from The Inferno BBS
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BRAZILIAN BULIMIA by Zipper Bird xgort@yahoo.com
Recife, Brazil 1977
Heat rose from the pavement in rippling waves, as yet another arena that resembled a spaceship came into view. Stopping at the stage entrance, the tired "artistes" (as it said on our passports) streamed into the building, as the huge compressor droned loudly in the background. Several people were mad that a rehearsal had been called during our third day after arriving in a new city.
We drifted through rehearsal like zombies. Some skaters were in their third year with the production, doing the same steps every evening. I asked Liz, my partner in the cha-cha sequence of the Opening, a "Salute to Fred Astaire," what she was thinking about during the number. She wore a "show smile" and all, but her eyes looked glassy up close, like she was present only in body.
"I think about what to eat for dinner," Liz said, giving me her real smile.
After four months with the show, I had developed a "show smile" too. It consisted of grinning to show all my teeth, top and bottom. When I smiled naturally, I didn't show enough teeth and would get corrections from the performance director that I wasn't smiling enough. Even though my smile was faked during the cha-cha, I still thought about doing the step with expression, trying to be debonair -- like Fred Astaire.
During the performances, no doubt most of the girls were thinking about food.
They were weighed every month and if their weight went up, they got fined and publicly humiliated by having their name appear on a blackboard. "JENNY - OVERWEIGHT - $20."
If their weight went up too much, their costumes had to be let out, thus incurring the wrath of the wardrobe mistress. Another pound or two and it was back to Saskatoon, or wherever they came from. Weight was not one of my problems. If anything, I had trouble keeping it on. Gillian put one aspect of the South American health situation this way: "There's no such thing as a normal crap here -- you're either constipated for days or its spurting out of you like a volcano."
Rehearsals were rare, but whenever a replacement was going in the show, a rehearsal was called, and it also gave the performance director a chance to bitch at us collectively. Enthusiasm for dazzling the audience was at low ebb, and the director adopted a pleading, dramatic oratory in her delivery of corrections in attempt to squeeze the last ounce of esprit de corps from the beleaguered troops. However, I doubt that there was much esprit de corps in any division of Holiday on Ice. There was a lot of professional and personal subterfuge among the eighty members that comprised our happy travelling family, and it is probably the same in all ice shows. There were a lot of groups that could clash in the show, and they did, such as: East vs. West (Half of our skaters were from Czechoslovakia and Poland, and their meager wages were heavily taxed by their government), Gay vs Straight, Women vs Men, Technical personnel vs Artistes, and Stars vs Chorus line. The latter lead the great cow-star, Trixie Schuba, who won an Olympic gold medal on the basis of her compulsory figures, to say the following to a groupie stud who was looking to pork a show girl:
"I'm a STAR -- SHE's just in the chorus," as she pointed to Leonie, a chorus girl who'd done modeling in her native Holland. He fell for that line! Maybe he was a milk man.
Aside from stuffing myself in seven different costumes, including that of Bugs Bunny, each evening, and skating the show during group rehearsals, I didn't have any time to REALLY skate. By that I mean jump and spin, so I decided to stay after and practice on this day. Jenny was going to skate with me, watch me do my layback spins, but decided to go back to the hotel. She got a "fat fine" the day before and I didn't feel like going back to the hotel with her.
In her misery she might binge and purge, and I didn't want to witness it. Besides, it was cool on the ice and I felt like skating. Although four months in the chorus line had extinguished my real lust for skating, just as my coach in Vienna said it would, I was curious to see if I could still do anything, after months of cha-cha in the chorus line.
Chris, a principal in the show, came on the ice without his sister Karin, to work on the solo he'd be doing until a departing star's replacement arrived. Chris and Karin had three pair numbers, but Chris was also a strong singles skater. They'd placed 5th in the 1976 Olympics, one place in front of Tai and Randy of the U.S. I hated them. They were Swiss, great skaters, fluent in five languages, and arrogant as hell. Chris patronized me terribly. He made a point of watching me skate when I first came in the show and told me, in so many words, that I stink, and that he could tell that I had been "taught in Vienna," so he said. The latter was absurd since my teacher in Vienna was an American. I did not skate like the Viennese.
The worst part of it was, Chris never made any attempt to know anything about me. For him, my skating said everything there was to know. After all, the show was filled with people whose greatest talent was skating. Champion skaters often assumed that if you had anything else going for you, you certainly wouldn't elect to be skating in the line of a show, at such low wages, living in an endless string of hotels.
I watched Chris practice for a while. He starting showing off a little for my benefit and I enjoyed it. Although the star's dressing rooms were separate, once I saw Chris naked and it confirmed the rumor that he was hung like a flea. There was very little in the show that was secret, including one's dick and ball statistics. It was bad enough that he had a cocky personality. If he'd been hung like Mr. Ed (a horse, of course) it would have made him unbearable.
Flea-meat and all, Chris drove me wild. He had dark curly hair and crystal blue eyes, which were too close together. His nose was a little crooked -- he probably fell on it -- and his ears stuck out. His chest was beautifully developed from pair skating and the exercises he did, and it was covered with black hair. However, it was his ass that really caused me torment. It was perfect. And the way it was connected to his body, and the way he moved on and off the ice...
I couldn't stand any more of wanting Chris. He wasn't even going to speak to me, so I decided to leave the ice and explore the empty arena, giving Chris a vicious smile on my way off the ice. After removing my skates, I headed down a dimly lit hallway and found a grand piano with a canvas cover over it. I hadn't touched a piano in 5 months, ever since leaving the conservatory in Vienna. Removing the canvas cover, I sat down to play. The action was sluggish. Everything in the tropics was damp and rotting, but this piano wasn't too bad for its high moisture content.
After playing a few portions from the Hindemith Sonata, the piece I was working on when I left the conservatory in Vienna, I tried some Debussy, feeling it might sound dreamy as the sound ricochetted off the walls and travelled down the hall. No one was around to hear, but it bothered me to realize I'd lost a little coordination in my left hand. I played "Images" by Debussy to avoid using too much left hand. Playing once again rekindled the passion I once felt for the instrument and I fell into the usual trance. I didn't notice that Chris was standing in the corner behind me, listening intently, until I finished the piece. Catching sight of him in the corner of my eye, I jumped a bit, as he put his hand on my shoulder, apologizing for having startled me.
"I didn't know... you are... you do that so well," he stammered.
"Thank you. I know my skating is wretched compared with yours, but everybody does something well, and I'm okay on piano."
Although I wasn't nearly good enough for a concert career, I loved the piano, but I also liked skating, and wanted to travel. Chris begged me to play something more for him as he drew up a chair near the piano bench and watched my fingers as I pounded through Chopin's first Etude.
"Sounds like icicles crashing to the floor of a primeval ice cave, doesn't it?" I liked to provide a metaphor for non-musicians, wondering if through suggestion, they are able to conjure up such images.
He was in awe of the sweeping arpeggios in the right hand which washed over us, rising and falling in great waves. Instead of making me nervous, his fixed attention seemed to empower me to control his feelings, and for a moment, I felt that he was connected to me through the music.
From that time on, Chris's behavior toward me changed. Gone was the hauteur in his bearing when he passed me in the hall. It took a few weeks before he could think of me as ordinary in any way and I was relieved when he finally stopped stammering in my presence. Before, I was the gay American, who didn't skate especially well, and who spoke German poorly and had even worse French.
After the afternoon of piano playing, he treated me with reverence and seemed shy and embarrassed that he'd ignored me.
The temperature in Recife rose higher, to a sticky 108 degrees. We had a free day after two weeks in Recife and the following day we would fly to Belem, near the Amazon. The hotel pool and the ocean were the only outdoor havens from the intense heat and about thirty people from the show chose the pool. Jenny was my partner in chicken fights and she used her weight to an advantage when scrapping against Gillian, who sat atop Chris's shoulders.
"Scratch her eyes out," I implored Jenny as she fought to make Gillian and Chris topple over in the water. We invariably lost. Chris, a pair skater, was used to having a women on his shoulders, and above his head at arm's length as well. His footing was sure. After three losses and a change of partner, I moved in on Chris more aggressively and tried to trip him. It still didn't work. Later, we had swimming races and I beat Jenny, Chris and several others, which upset Jenny especially, since she had been on her high school swim team back in Chicago. She excused herself to go to the hotel room, probably to have a few lady fingers, the last one being her own, down her throat.
A tall stockade fence surrounded the pool, which was a few hundred feet from the hotel. As dinner time approached, nearly everyone left. I was going to meet Jenny in our room and let her watch me eat, but wanted to give her ample time to finish with her pastry/finger routine. At rehearsal, Milos had teased Chris about being as white as a fish's underbelly so he stayed in the sun, in attempt to get some color. Soon, Chris and I were the only ones left at the pool. Chris was stretched out on the concrete, his buns sticking up.
"If only he knew what this does to me" I thought to myself. I couldn't take my eyes and mind off his perfectly formed Swiss ass, which was clearly outlined in his black bathing suit. Finally he rolled in the water and stood in the corner of the deep end, arms on the side of the pool. I dove in to cool down, as much from lust as the heat, swimming the length of the pool under water, coming up a few inches in front of him. I spat a mouth full of water in his face. He laughed but clenched his fists and braced himself in the corner of the pool, in case I did something else.
"Did you know your fuckin' ears stick out," I said, as I grabbed his ears. His eyes flashed pain. "There, now you know what it felt like when you told me my skating stinks," I said, clenching my teeth. "Besides, I like your ears -- they make me want to stick my big... well, they make me want to fu..." Afraid to finish my sentence I looked away and tried to think of something casual to say.
"Just us men here now... Why don't you take your suit off?" I reached forward and pulled his bathing suit down on both sides, right down to his knees. It caught him by surprise and he lost his hold on the side of the pool. We wrestled under the water and the rough contact gave me a raging hard-on. Having beat him in the pool race earlier in the day, Chris knew I had an advantage in the water and finally he said, "Okay, I'm sorry I said your skating stinks -- you're really a wonderful skater."
"Somehow I don't believe you mean that Chris," I said as we both stopped struggling and I allowed him to pull his suit back up. He looked embarrassed and mad too.
"You don't have to be ashamed of your little "swanzchen." Everyone knows its the smallest in the show," I said to humiliate him further, in revenge for the torture he'd caused me from the first day I laid eyes on him.
"Okay, okay, what is with you. I said you're a wonderful skater. What do I have to do to get you to like me, and stop insulting me?" he said.
Chris had a point. I had lost control. I wondered if he could have any idea what it is like to really "want" someone, and have them ignore you, or to even smirk at you.
"I want you to trust me Chris. Take your suit off and give it to me, and just stay there in the corner. Close your eyes."
Chris went along with this and I went underwater and took his cock in my mouth. He liked it and soon he had an impressive hard on. I was wrong about his cock being small. It was nice, and average.
"You gotta great cock... how does it feel?"
Chris didn't say anything and I went down again and felt his thighs and ass gently. As I came up to the surface I let my tongue drag up from his navel, around his nipples, to his waiting mouth. We kissed for several minutes.
"I've got to get inside you," as I turned him around. "The water will help."
I put my dick between his legs for a while so he'd get used to the feel of it, and then I slowly eased it in his ass hole. It was easy to find a comfortable position in the water and my thrusts sent small waves across the surface of the water. Finally, I felt power over Chris, just as I did when I was playing the piano for him. But this time I had his flesh AND his mind, or the next best thing.
THE END