair—with the country, with the Nile, and the temples, and … just EVERYthing."

"You love it, here, don't you, Gerry?" Muti asked as he and Ted pulled back the duvet and top-sheet of the 'pharaoh'-sized bed.

Gerry nodded his head, looking out the glass door.  "I haven't been in Egypt long, but I'm happier here than any place I've ever been before."

"Well, thanks a lot," Ted whined, as if he'd been hurt to the core of his being."

 Moving to him, Gerry embraced him and kissed him, and said, "Sweetheart, the love I have for you and the happiness I have with you, are totally different.  You and I are forever, but I … you and I, I mean … will only be here for a few more days, and then we have to go back home, probably never to come back again."  Again, Gerry kissed Ted and then winked and smiled at Muti.

Gerry's emotions were clear, as his eyes glistened with moisture.  He then broke the embrace and headed out to the deck on the bow.  "Have fun!" he said to them, closing the slider.

He had every good intention of lying on the lounge, but a glance toward the hustle and bustle of the town caused him to linger at the sight he beheld.  There on El Cornishe, just at the top of the riverbank, was an Egyptian woman wearing the black Burquah that all strict Islamic women wear, the only flesh visible—her hands.  Around her were at least a dozen children, maybe more, the eldest, a boy of no more than twelve or thirteen years.  They all seemed happy, some even playful, but they weren't noisy like a bunch of screaming American kids would be.  They were polite and courteous to one another, yet they seemed to be having fun.  The oldest boy even took what looked like a handkerchief from the hip pocket of his trousers, and dusted off a bench for the chaperone, parent, teacher, or whatever she was.

He watched them for several minutes, marveling at the difference between children in Egypt and children in the States.  For a moment, he was reminded of the peace and tranquility reflected in Norman Rockwell paintings and illustrations.

Soon a horse-drawn carriage came by, its driver alone, no tourist with him.  He stopped the mare pulling the carriage, got out, and began grooming her.

The woman got up from the bench and scurried the children away, but not before several were able to pet the colt that was tethered to his mother.

Once the people had moved away, the little one began to nurse from his mother's teat.  He had been so cute, trotting along beside her.  'Maybe he's in training for pulling a carriage someday when he's older,' Gerry ventured a guess, smiling at the beauty of the natural sight.  Contentedly, he breathed another deep sigh of joy and longing.

Turning, Gerry moved to the river-side of the deck.  The sun was beginning to set behind the hills guarding the Valleys of the Kings and Queens—'tomorrow's tour', he thought to himself.

Squinting against the last rays that were shimmering and sparkling on the gentle rippling waves of 'Mother Nile'—as the ancient hieroglyphs had described the life-blood of Egypt—he saw another sight that caused him to smile. 

With a rocking gait coming down one of the hills toward the west-bank town of Old Thebes (yet part of modern Luxor), were three camels, their drivers probably weaving them along well-traveled trails or paths.  'Probably coming home from work in the Valley of the Kings,' Gerry thought.  'Guards at the tombs, tour guides, caretakers perhaps, or even sand-movers at some ongoing archaeological dig.'

The closer to the river they came, the farther apart they moved—one to the south end of the town, one to the north end, and one toward the center of town.

Another smile.  Another sigh.  Another pang of wanting to belong.

Gerry looked down into the darkening water, easily flowing from upriver in the south, downriver to the north, and eventually to the Mediterranean Sea.  The movement of the water was soothing and relaxing—just what he needed.  He knew that if he just dived into the water, Mother Nile would take away his bodily aches and pains, but he also knew that the water carried bacteria that could be harmful to Americans who hadn't built up immunity to them.

A bird called, and then another.  The Sun had completely set but the evening was still light.  He looked up and not one but two Falcons glided past, west to east, close enough that if Gerry had reached out, he could have touched one of them.  He felt blessed, for it was a picture of Horus standing in front of his temple in Edfu, in National Geographic Magazine when he was fourteen years old, that had caused him to think to himself, 'Someday, I'll have my pitcher took in front of that thar bird.'  And after just three more days, he would be in Edfu, and he knew that Ted would take that long-awaited 'pitcher'.

Strings of an exotic belly-dancer-type of music—whether from radio or live performers, he had no idea—drifted down to surround him in an exciting, stimulating aura.   He even had visions of a young, erotic, long-black-haired beauty of the feminine kind dancing with him.  'Where the hell did THAT thought come from?' he asked of himself or one of the ancient gods or goddesses—anyone!  Perhaps it was a memory of the tales of Ali Baba and the forty thieves, of Sheiks and their harems, of the tales of the Arabian nights, or of stories of beautiful, seductive, untouchable princesses of the exotic, mystical East he'd heard of when he was younger.  But no answer came. 

He never did lay down on that sun-lounge that afternoon;  there was just too much for him to feast his eyes, his ears, and his thoughts on.  Even the scents of evening meals being cooked on open camel-dung fires attacking his sense of smell, scents which he had never known but which seemed to fill an emptiness within him.  He knew that his soul, his spirit, had finally come home … and would soon leave the comfort and familiarity, somehow, in some mysterious way, again.

Day 8:  December 20

During the early morning, Gerry twice had to quickly get out of bed, run to the head, and make a very liquid deposit—the first signs of Pharaoh's Revenge—diarrhea.  SOMEthing he had eaten was contaminated with a local bacteria, he supposed—safe for the locals to eat, but 'shitty' for foreigners—a salad that had been washed in the local drinking water, some melon or fruit that had not had the skin or peel removed properly, even ice (for drinks) made from the local water, or a custard made of un-homogenized raw milk from the local cows, or any number of things.  His moans and groans were keeping Ted and Muti awake.

Somewhere around 5 a.m., Muti took it upon himself to go over to the main ship, awaken Tariq Pasha, and asked him to call a doctor.

Within minutes, Tariq was standing beside the bed where Gerry was lying. Tariq's jet-black hair was uncombed, and he was wearing nothing—absolutely nothing!— other than a pair of filmy, tan-colored running shorts, or something like that.  It was obvious that he was hung like a thick Arabian Stallion, even in the flaccid state.

'Perhaps Tariq and his cabin-mate, Rashid Gibrhan (one of the other three tour guides on the main ship) had been enjoying an early morning fuck,' Gerry thought.

Oh, how Gerry wanted to reach out and, at least ATTEMPT to swallow the source of some hot local nectar that might stop the runs.  'At least I can dream, can't I?' he again asked to no one in particular.

Tariq left for a few moments and quickly returned, the Asp in his shorts seeming more plump than before.  "The doctor will be here soon," he announced.

From his prone position on the bed, and from Tariq's nearness, Gerry could see just the naked tip of the humongous head of Tariq's cock beneath his shorts.  A clear drop of viscous fluid clung to the thick, uncircumcised glans.

'Too soon,' Gerry thought, pushing away his desire to suck on that succulent morsel in front of him.  'If it takes my being sick to keep Tariq here, I don't want to get well.  Yeah, sure, he wouldn't want my shitty ass right now, but I'd love to suck that thick Egyptian antibiotic out of him for as long as I could.  What a way to go!'

Within no more than fifteen minutes, Dr. Shafiq Qaderi arrived, and after examining Gerry's tattoo, found it to be clean and clear—there was no infection.  Then he gave Gerry a shot of strong antibiotic, and a prescription for another to be taken, one tablet four times a day for three days.  THAT would clear up the dysentery.

For the 'house call' to the boat (at such an ungodly hour), and for the injection and prescription, he only charged the equivalent of twenty-five American dollars.  He recommended that Gerry have nothing but unseasoned white rice, bread and tea for the day—no butter, jelly or anything else on the bread.

Gerry slept most of the morning and much of the afternoon while Ted and Muti joined the group from the main ship and toured the Valleys of the Kings and Queens and other archaeological sites on the west bank. http://www.touregypt.net/featurestories/westbank.htm

Rashid, the waiter, twice brought bowls of rice and the recommended bread and tea, each time with shit-eating grins.  Not speaking English, he had no way to communicate with Gerry.  Well … he COULD have DONE something, but, apparently knowing Gerry's 'condition', Rashid dared not venture into THAT.  No telling what kind of dirty mess THAT might have insured.

Day 9:  December 21

The next day was basically a 'Free Day' with no tours planned, and as Gerry was feeling much better, Muti suggested that the three of them take a launch over to Old Thebes on the west bank.

For a change, he borrowed a shirt and a pair of trousers from Ted, who was nearer his size.  Of course, he went commando, his maleness bulging down his left thigh.

"Sex-y!" Ted and Gerry exclaimed in unison.

Muti blushed, then removed his ever-present, dark brown 'dog collar', about an inch-and-a-half tall, studded with creamy-colored stone pyramids.

Ted and Gerry, both, looked surprised.  Gerry asked, "You've been able to take the collar off all this time, but you left it on?"

Muti nodded.

Ted leaned closer, examining Muti's neck.  "And your skin is no paler UNDER the collar than anywhere else?  How's that?"

Muti interlaced his fingers and held his hands next to his stomach, tapping his thumbs together.  He was looking down at nothing in particular, and then raised his eyes looking back and forth between his friends.  "I only wear it when … my Master … requires it," he answered with a bit of hesitation.  "And today, it would be better for me NOT to be seen with a slave's collar.  I'll just look like another tourist and no one will take objection to my being there.  But let's go get the launch and head across the river;  there are some things I want to show you."

Obviously, Muti didn't want to continue the previous conversation, so, the subject was dropped … for the time being, at least.

Soon, the launch docked at Old Thebes.  They hired a car and took off for several off-the-beaten-path sites that most tourists never see, with Muti acting as their own private tour guide.  Again, he had taken the trusty backpack with cameras, canteens of water, and a few more wrapped and sealed candy bars and other munchies they'd picked up from a street vendor.

After several hours, they returned the hired car, had lunch at the only 'safe' hotel on the west bank, and then walked a few blocks to a camel vendor.  Yes, that's right—a camel vendor.

"Ali, my friend.  Blessings of Allah upon you," Muti said in English, seeing a handsome young man leaning against a scraggly ol' camel.

Ali looked surprised.  "Muti?  MUTI?  Is that you?" he asked after a stunned moment.

Muti nodded. 

"And blessings of Allah be upon YOU!"

They both salaamed to each other and cheek-kissed as was common practice, and then began speaking in Arabic.  Muti said something.  Ali looked at Ted and Gerry and nodded his head in understanding.  And then Muti switched back to English, making introductions between the three.  They shook hands in greeting.

"So … you want to go on camel ride? Ali asked.

"I'mmmmm … not so sure," Gerry replied.  "I've never been on a camel before.
 

"Easy," Ali said, grinning.  "Nothing to it.  You enjoy.  I go with you."

Muti began laughing.  "We'll have fun," he chuckled.

There, before them, were four, nearly solid white, Dromedary (one-humped, Arabian), as opposed to Bactrian (two-humped, north-east Asian) camels, resting upright on the ground, their legs folded beneath them.

"What's that?" Ted asked, pointing to a black cord wrapped around each of the front legs of the nearest camel.

"That is Igal," Ali answered, ever so confident.

"The Badawi [Bedouin] have used camels for centuries," Muti added.  "In the desert, away from an oasis, there are no posts to harness the camels to, and no stables to keep them in, at night, to keep them from running away.  And the cord that sits on top of the head and holds the Ghutra—the triangular-shaped scarf used as a headdress by many men—is also an Igal [Egal, Agal].  The Badawi learned to use the Igal to bind the upper and lower legs together.  Once down and bound like this," he indicated the animal's knee, "the camel is forced to stay where he is, because he can't UN-bend his knee and stand up."

"That's brilliant," Gerry said.

"And …" Muti went on, "… it keeps the Ghutra from flying off or blowing away during a sandstorm."

"A very useful gadget," Ted commented.

"Gadget???" Muti and Ali asked.

"Oh;  sorry," Ted apologized.  "A tool … a thing … a useful … something."  His words were uncertain and his hands were waving about with no meaning.

At Ali's suggestion, Gerry, Ted, and Muti mounted up, a relatively easy task to do when the camel is resting on bended knee.  The camel saddles were tooled in fine camel leather, each with two horns, one in front, one in back—as opposed to one horn on western horse saddles—and the blankets and tassels were in strong colors with intricate Arabic filigree and script woven into the borders.

Ali removed the Igals and hung them on the front horns of each saddle, and instructed Ted and Gerry to grab onto BOTH horns as the camels began to stand.  "And hold on tight!" he forewarned them.  "If you don't, you can easily fall off, not to mention, damage your man-parts," he said, groping himself.

Mounting his own camel, he called out, "Hut-hut!  Hut-hut!", and the camels began to rise.

First their asses rose, straightening their rear legs.  The Americans gave loud, stunned responses as they nearly fell off, but adjusted their seats and stayed on.  And then the camels righted their front legs—grunting and snorting as they did so—standing to their full height.

"Hut-hut!  Hut-hut!", again came Ali's command, leading their little caravan out of town.  He was followed by Ted, then Gerry, and Muti brought up the rear.

It wasn't long before they were away from Old Thebes and on their way up a hill going toward the Valleys of the Kings and Queens, though that was not their destination.

'Pharaohs and their royal entourages have walked—or been carried across—these very sands,' Gerry thought to himself.  He'd never felt happier in all his life.

The camels plodded along, rocking from side to side.  Like few other animals, they move both legs of one side of their bodies at the same time, then the two from the other side are likewise moved in unison.  For this reason, the occurring motion has caused them to be called the 'Ships of the Desert', and it's easy for a new rider to become 'seasick'.  Ted came close to the ailment, but Muti talked him through it, keeping his mind on other things.

At the top of the hill, they stopped for a few moments so that Gerry and Ted could enjoy the expanse of ancient vistas, even looking down into the touristy hustle and bustle of busloads of people visiting the Valley of the Kings itself.

"We go this way … over to left," Ali directed.  Off in the distance could be seen the barren, shifting sand dunes of the stark Sahara Desert.  "We go to little oasis."

"We're going out THERE?" Ted asked.

"Yes," Muti replied.  "Ali and I have been out there many times."

"Not big oasis," Ali added.  "Just five date trees and little well of water.  Very pretty.  Very … what is the word?" he asked Muti.

"Private," came the answer.

"Yes," Ali grinned an evil smile, licking his lips.

Ted and Gerry looked at each other, a smile growing across Ted's face, a frown across Gerry's as his hand moved back to rub his tattoo.

Within the half hour, the little caravan had left the hills and was rocking across the seemingly endless expanse of nothing but golden-tan sand dunes.  The afternoon December sun was blazing, having burned off the chill of the morning.  The four men were sweating, and beneath his gauze bandage, Gerry was itching.

Now riding side by side, Ted seemed to notice Gerry's uncomfortable state.  "You okay, babe?  Wanna go back?" he asked softly.

Muti and his camel moved up beside them.

"No, I'm all right," Gerry replied, rubbing his back once more.  "It's tolerable, but I'm beginning to feel like Peter O'Toole must have felt in the movie, 'Lawrence of Arabia'."

Ted chuckled, then said, "Sorry.  I shouldn't be laughing."

Adding some levity to the situation, Gerry said, "I just wish I were wearing that gauzy outfit the Arabs gave him when they finally accepted him as their leader.  I loved that outfit."

"You'd look good in it, Babe," Ted commented with a wink.

Overhearing this, Muti raised one eyebrow and lowered the other.

Up one side and down the other of the countless, dull, uninteresting, sand dunes, the four eventually came to the little oasis.

"Ali…" Gerry asked, "how the hell can you find this little place in all this damned desert?"

Ali squinted his eyes and looked at him with a stern expression for a moment and then answered by saying, "We Arabs and camels plenty smart.  Camels smell water from great distance."  A moment later, his burst of chuckles caused the other three to break into laughter.

"Tut-tut!" Ali said to his camel, once they were in the shade of the trees.

Slowly, the animal kneeled to its front knees and then lowered its rear.

"Tut-tut!" the other three followed Ali's example, and soon they were able to stand on the palm-frond-littered ground.

"Ahhh, feels nice to be able to stand up for a change," Gerry said, his hand pressing against his lower back.

Muti was helping Ali to throw a cord over a date-laden frond ten-to-fifteen feet off the desert floor.  Several throws later and both ends were finally within reach.  Ali jerked the cord three or four times and several dozen dates fell from the bunch.  He picked up a handful and offered them to the other three men.

Seeing Muti and Ali enjoying the fruit, Gerry and Ted each tried one.

"Delicious!" Ted exclaimed.

"Damn right!" Gerry agreed.

They all gathered handfuls and began munching on one of the oldest and most sacred food sources in the world.

The camels had risen from their kneeling and moved to eat some of the young fronds around the base of one of the trees.

"Won't they run away?" Ted asked—always the inquisitive one.

"No," Ali replied.  "Camel is like dog … always stay near master."

"Well … dogs don't ALWAYS stay near their masters," Gerry ventured to say.  Ted nodded his head in agreement.

"Well, guys, I gotta pee," Gerry changed the subject.

"Me, too," the other three echoed.

"Water a tree," Muti advised, and at that Gerry and Ted headed to one tree as Muti and Ali headed toward another.

Muti leaned in close to Ali and began softly speaking in Arabic.  Ali looked back toward Gerry and Ted, then said something to Muti.

After the trees had been sufficiently 'watered', Ali spoke to Ted and Gerry.

"You lucky you have Ali for guide," he tapped himself on the chest.

"Why's that?" they asked.

"They … not all, but some … bring tourists to desert, then demand pay again before take back to town."

"NO!  That's highway robbery!" they exclaimed.

"Yes, is true … but IS done," came the response.  "But Muti is friend.  Muti pay before come here.  Ali not cheat."

"Glad to hear that," Gerry said, a little shocked.

"You didn't have to do that, Muti;  we could've pay…" Ted began saying.

"It has been taken care of, my friends," Muti didn't let Ted finish.

"Yeah," Gerry scowled.  "Probably by … you know who."

"It's all right, Ger," Ted said.  "If he wants to spend his money on us … then let him.  I think it's very nice of him."

"Arrrrrgh!"  Gerry said disgustedly.

Ted just looked at him and shook his head, not saying anything.

The atmosphere suddenly seemed strained.  No one seemed to know what to say.  Ali gave a questioning look to Muti.  Muti just shook his head and raised his hand a little, silently telling Ali not to go there.

Ted went to pick up another handful of dates.

Gerry said, "Can we go back now?  My back's starting to hurt again," he complained.

The mood had broken.

<><><> 

Back aboard The Luxor, Gerry, Ted, and Muti showered away the desert sand and dust.  Once dry, Muti and Ted applied more petroleum jelly and gauze bandage to Gerry's lower back.  It had only been two days since the tattooing, but it was healing nicely, scabs had even begun to form.

They dressed for dinner—Muti, this time, borrowing more of Ted's clothes—and then went into The Luxor's Dining Salon for a simple sandwich and a small dessert and drink before an evening of surprises from Muti, himself.  They were not alone, even at the early hour—the four men-in-gray were there.

Even on the small paddle wheeler, Gerry and Ted's paths had not crossed with the McAllister brothers since that first afternoon, but the silent men-in-gray seemed always to be around.  With their attached hoods drawn up over their heads, even covering most of their dark brown, chocolate-colored faces, they were a strange, mysterious foursome.  They looked like they might belong to some weird religious order.

For some unknown reason, Gerry felt uncomfortable whenever he saw them.  The color of what little skin Gerry could see, didn't bother him—he'd had some quite enjoyable experiences with several 'men of color'—but the more he noticed them, the more he was reminded of the horrifying scare he'd experienced at Dr. Bzuzu Ungudamu's home in Sausalito, California, in the early 1950's.  He would never forget that night, and he felt, at times, that there just might be some connection between the foursome and the gigantically hung anesthesiologist and his so-called 'playroom downstairs'.  [See Part III 'Go West, Young Man; Go West']

While they were eating, Ted asked, "So, Muti … just what IS this surprise you've got up your sleeve for us tonight?"

" 'Up my sleeve'?" he wondered aloud, looking up the sleeve-cuffs of the shirt he was wearing.

Gerry and Ted chuckled, and Ted apologized, "Sorry.  That's another English/American expression."

"Oh," was all of Muti's simple reaction.

"I meant," Ted continued, "what's the surprise you've been keeping from us all day?  And while you're at it … pray tell when you had time to arrange it."

Muti grinned like a Cheshire cat, albeit an English one at that.  He then looked at Ted and asked, "Remember when we went to the bazaar … without our tattooed friend, here?"

Ted nodded, saying, "Yes."

"Well, while you were … uhhh … SNOOPING … around one of the shops, I found a … uhhh … do you know the Turkish word 'kiushk'?"

"No," Gerry and Ted said.

"In French, it's 'kiosque'."

Marveling at his knowledge of lauguages, Gerry chuckled and changed the subject.  "Just how many languages do you speak, Muti?"

"Just two.  Arabic and English, but there is quite a bit of foreign influence here in Egypt."

"Yes," Ted replied, "but this 'kiosque' … is that the same as 'kiosk'?"

"Yes.  Yes.  Hearing it, now I remember," Muti happily answered, rapidly nodding his head.  But back to your question.  I found a … kiosk … selling theater tickets…"

"Theater tickets … here in Luxor?" Gerry asked with great surprise in his voice.

"Yes, we have a wonderful theater here, but tonight's show is outside … within the Temple of Luxor, itself…" he stopped, then said, "I hope you like opera."

Ted shrugged his shoulders and said, "Never been to one."

Gerry said only, "I like SOME of it, but not all of it.  What's the show?"

"Aida," Muti beamed.  "About an Egyptian general and an Ethiopian slave girl, and part of the story takes place in the Temple of Luxor."  He was exuberant in his telling.  "And it's going to be sung in Arabic rather than in Verdi's original Italian."

"Sounds wonderful," exclaimed Gerry.

"I think I'm really going to enjoy it," Ted agreed.  You think we should wear out tuxedos?  We brought them just in case something like this might come up."

Muti looked a little disappointed and, after a thoughtful moment, said, "If you want to, that will be fine, but with it being sung in Arabic, there will be many local people there in ordinary galabeyahs.  I should wear mine also, but then I could not sit with you."

Gerry reached across the table and took Muti's hand in his own.  Softly, he said, "Then we won't wear them, Muti.  We three are friends, and we'll dress so we can all sit together.  Won't we, Ted?"

"Abso-fuckin'-lutely!" Ted said, taking Muti's other hand.

Muti's eyes glistened.  He was close to tears.

"What's wrong?" Ted and Gerry asked.

Muti just looked down at the plate in front of him.  He barely shook his head.  "I shouldn't say this, but … I really like you guys…"

"And we like you, Muti," Gerry said.

"And no one's ever…"  His face contorted, his eyes squeezed shut.  Withdrawing his hands from theirs, he wiped his eyes with the table napkin, and as he rose from his seat, he said, "Excuse me, please."  And with that, he rushed to the stateroom.

"Wait!" said Gerry.

"Wait!" said Ted.

But Muti kept on going.

"Something's wrong," said Gerry.

Immediately he and Ted got up from the table and rushed after him.  Entering the room, they looked around but didn't see him.  They called, but there was no answer.

Ted saw a movement out the sliding glass door.  "There he is—out on the deck."  In a flash, they were standing either side of Muti.  He was looking down into the easy undulation of 'Mother Nile'.  They each put an arm around him—Ted, his shoulders, and Gerry, his waist.

"What's wrong, Babe?" Gerry asked affectionately.

Hearing the term of endearment that was usually reserved for himself, Ted glanced at Gerry, and after a second, nodded his head in approval.

"I'm sorry to have ruined your little dinner, but…"

"But what?" Ted asked.

 "I'm scared," was his simple but truthful answer.

"Scared of what?" Gerry asked.

Looking at Ted, Muti answered slowly, "I'm scared … that when you guys leave …" then he directly looked at Gerry;  "… I'll never see you again."

Gerry and Ted looked at each other and then back to Muti.  It was Gerry who spoke first.  "Well, this IS a vacation for us … or holiday … or honeymoon…"

"… whatever," Ted interjected.

"But you'll only be here for ten more days," Muti argued.

"That's a day more than we've already been here," Gerry gently argued.

"I know … and it's not long enough."

The daylight had almost disappeared, but at that very moment, a three-tiered cruise boat, The River Queen, blew its horn, announcing it's passing.  Gerry, Ted, and Muti, with their arms around each other, watched as the ship began to pass.  The longer they watched, the more their mouths fell open.  They couldn't believe what they were seeing. 

The forty or fifty men on the observation deck were … NUDE!  Or most of them were, anyway.  All ages and all colors.  None appeared to be juveNILE.  Some wore only slave collars.  Some wore only black harnesses and jock straps that looked like leather.  Some had black whips draped down their naked chests.  Many were seductively dancing to loud disco music.  Others were bumping and grinding against their partners, while a few, standing at the railing—waving to Gerry, Ted, and Muti—seemed to be getting fucked, even in their upright position with their legs spread wide, by the men in the rear.  And another few were on their knees, hands clasped behind their back, getting their mouths stuffed.

The three waved back to the revelers.  They looked at each other, grinned, turned slightly, and enjoyed a three-way kiss with their hands on the others' asses.  They knew some of the men on the Queen could see them as well.

The whoops, hollers, whistles, and shouts from the Queen were loud, vulgar, and boisterous.

Suddenly, the sounds of horns and whistles and sirens from three speeding Tourist Police Boats were almost upon them.  Gerry, Ted, and Muti immediately broke their playful but passionate embrace, each of them now tenting the trousers they wore.

"You guys sure you want to go to the opera?" Muti asked.

Ted and Gerry looked into each other's eyes as if reading the other's mind.  "Yeahhhhh," they said together.

Ted began, "We can come back here…"

"… for an after theater … snack!" Gerry finished.

Pity the Registry and owners of The River Queen and its obviously 'different' tourist group, but it DID bring Muti back up to a happier attitude, considering …

To be continued...

["Aida" had it's World Premiere in 1871 in the Cairo Opera House, and was first performed at the Temple of Luxor in 1987.] 

See: http://www.saudiaramcoworld.com/issue/198704/aida.at.luxor.htm

Comments welcome, please drop the author a note: 

Posted: 01/23/09