If there was an audience (and there usually was an audience, since almost fifty men slept in our messdeck in an area the size of a one-bedroom apartment) then his moans would be particularly loud with gasps and throaty pleas of '"Harder, harder!!"' and '"Oh, yeah, do it, do it harder, oh yeah! Oh!!"', the watchers responding with cheers and slurpy, wet kisses. But on the rare times when the messdeck was deserted, when everyone was ashore on a Sunday afternoon, or watching a movie in the cafeteria while the ship was on winter manoeuvers, when we were totally alone with just the possibility of someone flying down the hatchway ladder at any moment, on those rare times I rubbed the oil into Casey's back with the most tender strength I could muster.
The rarest of those times was the last time. It was February. They were showing 'Psycho' in the cafeteria. We swayed slowly together, countering the roll of the ship as I worked on his back -- almost like dancing. I basked in his heat, my chest on fire from accidently rubbing against him.
"You ever been in love?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," I replied.
"Me too. Not easy, is it?"
"No. No, it's not."
"Here, I'll show you." He opened his locker; the hinges of the aluminum door shrieked and popped in protest. His uniforms hung razor-creased, immaculate; not at all like mine. He carefully lifted a small colour photograph out of a pocket concealed in his wallet. He twisted his arm behind him, the photo in his hand, holding it away from his glowing, gravelly skin, away from the oil. "What do you think?" he asked.
I refused to focus my eyes. The photograph smelled of leather and sweat. "Beautiful. You're lucky."
"Yeah. She's meeting the ship in Vancouver. Maybe you could take our picture, this one's not so good."
"I've got lots of film," I said. "I'll take as many as you want." He flinched; my hands had suddenly turned cold.
That night as he slept, I watched him as if for the first time. I talked to him, my words instantly sucked into the electric motor. I told him that I loved him. I told him I would never love anyone again. I told him that I hated him, that he had betrayed me, and I would never let anyone betray me again. I begged him to let me touch him, to hold him, to kiss him just once. I thought of all that might have been, and lost myself to fantasy.
I imagined wrapping my arms tightly around him, trying to become him. He awakes with a smile, embraces me and crushes my face to his rough, sweaty chest. His salt in my mouth is more thrilling than any salt on any wind in any storm which has merely blown from China. Then our clothes miraculously disappear and he pulls my head lower. And lower. Then I struggle for breath. There is fur in my mouth. Someone is laughing. I open my eyes; they are streaming with tears.
Peter is kneeling beside me, holding my hand and
grinning delightedly. "God, you should see yourself!
Laughing and crying and carrying on in the most
scandalous way!" He scoops Casey off my chest and hugs
him. "You guys havin' a wild session together, eh,
Case? Two old flea-bags sleepin' on the living room
floor!"
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