THE COLOR OF bell metal:
Longer than a big man’s foot; thick as a small girl’s wrist. Veins made low relief like vines beneath the wrinkled hood. His fingers climbed the shaft, dropped to hair tight as wire, moved under the canvas flaps to gouge the sac, black as an over-ripe avocado: spilled his palm (it is a big hand); climbed the shaft again.
There is little light.
What’s here bars the shutters in gold. Water lisps and whispers outside. The cabin sways, rises. There is a wind out to sea, that means. That means here at port it is clear evening.
The dog on the floor claws the planks.
The captain’s toes spread the footboard. His chin went back and his belly made black ridges. The long head rolled on the pillow, brass ring at his ear a-flash.
The hood slipped from the punctured helmet.
The knuckles, like knots in weathered cable, flexed on him. The rhythm started with the boat’s sway. Increase: his hand and the boat syncopate. The doubled pace pulled his buttocks from the blanket. The rim of his fist beat the tenderer rim (one color with his palm). His breath got loud. It halted, and halted, and halted.
Stop action film: a white orchid from bud to bloom.
Breath regular.
Mucus drips his knuckles. Still stiff, the shaft glistens. Pearls on black wire.
“Kirsten?”
He swung his feet over the edge, his shoulders hunched (dull as cannon shot); his dirty shirt was sleeveless. Buttons: copper.
“Kirsten!”
His voice: maroons, purples, a nap between velvet and suede.
“Come down here!”
When the door cracked, he laughed.
Her hair was yellow, paler than the light. Her smock, torn at her neck, hung between her breasts. One dull aureole rose on the blue horizon. Her face moved with its laughter before she saw, “Captain, you . . .?” saw, and smothered it, to have it break again. Blue eyes widened in the half dark. “What do you want?”
She stepped on to the rug. A copper anklet sloped beneath the knob of her ankle, crossed low on her calloused heel. (Uneven hem brushes smudged knees.) A print sash bound her belly.
“Where is your brother?”
“In the wheelhouse, asleep.”
“Where were you?”
“On deck. I was sitting in the sun.”
“With the men on the docks all coming by to stare? How many with their hands in their pockets?”
“Oh . . .!”
“None of them with what I got.” He leaned back. His fingers tracked his stomach. “Come here. Tell me what’s for supper.”
“Your thoughts have gone as high as your gut, now?”
“How do you and the boy get chores done if you sleep and sun all the time?”
“But what is there to do in port?” She stepped across the rug, laughing.
He grabbed her wrist. She stumbled and he caught: “How many times!”
She pushed his chest. Her wrist turned under slippery fingers.
“Five times? Six? I’ll say seven –”
“But see, you’ve already –”
“Once already. Six more now.” He kneaded her inner thigh.
“Captain . . .!” She tried to pull away.
His hand went beneath the hem.
She shrieked and bit the sound off. What spilled after was a giggle.
“How many years have I had you two, now?” His forearm shifted like bunched blacksnakes. She tried to push his hand from under her skirt. Stopped trying.
She opened her lips and caressed his arm.
“How many years? Seven. Now, once for each year you’ve worked on my boat.” He looked down at himself.
She touched where he looked: she took it, slipping the loose skin from the head. When she fingered beneath the twice full bag, he arched his back.
“Pig. Sit on it. Little white pig . . .” Three calloused fingers were knuckle deep in her. She bent; her hair swept his face. He caught it in his yellow teeth, twisted his head. Kirsten grabbed at her hair, and made an ugly sound. His teeth opened on laughter; it and her hair spilled black lips mottled with cerise.
Barking.
Claws at wood.
Black paws and long muzzle lapped the bunk. The captain kicked the dog with his bare foot (the big chain around his ankle jangles). “Down, Niger! Down, you stupid dog!”
Down; then back, nuzzling between them: dog’s tongue. One color: Kirsten’s nipple, the dog’s tongue; the captain’s palm. Niger lapped her crotch for salt.
“Down, Niger!”
The dog barked.
Then the captain looked up: frowned.
One shutter had swung open. A woman’s face pressed the glass (dock-side of the boat), tongue caught at the corner of her mouth. Her fingers tipped the sill. Sunlight behind her exploded in loose hair, dimmed her features. Niger barked at her once more.
Her eyes shifted; she saw the captain. Her mouth opened, her palm slapped the pane, a sail of sunlight slapped the far wall: the window cleared and burned.
Niger wheeled the room, leapt on the door. It banged the hatchway wall. Claws clicked at the ladder. The door swung slowly back.
The captain: frowning. But Kirsten’s hair, brushing his neck, fell from his face like lame, swept back from hers: she had not seen.
One knee was beside his left hip, one beside his right. She swayed, pulling at her brush; dug in the lips. His head lodged. Her hair rasped the plum glans. He gasped and grabbed her head.
Her lips struck his. His mashed open and swallowed hers. His tongue troweled her teeth; her teeth opened. He licked the roof of her mouth. He pressed her neck, her shoulders. Her breasts, bared now, bulged between the black bars his fingers made.
Gold brush lowered to iron wool.
Their mouths were windy with one another’s breath. He thrust, and caught her lips in his teeth. She fell, clutching him. Tried to push away. He took her buttocks, his thumb tobogganing her, moist. He opened the wrinkled bud. She tried to block his tongue with her tongue. She failed.
He rolled with her. His knuckles scraped the wall. When she was beneath him, he braced his feet on the footboard and twisted on her. His belly slapped her. She tried to hold him in with her legs, but he pulled up, to fall, and: her fingers arched his neck, mashed his rough hair, arched. He rocked faster than the boat around them.
In stop action: an ice shard melts in a copper cup.
He lay on her. Her hair was wet to brass blades on her neck. He touched them with his tongue. Then he pushed himself up.
She gargled and reached for him. He glistened above her. (She sees him glance at the porthole, does not understand why.)
Her fingers palped the gold and coral wound.
“Two!” he panted. “Turn over.”
Her eyes were closed, her legs apart. She moved her head on the crushed blanket, hands on her stomach.
“Turn over!”
He grabbed her leg and pulled. She felt lazy, she felt hysterical. Opened her eyes as he yanked her ankle again. (Why was he staring at the porthole? The light, like blood, varnished his big lips, his flat nose, flamed on his sloping brow till rough, rough hair soaked it up.) “Owww . . .!”
Her knee struck the floor. She stretched her arms over the blanket, and rocked her face on the damp, hot wool. The smell of him: she moved her lips there, her tongue. The taste of him.
The captain breathed hard. He raised his hand, high, drew back lips and shoulder and hip.
Crack!
Her buttocks shook. Redness bloomed and faded. She gasped, then bit her tongue. His hand swung back the other way. She gasped again.
He pulled apart her cheeks, puckered his lips, and pushed out his saliva. It trailed in the discolored cleft. When the foamy tear reached the sphincter, he leaned on her. The hood peeled. Entrance, and her shoulders came up. The heat of her surprised him. He caught a breath: then let it chuckle from him as he eased. Kirsten clutched the end of the mattress. He grasped her wrists, fell. She screamed, and her back, wiggling, slid under his chest. He hissed, “Swing it.” He whispered: “That’s right, girl.” He hissed again, “Dance on that black stick, little monkey!”
Soft things slipped and broke. Something with points crumbled as he tunneled and plunged. Her buttocks mashed and spread under the blades of his pelvis. He bit her shoulder, kneaded the skin in his big teeth till it bruised burgundy.
He let go of her arm, felt under her belly. He thumbed the dry hairs; thumbed the wet. Four bunched fingers, in and in further. He spread them in her slop.
She made sounds in her chest.
He felt his swollen passage beyond her, wet and tender. His thumb, again, slipped under the thickening tab folded in the roof.
Her sounds were between simper and growl. Her smock was a wet roll at her back’s small. She heaved at him. When he withdrew, she butted up to impale. His down stroke pushed her to the bed. And again. And.
In marble: white rock crumbles from the freshet.
In the shadow his back shone. Heavy, twinned breath. Sweat ran Kirsten’s side, curved at her breast bulging out.
“. . . three,” while cooler air came between her back and his belly when he pulled –
“No! Don’t take it . . .”
He stood, panting. His shirt lay on the floor. His belt dangled at each hip. The canvas pants creased down over his buttocks. “Once more . . .”
“You’re not tired yet?” She let herself slip to her knees beside the bed. The triangle of sheet by the bunched blanket was wet. He let his knees bend, touched her back. As his hand walked on her shoulder she dropped her head back. He scratched her neck, ran his forefinger in the damp troughs of her ear. He cradled her head when she rolled it over his palm. (It is a big hand.) Her hair fell in ingots on his forearm. His fingers deviled them to cloudy snarls.
Through the closed shutter bars of light reddened the bedding. The captain reached to close the other. It swung to, the catch failed, and it swung out again. He made a fist in her hair.
“You want more?”
“. . . no,” all breathy.
“You want it!”
“But Gunner has tired me out, all this morning –” her smile a grimace as he tugged. She let her face fall against his thigh.
“Kiss it. That little dirty-face has made you hot for more. Yes? You don’t, and I’ll beat you and that little brother of yours. Kiss it all over, with your tongue.”
She swiveled her cheek on his hip. “But it’s all . . .” She slid her hand into the sweaty fold between leg and sack. “. . . all soft.”
“You make it hard.” He pushed her into it.
“And dirty!” She tried to pull away.
“It’s your dirt.”
She made muffled contest, but he pressed her face in. When he took his hand away, she didn’t pull back. Her tongue went warm in the crevice. He grinned, and fingered her hair back. She took the limp length in her hands, opened her mouth, and tongued him to the hilt hair.
“Underneath. Go down underneath. Get it all in, girl. Before it gets too big.” He moved his legs.
“There’s a lot of junk in the pockets. Tongue . . . hungry. Yeah! Be sweet to it. That’s where I like to see you. Be hungry. Be hungry and eat me. Hey, don’t back away! Take it, deep.” He brushed her distended cheek with bunched knuckles. “It’s going, yeah, down. All the way. Get ready. Yeah,” and, “Yeah . . .” and, “Oh, yeah!” He held her hair. Hardness and then soft ridges over his thrust. He swiveled to mash his hair on her mouth, till he felt her gag constrict him. He let her retreat to breathe, then filled her throat again. “Yeah . . .
“Go underneath again.” He took his shining stock in his left fist; his right pushed her down; pushed half of the sack in her mouth with his thumb.
“Tongue it. That’s good –”
He tapped her. “Watch your teeth! No nutcrackers. A little tickle.” His left fist swung the long arc, fell at her face. “Now the other one . . . fine!”
He breathed like a dog. She held his hips and rocked her face between his legs.
“In your mouth, girl. Or let me leak it on your face . . .”
She swallowed him, and felt the under tube swell down her tongue, retreat, swell again. In a geyser of black mud, a sudden eruption of white froth (Eruption . . .)
and he pushed: thrust, and gout, thrust, thrust, gout.
He held his breath, and let her fall against the bed’s edge. The black, bright length wrinkled, sagged. Her lips glistened. Her eyes were closed.
He sat on the bed and began to take loud breaths. She moved between his legs to lay her head on his groin. He moved one finger over her forehead, wiping wet brass from beaded alabaster. She put her palm on it, pressed it on her cheek.
“Why are you so tired,” he asked, “after so little?”
She opened her eyes. “Gunner worried at me all morning, I say. Please, Captain. Let me go up and rest for a while. I’ll come back, maybe after only an hour or so.”
“And leave me to make love to my fists? First the left, after that the right. What then? I can’t lap myself like Niger.”
“You’ve had me every way! What else do you –”
He squeezed her breast; Kirsten closed her eyes. “Oh, yes, I know the things you think of.” She looked up again. “Let me go upstairs. I’ll send Gunner down.”
He frowned.
“Finish with him. I’m too tired.”
“He tired you out for me?” The captain tongued his lower lip. “Wake him up.”
“I will. Right now.” She stood.
She tried not to let him see her smile as she bent to pull her bunched shift down her hips. She shrugged into the sleeve, tried to cover her breast.
The captain fingered himself.
The torn cloth would not cover her any more.
Suddenly Kirsten got a strange expression. She reached quickly, took his face in her hands and thrust her tongue way in his mouth. He licked it. But when he reached beneath her hem she pulled away.
“I’ll send Gunner!”
She turned and ran through the lines of sun.
In the minute alone he thinks about the currents that have brought them here. He thinks about light, and suddenly he remembers the woman at the pane. He turns to look.
“Captain?”
Knuckling his eyes, sleepy Gunner came in. His hair, pale as his sister’s, pawed his neck, rioted at his forehead.
“Come here.”
The boy walked over the rug, paused. The captain patted the blanket, so the boy sat. He took the back of Gunner’s neck between thumb and forefinger. Shook him.
Gunner grinned: there were twin acne spots left of his mouth. He touched the captain. “What am I gonna do with this elephant?”
The captain moved his palm on the boy’s bony back. “You’ve done half of it already.” And shook again. “Hey, little mule. Kirsten says you tried to climb her back and break into her with your Johnny stick.
Gunner looked at his lap. The captain slipped two fingers into the buttonless fly. Gunner looked up. “I did not!” But grinned.
“What did you do?”
“I nosed her to see if I could smell anything you’d left there.” He touched the captain’s knee. Small hand: it has callouses from boat work, the nails quick bitten. His grin fell open into a smile. “Got my face wet. And she wouldn’t let go my head.”
“Did she kiss you back between your legs?”
“She wanted to. But I hid him in my hands.” Gunner pulled apart his fly. Johnny jumped. Little brass wires snarled through the captain’s fingers. Gunner frowned. “It’s not half as long as yours.”
Maroon and purple: suede and velvet.
“You’re not half as old as I am. He’s big enough for you, boy. You still need both hands to hide him when he’s hard. Hey, take care of me. A couple or three times.”
Gunner picked the captain’s up.
The captain pushed his fingers under Gunner’s rope belt. Most loops were broken. The waist pulled down on the boys buttocks. The captain lay his finger in the hot slip.
“You want my mouth?” Gunner dug the black fruit up. “That’s why you wake me up?”
“So.”
“Suppose I’m not thirsty.”
“You?”
Gunner bent. The head rose and blunted on his mouth. Black hand grapples gold hair, pulls the boy up, gasping. “That’s not where I want it –”
“Captain . . .?”
The black hand, kneading Gunner’s buttocks, worked to the boy’s belly. White and black fingers worked on the knot. As it came loose, he pushed the boy’s head forward. He swung his leg back and kicked. The boy fell on the small rug. Knot undone, his trousers slipped to his knees.
The captain stood. He worked his thumb into the sweaty crevice siding his groin; swung like a crane. He stepped from the eight his pants made at his ankles.
Brass ring in his left ear (leather banding his right wrist), the heavy black chain on his left ankle. (That’s all.) He stood above the boy.
Gunner stared.
The captain put his foot between the boy’s legs. The groin was hot on the knuckles of his toes. Toes rose to prod the crack. He got down on his knees.
Gunner licked his fingers and wiped between his legs. “Lemme stick it up before –”
The captain knocked Gunner’s hand away. “It’s slick enough.” He pushed, swiveled forward inches more, pushed straight again.
Gunner stopped breathing.
The captain put his arms around Gunner’s chest. Once the boy barked in pain. The captain slid his hand between their bellies. “You’re stiff as a ten penny. It doesn’t hurt that much.” His hips hunched.
Gunner caught his breath again.
But no sound. Backed and squirmed on it.
The captain’s breath roared around his head like a rasp in a clay pipe: Gunner puppy-pants.
Unable to the double weight, their arms bent. The captain pulled him onto the floor. On his side, first; then, with Gunner, breath nearly out of him, the captain flexed.
He lay on his side, thrust in Gunner’s gut, while the boy, on his back, to the hips’ rocking, pulled at himself. Gunner’s head pressed back on the captain’s chest. His feet bunched the rug between the black knees. Raised himself. Lowered himself.
Gas growled out around him. Something small gave before the plunging, became hot paste. The captain stirred in the tight tunnel. He had a mouth full of Gunner’s hair; he held the boy with one hand. Two fingers from the other in Gunner’s mouth, a tongue grazing their salt and horn.
In a salt cave the thrower flames.
The captain panted. “Five . . . for me, now.”
Gunner’s fist still swung at his groin.
The captain closed the boy’s fist in his to stop it. “Hold off unless you want to go again.”
Gunner, still now, asked, “You messed in Kirsten all day. You still want to squeeze more out of these?” Sitting on the captain’s hips, he reached between both their legs and picked up the big sack.
The captain laughed. He pushed Gunner’s cheeks. “Get up. Go on.”
Making a face, the boy eased forward. Soft, it slapped the captain’s thigh. Gunner turned and scratched himself. “How many more you got?”
The captain folded his arms behind his head. “Another couple.” He stretched. “Work me over.”
The boy blinked.
The captain raised his head. “Lick my foot. Come on, get that look off. I want to see you lick my foot. Last week I saw you lick at Niger behind the locker. You can with a dog, you can with my foot. Go on.”
Gunner held the calloused rim, laid his cheek on it. The captain felt the lips tickle the instep. Tongue fell from the boy’s mouth; moved on the rough ball, found the trough before the toes; bladed between the big toe and the next, moved over the thick nail. Gunner took three toes in his mouth. The captain wriggled them, laughed. “Niger left his pile on the foredeck. I stepped in it before I came down here – don’t pull back. Clean it. Look at you. Look what that does to you. Look good for me, boy.” His knee bent, and the boy’s lips whispered on his ankle, wrapped the chain, stuck tongue in the links. Gunner’s fingers spread on his belly, moved jerkily to his tight yellow hair. The head, grey as a pale grape, pushed from its ivory cap.
“Work, boy!” The captain pulled his foot back, kicked Gunner’s face. He laughed.
Gunner’s knees struck the rug. He opened his mouth on the dark thigh. The captain caught the boy’s hair, yanked him down.
Claws on the passage steps –
– Niger sprang through the door, hind legs, pawed the captain’s knee.
“Black devil! Down!” Niger backed up, then dropped his black muzzle beside Gunner’s blond head in the dark fork. The captain’s lips parted. His back rose from the rug. On shoulders and heels he pushed into Gunner’s face. The boy put one arm around the dog’s neck. He looked up, once, mouth, cheek and chin wet.
The captain rocked back and grabbed the hollow of his knees. Gunner’s face pushed; stroke, probe. Niger’s tongue rolled the captain’s sack over to hang on his belly.
The captain bellowed, swung his legs down. His heels hit the floor. Niger and Gunner scampered.
On his feet the captain lurched to the bunk, turned, and sat. His knees were wide. Saliva made his thighs dark mirrors. He gripped the shining tower to beat. Up to the paler ring. “Six coming . . .” the captain panted. “First one here gets it.”
Niger and Gunner raced the floor. Niger leapt on the captain’s right knee, dug his snout beneath the loose bag. Gunner humped the left harder than the dog, fell to it.
The captain beat the boy’s lips a half dozen strokes. Gunner held the edge of the bed and learned back. He tongued under the foreflesh. It rammed over his tongue, bruised palates, hard and soft, prodded in the softer throat. “Take it. Eat that charred meat all up, you white . . . Yeah . . .” He pressed the boy’s head down, and down, ground upon the face while Niger nipped and nuzzled. “Here it . . . here . . .” he grunted at the ceiling. Heat swelled the shaft, stretched the boy’s mouth.
The black crater, quiet the hour, erupts. Oceans boil. The captain sagged forward over Gunner’s back. “Six . . .”
Gunner twisted under the captain’s belly. “Get off my head.”
“Six, you little white squirrel!”
Niger had pulled away, was lying on the rug. He worried something between his paws.
The captain sat up. Gunner hung over his knees. His face was wet. “What about seven?” Gunner asked.
“Give it a rest.”
Gunner picked up the limp. “It’s tired, now, you think?”
The captain roughed the boy’s hair. “You’d lap after it whatever.” He frowned at the dog. “What’s Niger got?”
Gunner looked over his shoulder. “Something he must have picked up when he went out.”
“Go get it.”
Gunner went to the dog. He pulled and played it away. The jaws gave up; Niger started to lick at Gunner. “He’s getting me all hard again.” He pushed Niger’s head down. “It’s a wallet.” He took it to the captain and sat down on the bed. While the captain paged through the leather folder, Gunner tugged up his pants and tried to get the rope back through the functioning loops. Once he leaned over the captain’s arm. “Pictures?”
The captain was looking at the portal.
“Hey?” Gunner said. “What about seven?”
The captain pushed the boy’s hand from his thigh. Gunner put his hand between his own legs. He leaned against the captain’s arm.
There was a color polaroid of a woman one side of the wallet, one of a man on the other. Her hair was loose in a wind that had caused her the slightest squint. His was white, or very pale. The faces suggested age, or experience. But they were handsome, and strong. Perhaps it was the contrast to the pale hair – perhaps shadow and position – but the man’s eyes looked black.
Gunner pushed his nose under the dark arm and nuzzled the hair. The captain stood. “I’m going on deck.” He reached for his pants. “Come on, Niger.” He shrugged into his shirt. He kicked at the dog, and his chain rang. Niger barked, then followed the captain to the door.
He stopped once, frowned at the portal; then he saw Gunner. “On deck when you’re done.”
Gunner sat on the bed, cross-legged. He ran his hand over the damp sheet. Let himself fall, to lay his cheek, roll his face and take the salty folds in his teeth. Elbow shaking, one hand worked in arcs. The other kneaded his belly. His lips kissed unvoiced exhortations. Closed lids and the loose hair shook with his fist.
The cabin door closed.