Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 4. Somebody Told Me

• Full
• 3/4
• 1/2

CHAPTER 4: SOMEBODY TOLD ME

"Good morning," I said, while having my favourite breakfast to eat at lunch: garlic rice and a sunny-side-up egg with cured beef. Slicing a portion of the meat, I dipped it in the vinegar sauce and grabbed a spoonful of the rice and egg. "Wake up, you sleepy head. Rise and shine."

I’ve been watching Albert sleep, waiting for him to get up as I tell him about my surprise. Once he opened his eyes, he grabbed his phone from under his pillow. "What time is it?" He glanced at his phone and said, "What the—it’s a quarter to twelve in the afternoon?"

"Yeah," I answered while sipping my coffee, "you’ve been asleep for 10 hours. How does it feel to be this lazy?"

"I’m on holiday, you jerk."

"Excuses."

He tossed me his pillow. I caught it. Then he got up. I wasn’t partially grinning at the fact that he was in his underwear and that staring at his morning wood would mean a complete violation of our agreement to NOT sleep with each other, or something similar to it, that would eventually lead to us doing the act.

In fact, under Section 7.a. hidden under paragraph 8, NO party member involved in the contract shall ascribe, fabricate, or aspire to create, fantasise, and dream, of ever fornicating or procreating (with the inclusion that no manner of life shall be created in this unity) with each other.

"What’s that you’re eating?" he asked, standing in front of me. "It smells good."

"Ew. You don’t brush your teeth when you wake up in the morning? That’s gross."

He showed me his toiletry bag, slipped out the toothbrush, and glared at me. He approached me closer and pointed at the meal. "What’s that?"

"Tapsilog. You should try it. Not staring at his morning woody was harder than it should have been. His raging boner was angry—really angry. I shouted, "Could you please wear some pants? I’m eating for Christ’s sake." I drank hastily through my coffee, burning my tongue in the process.

"Whoopsiedaisy. My bad." He grabbed his shorts from a bag underneath the bed and bent in front of me, parading his jiggling, jellified booty as though I were a charlatan and a pagan willing to follow the lies of Satan. How could this creature assume that I would partake in such evil practises as those of the cult of Gomorrah?

"SODOMITE!"

"Did you say something?" he said, zipping up his shorts. "Are you ok?"

"Sorry. I was meant to—er, say it in my head." I calmed myself down and thought of getting a grip, which meant crossing my legs.

"You are so weird, Mr. Damien."

Wiping the coffee that I spilled, I laid a manila envelope on the table. "Read this if it’s to your liking," I said.

He opened the envelope. "What’s in it?" He put on his glasses and began flipping through the pages as he read through the details. "A contract?"

"Yes. Just read it."

"Number one, Mr. Damien shall ensure that Albert Mathersen’s happiness is guaranteed if a) Mr. Mathersen listens to Mr. Damien’s rules, b) he listens to his instructions, and c) he never says NO to Mr. Damien’s requests. What the heck is this?"

"Just read it," I insisted as I leaned back and pressed my palms against the back of my head.

"Number two, Mr. Damien shall ensure the safety of Mr. Mathersen’s welfare—blah blah blah." His eyes skimmed over the pages. "What’s this? Number 7.a. No sex between the two-party members?"

"Do you have a problem with it?"

"I don’t. But the text below is too small to read. What does it say?"

Of course, it’s too small. I wrote the font in a custom size of 4. I brought out the magnifying glass and read the print. "It says: No party member involved in the contract shall ascribe, fabricate, or aspire to create, fantasise, and dream, of ever fornicating or procreating (with the inclusion that no manner of life shall be created in this unity) with each other."

He reached over the table to cut a portion of the beef, swallowing a spoonful of garlic rice from my plate, and said, "So what you’re saying is, none of us can ever fantasise about each other?"

"Yes."

"That’s ridiculous, Damien," he said, laughing. He carried my plate and the vinegar sauce, sat on the edge of the bed, and began eating my lunch. "How can you assure that none of us are having dreams of each other? On what plane of existence does that exist?"

I stood up and circled the room. "For example, imagine this—"

"—ok. I’m imagining it now."

"You’re not taking this seriously."

"I am." He closed one eye, the other eye squinting to see the spoonful of rice enter his mouth.

"So… I am casually swimming, and you suddenly imagined me naked. The desire to ravage me was so imminent that you mustered the courage to touch my wet body. That’s a violation."

He was digging into my lunch as he began drinking the vinegar sauce. "Can we get another chair here?" He stretched his back and said, "Eating like this is a back pain waiting to happen."

"You’re not listening," I reminded him. "Another example. I was casually doing my job, and a maiden in distress was out in the ocean, drowning. I save the poor victim, and in a rush of an uncontrollable desire to manhandle me thanks to my courage and bravery, you strip me out of my clothes and assault me with kisses."

"Do kisses mean me—giving you a blowjob of the sort?"

"Hey! Too vulgar. But yes, in a way."

"That’s ridiculous, Damien." He began laughing. "Why would I give you a blowjob after saving someone’s life? If I were to go down on you, it would be out of pure lust, the kind where you’ll be submitting to my every whim and fantasy."

I gulped as I stood there, shocked at this revelation of revelations. "You would?"

He returned the plate back onto the table and walked over to me, his eyes lewd and seductively seductive. "Oh yes. Definitely. I would, would I?" He kept walking towards me, and I walked back, trying to avoid him until I hit a wall.

Gulping at the sudden change in his demeanour, I asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm about to give you a very juicy blowjob that will blow your mind, regardless of how tiny it is."

"But—this isn’t part of the contract. Let me remind you, you were very much against this," I reminded him as I panicked. My fists clenched as they hung loose on both sides since it seems that I’m going to get my dick sucked in the middle of the afternoon. I closed my eyes, asking myself why I had closed them. Was I nervous? This isn't my first time. But why was he making me self-conscious? I opened my eyes, and his face was too close to mine. I saw those lips, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. My brows were sweating. Now I'm really nervous. I wanted him to kiss me... What the fuck is happening to me?

And then he tiptoed and reached up to whisper in my ear. "Do you smell it?"

"Oh yeah. Your breath smells like vinegar," I said, as I began retching.

He gazed up, looked straight into my eyes, and smacked my arm. "What were you thinking of writing this contract for? It’s ludicrous."

"Hey! That hurts. Ouchies."

"You honestly think I’m going to sign it?"

"Maybe. I don’t know. But you should."

"Why would I sign this?"

"Because you’ll owe me $30,000 if you don’t."

"WHAT!"

Circling back to the table, I grabbed the contract and read the last page. "Well, it says here, failure to voluntarily take part in Mr. Damien’s requests shall constitute a fine of $30,000; the same amount is equal to the overall value of H.M.S. Tour’s VIP Luxury Yacht trip on the island of Limangpulo."

"Is this a joke?"

"No. You could go to jail."

"Nah—you’re kidding, right?"

"We have very good lawyers."

He walked closer and said so, smiling. "I don’t believe this." But I knew what was behind that smile.

"You should," I said, feeling nervous. I began positioning myself outside the door. "You have 24 hours to sign this. Sorry."

"You bloody piece of shit!" Then he went green and threw me on the plate. "I’m going to kick your ass, you wanker!"

I was looking left and right to find an exit and forgot about the door behind me. "Do you need your pills today? Maybe that’ll calm you down." He threw the chair to my right. "Ok. That’s just bad timing. Have you ever played Call of Duty? A shooting game might spark an interest in fixing your aim." He began running towards me, screaming, as I jumped down the stairs and ran as fast as I could against the burning heat of the sand in this scorching weather.

He shouted from behind, "Come back here, you stupid wanking knobhead!"

I kept on running as I shouted back, "Sign the contract!"

He stopped halfway, as he was panting and sounded out of breath. His lungs still hadn’t recovered, and he could very well have dropped dead. From a distance, over the ridge where the palm tree’s shade covered the hut, I sensed there was something wrong.

I ran back. I had to run back and see what was happening. I ran as fast as I could, and he was on the ground a few metres from the hut.

"Hey. Hey!" I said, shaking him as I held him close to my chest, checking if he was breathing. I warned him, "Don’t you dare do this to me," and held his face as I listened in on his breathing. "Please."

He was out for nearly a minute. Suddenly, he opened his eyes. "Gotcha," he said. He wrapped his legs around my head, ramming me to the ground. And as he sat on top of me and held me down with both hands pinned over my shoulders, his eyes twinkled, and something in my crotch also twinkled to the little star.

"I’ll sign the contract on one condition."

I could feel an impending erection soon approaching. I wanted him to get off on top of me before the inevitable happened. "Sure, what’s that?"

He leaned closer and brushed his lips against my ear. "You don’t have to worry about me sleeping with you. The truth is, you should worry about yourself." He got up, whipped up the contract, tucked in his shorts, signed it, and threw it over to me. "Amateur," he said. He walked back to the kubo, his faint voice echoing behind him. "Fix yourself, Damien."

I rolled to my side and felt violated, abused, and assaulted. Also, I may have unlocked a hidden fetish of mine. Who knew that I’d have a thing for adorable, feisty, ill-tempered, short men? But one thing’s for sure: If it’s a battle to outlast, outwit, and outplay a competitor, I always come out on top. May the best ‘Blue Ball' champion, win.

And then it hit me. My balls were literally squeezing themselves as the start of my sexual fasting began. "Ouch," I said, groping my balls. "Er—damn it."

A voice from a distance shouted, "You better jerk that off!"

All I could say at that moment was, "Not if you do it yourself. Fuck."

I was at the square getting some work done while waiting for the crouching tiger-hidden jerk wad to appear. I had him summoned from the kubo, telling the busboys to inform him that there was a 2:15 PM scuba diving trip about to embark soon and that his participation was a must. After what happened earlier, I’ve grown impatient and antsy. Being surprised like that by our resident martial artist made me more cautious if he was around. I was probably more stressed about him passing out for a couple of minutes. The only thing I can do now to destress is work. It’s usually the other way around. But for me, working comes naturally. Helping an emotionally unstable, stressed-out guest was not.

"What are you doing?"

Rattled by the voice and the whisper in my ear, I jumped in my seat and found him smiling. "You evil… succubus… drainer of life… stop doing that."

"What did I do?"

"You surprised me."

"Are you busy?" He sprang behind me and read the spreadsheet file. "HMS Tours 1st Quarter Fiscal Report. Wow. I didn’t know you worked. I just thought you were a bum practically doing nothing."

I felt that. It may look like I'm a vagrant or one of those island hippies you’d find at Burning Man, but I am technically running a business in the background.

"You’re late. You’re supposed to be here at 1:30. It’s already 1:48. The yacht’s leaving at 2:15."

"Sorry. I went on a detour."

"Where’d you go?"

"I looked around the huts and villas," he said, as I continued typing, trying to focus on the numbers. "It just dawned upon me that it makes little sense that I’d owe you $30,000 if I’m staying in a shithole."

I felt the first drops of sweat trickle down underneath my hat as I pretended not to know what the hell he was talking about. "Er—what do you mean?"

"All the guests have their own bath and toilets. While I am destined to suffer to take a piss and shit in a shed that doesn’t have ANY light on, where the aforementioned, shed is conveniently placed behind a creek along with the mosquitos and other assortments of neighbouring insects to accompany me. And, er, did you know… that putting OFF lotion on your bum and your balls, stings. Does that sound fair to you?" He leaned in closer to my ear and whispered, "You think that’s fair, Damien?" I was not a fan of him being this close to my personal space; it was a habit that induced impure thoughts on my end. I shook my head and bit my lips. But alas, he leaned in closer, almost kissing my neck with the bristles of his stache tantalising my very skin. "So, you think I don’t deserve better?"

Wiping the sweat from my brows as his voice tickled my ears, I said, "No." I gulped and answered again, "We’ll get that fixed. Don’t you worry?"

He quickly went for my mango juice as I told him, Hey, hey, hey! Lay off my drink. Get your own, you freeloader."

"Freeloader?"

"I didn’t—I didn’t mean to put it like that," I said, scratching my hat as I turned off the laptop.

The mood definitely changed thanks to my stupid mouth. He then raised his hand and ordered one for himself. "Where's the server? May I have your largest mango juice, please? And here’s my debit card in case you assume that I’m freeloading on this trip." He waved his card and pulled a chair harder than he should. "Just so you know, I may be $30,000 in debt, but I assure you, I’ll have it paid by the end of this trip."

"I didn’t mean to say it like that. It was a joke. I’m sorry."

"You think it’s a joke that I’m contractually obliged to agree to whatever it is you feel like doing?"

"No."

"Then show me the real reason I’m here. I don’t enjoy wasting time."

It’s true. I’d forgotten why he was here and why he’d stayed. I was the one who offered, and I got distracted for a bit. "I'm sorry. It won’t happen again."

He gazed at the yachts floating ashore. One was way bigger than the other. They were boarding enough food for a short trip, so the chase boats were busy shuffling to and from the dock. The square was crowded. Most of the VIP guests were waiting at the square in order not to miss a huge chunk of what they’d paid for: scuba diving.

As soon as his drink arrived, he took out two bottles of pills: Lorazepam and Fluoxetine. I gazed at the porters transferring cases of Coke, Sprite, and Pepsi to the chase boat, and said, "Do you really have to take those?"

Taking those drugs would make him calm and rested, in exchange for his mental faculties being partially disabled as they should have been. He probably won’t remember what happened after he took the pills. He looked at me and asked, "Why are you asking me if I should take it?"

"I don’t know."

"Then why shouldn’t I take it?"

"I—I don’t know Albert."

"Why won’t you answer my question?"

A group of Swedish tourists heard us. One of them, the brunette, gazed at me with concern. I smiled back and laid my head on the ground as my large hat covered my face. "I don’t want to argue, ok. Forget I asked."

His voice grew louder, and so did the stares of the other guests. "You’re not dropping it just like that. You brought this up, so tell me why the bloody hell should I not take it?"

I took off my hat and swiped the blonde crown on my head out of frustration and said, "Because I want you to be yourself. Taking those pills changes you—depending on what you think, if it’s a good thing or a bad thing."

The air grew quiet between us. None of us spoke for more than a minute. We were both staring in the opposite direction, while I was clenching my fist at how stubborn he was and feeling guilty for saying what I said.

"Ask me again if I should take it," he said as he returned the pills to his pocket.

Those eyes of his—striking a pair of green orbs that wouldn’t move—wouldn’t stop looking at me until I obliged. I gazed back in earnest and asked, "So, do you really have to take those?"

"Yes, and no."

"What’s the yes?"

"I’ll forget him."

I breathed hard for a moment, not sure if I should ask him this. "And the no?"

"He comes back."

I’ve forgotten that feeling of wanting to forget something so bad that you’d exchange a portion of yourself just so you could live your life in momentary stasis. Something in you changes afterward. You’re never the same. I was never the same. I never want to feel that way again. I sure hope he’d want that for himself.

"Take it," I insisted. "I shouldn’t judge you if it really helps you."

"No. You’re right. If I wanted to forget him, I’d eventually have to face him, right?"

I reached out for his hands and said, "I’ll be here. Promise."

Then Kulas on the megaphone said, "Boarding is ready. Please pol in line."