Virgin Opportunities
I traveled to the Virgin Islands several times during the 1970s and 80s. Since I was usually there on business, I was careful not to party very much. Gay life was kind of subdued there anyway. If you know St. Thomas, then you know there are basically two streets in the center of town, a front street and a back street, each extending only a short distance. Well, on the back street there is a gay bar. Or at least there was twenty five years ago. I heard about it, and went to check it out on one trip. There were two levels to this bar, an upper mixed tourist bar, and a dance-bar below. I never got downstairs, but while drinking at the upstairs bar, I met a young guy who turned out to be an American sailor.
The sailor was very friendly, and after a while it began to occur to me that maybe he thought that we would be having sex. I could hardly believe it, because he was at least twenty years younger than I and great looking. He was compact, maybe 5'8'' or so, with dark hair, and a wide smile. He was not in uniform but was wearing tight cotton shorts and a tank top. I was in an extremely careful stage at this point, and would mainly visit gay bars for the ambiance, and to be with gay people. I wasn't looking for sex, was actually afraid to have sex with strangers, and I almost always went back to my hotel alone. During my travels there were a few exceptions to this cautious behavior, and I have written about some of them in other episodes. But they were the exception. Usually I was strong enough to resist temptation, and would remain on the fringes of gay life, just peering in from the outside.
This sailor tried my resolve mightily. His easy manner and terrific looks made it hard for me not to think of us together sexually. But what would he want with me? Is he some kind of hustler? Or worse, one of those guys who attack and rob gays? Well, it is true that there isn't much to choose from here. A sailor with a few hours of shore leave. There are maybe eight or ten people in the bar. The downstairs dance-bar hasn't opened yet. The sailor is touching my arm, and once in a while, he puts a hand on my bare knee (I am also wearing shorts.) I am enjoying this and return the familiarity, with light touches as we exchange stories and laugh. He tells me that the guys on his ship do not know that he is gay, and it is sometimes hard for him to get away without his buddies from the ship. He usually manages to find some excuse though, and goes off alone in search of a gay spot in many of the ports where his ship docks. Now, he is pleased that he found a gay beach and a gay bar on St. Thomas. He spent the afternoon at the gay beach and looks forward to returning there. I tell him that I am not looking for a partner for the evening, just so he doesn't get any ideas. (Why did I say that? Asshole ! Kind of presumptuous and insulting. Well, I guess that the electricity in the air between us was making me nervous and I had to put an end to the possibility of anything happening.)
He smiles an easy smile, and touches me on the leg, leaving his hand there. I get suspicious. What is going on here? Why is he pressing this, when I just told him I'm not interested? But he's not. He's just saying goodby.
"Well, then I think that I'll go downstairs and check that place out. It should be open by now." And soon he's gone.
I sit at the bar and wonder what just happened. I have another drink, observe the passing scene and then drift outside. It is about an hour or so after the sailor and I had parted. On the street I see my sailor friend, weaving drunkenly, accompanied by another man. The guy he's with is not attractive, younger than me but not in the same league as the sailor. I think that the sailor doesn't realize what a prize he is. We greet each other, and then they go off together.
Not ready to call it a night, I try another place in town that I hear is "mixed." It is a hotel bar, but very casual with an easygoing native feel. I order a drink and am soon joined by one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen. Or maybe just my quintessential type. If you remember Tab Hunter when he was very young, like in "Damn Yankees," you can get a picture of the type. But better. Or does anybody remember Troy Donahue, another film star from the past? Well, like him, but better. A little of the swagger of Paul Newman, and the pretty-boy charm of Christopher Atkins, the kid who was in "The Blue Lagoon." A little bit like each of them. But better. A combination of all of them, plus the naughtiness of those gorgeous looking California beach boys sometimes featured in gay porn videos.
So anyway, it's a stand-up bar, and we're standing there and talking, and I ask him what he does. It's hard to concentrate on what he is saying; I am so dazzled by his good looks. His sun streaked blond hair is falling tousled over his forehead. His perfect teeth are smiling at me from his movie star caliber face. I look down, feeling a little flustered. But what's this? He's not wearing any shoes! Well, it is a very casual native-type bar. But his feet are not only bare they are filthy. I mean really black as though he was working in a coal mine. I study him more carefully. His facial perfection distracted me from the fact that he is wearing dirty white pants, with frayed bottoms, and his t shirt is faded and torn.
He is giving me a long answer to my question about what he does for a living.
"Well, I do a little teaching. I teach scuba and snorkeling. And sometimes I fix boats. And sometimes I work part-time as a cook at a beach restaurant. And so I like , uh, manage...And I do a little, uh, hustling, you know, ...sometimes, if the right person comes along. Just once in a while, you know, when I need some extra bread."
Tony, get the fuck out of here. You are in serious danger of emptying your pockets for the most gorgeous guy you will ever meet.
"Umm, ya know, it's been great talkin' to you, but I'm beat. Gotta go now. Take care, pal."
"Oh, sure, babe. I'm here a lot, if you change your mind." Eyes sparkle, teeth sparkle, and I swallow hard and turn tail to get out of there. Well, why should I pay for it, when I could have had that good looking sailor for nothing, I'm thinking. Anyway, I'll have some nice fantasy images when I jerk off in my lonely hotel bed tonight.
The following night I'm back at the first bar. It's much more crowded than the previous night. There are four or five guys, all obviously friends, hanging near the end of the bar where I sit. They laugh and joke and goof with each other. One guy has his arms around another from the rear, and is pretend dry humping him. The humpee leans back into his friend's crotch, encouraging him, but in a fun, not a lustful way. I order a drink, and all of the guys are looking at me. A new face in town. Not accustomed to this degree of attention or scrutiny, I am feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable. I try to look invisible, and stare down toward the other end of the bar. After a drink, I am less uncomfortable, and I begin to return some of the stares I'm getting. Can't believe that this crowd is interested in me; there musn't be much "turnover" of new meat on this island I'm thinking. Maybe I'm imagining it; maybe they're looking at somebody else, or maybe my fly is open, or maybe... no at least two of the guys are definitely cruising me. One of them is about 30 years old, overweight, and has a cute round pink face. He is wearing tight khaki shorts that he shouldn't be wearing. The second one is older, medium height and weight and ordinary looking. He's maybe 40 years old. The older one turns to a third guy in the group and whispers something. All three look over at me, and laugh. This is starting to piss me off. But it wasn't a mean type laugh, so I don't really think that they are making fun of me. I walk over to them, and ask what's funny. I ask it with a smile on my face like I just want to laugh too. The heavy guy looks embarrassed as his older friend explains to me that he had said that Hank had the hots for "the Turk." It turns out that the group was trying to guess my nationality, and two of them had agreed that I look like I might be a middle eastern type of some sort. I love middle eastern food, the chubby one had said, which provoked the earlier laughter. And so they had taken to referring to me as "the hot Turk." I was flattered. I sure had never caused such a commotion in a NY bar, or any other place that I could recall. As the night wears on, I get to know all of them a little bit, and could have probably had my pick. Yeah, these guys were pretty desperate. I like the heavy guy and we sort of pair off. He is an actor of sorts, and has been in "a number of films, in small parts." His most recent claim to fame is that he was in a crowd scene in the Bette Midler film, The Rose. I like Midler, and I saw the film, and so I'm interested in hearing all of the behind the scenes stuff about the making of the film. Hank tells me that it was a fun experience and that Bette was nice to everybody, even the extras like him.
Hank and I hold hands and pet and grope a little, discreetly. When it comes down to the moment of truth, I chicken out as usual. I say goodnight to all the guys and head back to my hotel room, alone, yeah, like a virgin.
Before undressing for bed, I look at myself in the mirror. Damn, I look pretty good. I had finished work early that day and got some more beach time in. I had a healthy looking dark tan, with a rosy glow to it (like a hot Turk) and my white native-style Guyabera shirt, (two buttons open), and white cotton slacks, accented the contrast, making me look even darker. I caressed my chest as I removed my shirt and blew myself a kiss in the mirror. I laughed at my shenanigans as I bathed in the lovely warmth of feeling attractive. Maybe those few days in St. Thomas was "my prime," the time when I looked my best. Or maybe because I felt that I was attractive, I behaved in a happy and content way, adding to the attractiveness. Anyway, I've never felt quite like that again.