The Penis Behind my Eyelids
Since I first started pressing my naked body against other naked men – which, for the record was around five years ago and far before any of my family knew (hi Mum!) – I’ve never really gone more than a few weeks without doing so. I often have to hold back on giggling when straight lads puff their gorilla chest out and brag on about how they’ve fucked 35 chicks. Dudes – the fact that you can count means you don’t have the right to brag. In short, I’ve had a lot of sex. And no – I’m not bragging, I’m just telling the truth and elaborating on the fact that I’m gay.
Last year I took a mandatory “find myself” journey to India with two of my German girl friends. Whilst discovering many other important things about myself, i.e. how lucky I was to not live in a slum et cetera, I also finally came to terms with the fact that I was an extremely sexual being and found it hard to focus on anything other than gonads after going two weeks without having some in, on or around me.
We’d been on the road for about four weeks when we arrived in Goa. After a month of catching countless trains and buses, I was so looking forward to doing nothing other than beaching by day and getting hammered by night. I’d assumed my gal pals were on the same page, so when they suggested that we make an overnight trip on a bumpity bus to see the historic village of Hampi, I was extremely taken aback. I flat out refused to partake in the journey and decided to instead drink beers on the beach. I had become what I always hated: an uncultured Australian who travels to poverty-stricken destinations and doesn’t leave their posh resort or the natives they take advantage of. To be fair on myself, the “resort” I was staying in consisted of four beach huts that had holes in both the roof and the floor, an outdoor bathroom and a litter of street puppies that were riddled with fleas (cute though, and the fleas didn’t stop me from playing with them).
After the girls left, I headed straight for the beach. I laid on a sun lounge, courtesy of the beach shack where I purchased my bevvy, and tried to zone out into a Hare Krishna state of consciousness. As I was lulling off, that all-familiar image of a penis appeared behind my eyelids.
“Go away! Plz!” I told my conscience. But he didn’t listen. I skulled the rest of my beer and ran back to the “resort” to do my business.
After releasing my fluids into a sock, I walked out of my beach hut and saw a 40ish year old man sitting in the communal outdoor area giving me “the eyes”, which for those of you who don’t know anything about gay world is when two queers lock eyes and know at that point the other is queer. Yeah, its kind of like a sixth sense, and no you can’t have the sense if you aren’t queer; never listen to a fag hag when she says she can pick a gay guy – she’s probably pretty good at it but she doesn’t have the magic in her. Anyway, I’d established that there was another homosexual staying in the “resort” and the fact that he was middle aged didn’t mean anything to my sexless self. I sat beside him and introduced myself. His name was Rami, a 36-year-old web designer from Tel Aviv.
We chatted for hours, went to the beach for a swim and then had dinner together at a cliff side restaurant which played the Hare Krishna mantra on repeat for the entirety of our stay. All in all a random yet delightful experience. Even though the reason I spoke to Rami in the first place was because I’d sixth-sensed his homosexuality, we were yet to have the talk. I had been so engrossed in his extremely interesting life stories I’d totally forgotten about that always-reappearing penis behind my eyelids. But wait, I thought, how could I spend a whole day with another gay man and not have the talk? Had my sixth-sense gone haywire after being abstinent for a month? Was I infatuating over – dare I say – a straight man?
When we arrived back at the “resort”, we sat on a bench and played with the flea-riddled puppies. I was wigging out about the whole gay-straight situation and couldn’t find a way to ask him the truth without turning the state of affairs from happy-go-lucky to totally-awkward. Then out of nowhere he placed his hand on my upper leg and looked into my eyes, “May I?”
We pashed. Delicious. I got an insta-boner and started to work on his bod (obviously), but he pushed me away.
“I have to tell you something before we do anything else. I am HIV positive.”
Omg. Dibby Dampner on the evening 101. I was, at this point, so torn. Should I take the risk and relieve myself from my month long abstinence, or should I be safe and go back to my room and the crusty sock instead?
As much as it pained me, I opted for the crusty sock. Rami totally understood, and instead of penetrating each other, we cuddled on his bed and he told me about a whole new side of his life with which I was equally as engrossed in as the rest. Turns out he is the face of HIV and AIDS prevention and awareness in Israel and the Middle East and is helping to save tonnes of people from becoming infected every year. What a legend! Not only a web designer but also a G-list celebrity! I was proud of my new found friendship with Rami. I’d learned so much and opened my mind to a life so totally different from mine. Turns out I didn’t really spend any of my time in Goa stuck in the “resort” or taking advantage of locals. I did drink a fair bit of beer, but at least it was in the company of someone new and interesting. I gave Rami a kiss goodnight and headed back to my hut. I laid in bed content with how I’d spent my time without the girls while they ventured to Hampi, then rolled the crusty sock over my shaft.