Vampires at Sea, page 2
To be sure, this ship is a big wet dumpling of lust. Fear, too, though that doesn’t interest me. Then there are the desperate, depressed, dependent bodies for Hugh.
I know there are others like us who become cult leaders. But it’s a tricky business. You have to fake your own death a lot. Some keep a lower profile, train as therapists, or work at “wellness centers” where they employ ritual spiritual shaming. A certain type, with a less nuanced palate, become funeral directors. Hugh considers that highly uncouth.
We scout a karaoke crowd: theater kids all grown-up in denim overall shorts, tank tops, and open short-sleeved button-downs, drunkenly grimacing their way through breakup songs. Some of them are wearing Mardi Gras beads, others plastic leis. Hugh wanders, sampling the salty, boozy miasma of misery. This isn’t quite his taste, he prefers a more existential bite, but they’ll do.
Maybe the ship’s buffet is better suited to my taste than Hugh’s, which is disappointing. Perhaps I should’ve anticipated that, since we’re here to relax after my idiot lover, whose name I’ve already forgotten—who knows what I am and fed me willingly, perhaps a little too willingly—went a touch mad and burned some of Hugh’s things. Some of his art, to be more precise.
My mistake was allowing him to remember where I live. Harbored feelings always fester. Fortunately, the damage to the house is minimal, but Hugh has to find a new studio now. And I could use a new lover.
If only... we both think at once. We turn to each other. We are Isis and Osiris, twins who fuck. If only Hugh could form an attachment. Someone tasty yet sophisticated to sustain him through the next two weeks. We smile because now we know what we are hunting for.
Day 3
By the third night, everyone is feeling at home. There are pita chips in the pools. Groups are forming, pairs are pairing off. Well, really, there is so little time. Why waste it? Fuck now, while you can. And then go rainbow bowling. There’s a rainbow ball pit too. There are little speakers hidden all over the ship, and a faggy godmother voice keeps cheerfully welcoming us, urging us to eat, drink, and play responsibly! And enjoy the free champagne and plum brandy that’s clear as water! But don’t leave your drink unattended! Or your cruise-issued fanny pack! Or backpack! This voice I learn, without caring to, belongs to the cruise director, who must have a body somewhere, though I don’t know what it looks like. I’d like to find that body and charm it into modulating its voice. Or going mute. Tonight, there’s a competition where you shoot cylinders of variously colored jelly into your partner’s mouth, with the intention of forming a gelid “rainbow.” Winners drink free on their next cruise, if they sign up for it. After that, there’s an essential oils event with a guest speaker, plus discounts and gift bags!
I dress in something sleek, paint on a smoky eye, slip on thong sandals. Hugh puts on a fresh suit, and we cruise this Albatross bar that’s supposed to be a speakeasy with Jazz Age decor.
All eyes are on us. Hugh won’t look because he doesn’t like it, the attention, the ravenous gaze. I don’t look so I can soak up their wanton hunger. I’m wet and sparkling. This is the kind of night where I know I’ll draw a crowd—I’m going to drape myself over the piano later. I take a seat at the mirrored bar, but I turn so they can see me in profile. Delicious prickles up my spine. Oh yes. My bouche is amused. Who will be the appetizer?
The bartenders are wearing feathered headbands and sleeve garters. The stool I’m perched on is coated in velvet. But a certain damp smell conjures the basement feel of the gay bars of the 1950s, though they were frequently raided by the police, adding a note of danger to the vibe. The biggest risk here is a spilled drink.
A classical butch with rolled-up sleeves and a vest sends over a drink—an old fashioned it’s called. Cute. It smells like sweet fuel. The butch nods. I’m thrilled. They’re alone, but their friends are here somewhere, they say.
“You should ask them to join us.”
Oh yes, they agree, texting without breaking eye contact, they just can’t bear to look away. Their friends will certainly want to meet me, too, yes, yes.
Hugh is silent and invisible, a recalcitrant daemon at my side.
The friends arrive. There’s a mousy one among them—there’s always a mousy one, just as there’s always a leader. The mousy one is nervous and fidgety, easily caught. An art student, the others explain because she’s too shy to speak for herself. She looks at my toes. I’ve painted them over, a deep red.
“Oh, an art student,” I say. “You must meet my husband, Hugo...”
A half step to the left and there he is, in profile, the gentleman himself, like we’ve just stumbled into an intimate portrait. The others never even saw him. He’s impeccable, holding a glass of whisky, neat, which he sniffs now and then like it’s an old lover, but never sips.
The mousy art student is transfixed. She knows exactly who he is. Of course she does. Every 101 class features a slide of his photo, Lilitu, 1975. Hugh is dressed exactly as he is in the textbooks. And he looks good, he looks very good. No one seems to do the math: in human years, relative to Lilitu, Hugh should appear in his eighties. But no one questions why or how a man ages—that’s his own business. Whereas I periodically have to make certain adjustments. But never my name. My name I keep.
The old-fashioned butch and friends are silent. They don’t know who Hugh is, but they understand something is happening to the mousy one.
“How do you do.” Hugh holds out his hand—to shake, or kiss? It’s unclear.
The mouse grasps his hand in both of hers. “It’s so wonderful to meet you, wow. Wow. I can’t believe it.” And then she proceeds to tell Hugh about the first time she saw Lilitu, his only world-famous piece. The rest of his work is so different, and he’s experimented with other mediums, but only the serious Art people know that.
The mouse says she was stricken by it. She couldn’t look away. The girl doesn’t say “horrified” or “shaken,” but you can see it in her face, hear it in her voice.
“I went home and I slept for three days,” she says.
Hugh nods. This is quite a common reaction to his work. A certain phenomenon. It’s been written about, in fact. As the serious Art people know.
As the girl talks about it, she begins to relive it—her response to Lilitu. Her speech sputters to a stop, her face goes slack. She’s crying. The grief spreads to her companions and they sniffle. The handsome butch takes a sip of the drink they bought me.
This is where Hugh begins: “I grew up with a lot of opportunities. I grew up with servants. But all around me, people were very poor. There was so much suffering. I was also very alone.
“I went home for a funeral. I began to see things through the eyes of my child self, from the perspective of time, so much time passed, and it was as if my younger self was still inside me, a kernel. I began to take walks, and I took my camera with me. It was dangerous to carry it around. But I took it anyway.”
He talks about the things he saw, the maimed dogs and children, the things in the gutter, left in the trash. Babies, body parts. Our circle is somber. They’re all looking at the floor, except the art student. I notice the bar is empty, and the music has petered out. The whole room just lost its hard-on. I sigh. There will be no grinding against the lid of a piano for me tonight.
I’ve heard Hugh tell this story countless times. He always tells it the same way. He never says where he grew up—you’re supposed to know. It’s implied. So if you don’t know, and consider yourself a great admirer of his work, you feel quite stupid. Hugh never says who the funeral is for either. Again, it’s implied. Haven’t you read his biography? The story is all bullshit, of course. I mean, Hugh might believe it, he’s been telling it for so long. He’s never attended any funeral, not even to gloat or snack, and though he’s taken many walks with a camera, our house in San Francisco is his home. But it’s true that the world is poor, and dangerous, and full of pointless suffering.
The art student weeps, and the friends cling to one another like life rafts. How delectable for Hugh. My lover is radiant as a ghost; a visible aura, sheer blue and pulsing.
I vaguely recall a Hugh less burdened by the weight of his soul, assuming he has one. A Hugh who was pleased by my pleasure, however I came by it, and readily took his fill. He wasn’t known then. It was before the invitations from universities and galleries, when he didn’t need an assistant to manage any of it. His work is too human—it moves them too much. It’s too much. Now, when I guzzle all the attention in the room, he looks away.
It’s time to call it a night.
On the way back to our room, Hugh keeps surreptitiously touching my ass, gently but insistently. He’s satiated, energized, and urgently wants to fuck. I picture myself lying face down on the plush tongue of our pink mollusk bed, naked, legs spread, Hugh’s erect cock looming over me. The idea appeals. I am, as always, turned on by the idea of my own body, and the thought of Hugh’s dick. But his feast of melancholia has brought me down too. I need a pick-me-up.
And that’s when we run smack into Heaven. At first, all I see is shine. Then a figure comes into focus, statuesque in a gleaming vintage dress, flowing like there’s a fan following them. Around their shoulders, a stole of chestnut curls, shining like Medusa’s, before the curse.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”
There’s a tiny flower-shaped purse on the ground and a god of some kind standing over it. The hallway light is very bright. A big smile flashes, framed by a dark, perfectly coiffed beard. Cascades of hair. The dress, the silver platform open-toed heels. Oh yes, I think. Oh yes indeed. This is exactly what I need.
Their gaze lands on Hugh, vibrating from his golden sadness shower, though he’s hanging back as usual. He’s so gracious, he knows how I like my late-night bites.
Suddenly I’m several feet away, practically against the wall, but I don’t remember moving, and in front of me, Hugh and this stranger are leaning in like the close-up in a movie, their faces filling the screen, and the stranger is talking right into Hugh’s mouth, and I think they’re going to kiss. All their pupils are dilating.
I know Hugh and I know what it looks like when he’s in love. Which, until now, has only happened with me.
Then I have the feeling I have seen this person before. Something in their face is so familiar. But I cannot place them.
“Oh my god, I cannot believe I’m meeting you! I am such a fan! Do you want to take a selfie?” They look like they’re in their early forties but passing for mid-thirties because they have great skin, impeccable style. The flaw is in their voice, which is adolescent. Yet, somehow, it doesn’t bother me. Normally, I would grit my teeth—I hate that uptalk bubble bullshit. But I smell sugary vanilla mixed with something strong, something feral. I inhale greedy gulps. Why do I like this smell? Do I always like this smell?
What are you?
Then they look right at me, like they hear me. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I’m being so super rude. I’m Heaven.” An impeccable manicure reaches out for me. Navy-blue sparkles with waves of hot pink. Short, neat squares.
I slip my hand into theirs. The grip is firm, the skin silky soft. Almost like synthetic dick skin. I feel a rush of pleasure, lust. My skin flushes. Oh my god.
“Heaven?”
A well-tended smile, head cocked, hair a waterfall, the light in the passageway casting a halo over uniformly colored roots. Heaven is a stupid name, but it fits somehow, like everything else.
Heaven tells us where their room is, which is higher up than ours, that they’re alone, and the room is spacious. They give us their phone number, say we must have drinks. “Drinkies” they call them.
“I absolutely have to talk to you about your work!” they say to Hugh, who beams and blushes. He says nothing.
“We’d be happy to,” I cut in, and Hugh nods.
“Amazing!” Heaven whirls off, and Hugh floats like a balloon trailing a ribbon down the passageway, around another, and another, until we reach our stateroom.
“So,” I say.
Hugh’s still hovering slightly.
“Lie down,” I tell him so he’ll obey gravity.
He takes off his pants, unbuttons his shirt but leaves it on. His cock is tangled in his underwear. Hugh reaches in and strokes it while he watches me undress. But I know this hard-on isn’t for me, and I want to make him suffer for that a little.
I pin Hugh’s wrists over his head. Then twist twist twist. He grimaces but he doesn’t say stop. I grind my hips over him, teasing him, then I lean down and bite him until he cries out.
I can share, of course. It’s only fair. After all, Hugh shares me nearly every night, an easy feat in our crowded, dirty city.
There was a youth who lived with us for a time, a slim, sensitive creature with rather old-fashioned-looking glasses. Or maybe the glasses were in vogue then... I want to say his name was Edgar. Or maybe Igor, or Edvard. He was very much in love with Hugh, I recall. I wonder what ever happened to him. Well, besides getting old and dying. Assorted paramours come and go, our nest of sorrow and lust is here to stay.
Hugh settles into his repose. Meanwhile, I linger. I can’t sleep. I’m restless, my hunger unsated. He spoiled my feed. But tomorrow, we hunt anew.
Day 4
I don’t remember Hugh giving Heaven his number, only the other way around, but Heaven texts him the next day. “Hey, what are you two cuties up to today?!” The message is stuffed with emojis, including hearts, unicorns, merpeople, and seashells. On a screen, they’re not as charming. I start to wonder if I got carried away yesterday.
I take over the phone and text back, letting Heaven know Hugh doesn’t do modern devices. I type out, then delete, a joke about using his phone as a location tracker. I don’t want to make him sound like some fuddy-duddy old man. He’s old-world, that’s different. Sexy. He’s a goddamn artistic genius for fuck’s sake. We “talk small” for a few minutes about sleeping at sea, the Titanic, today’s weather, and a TV show about fairies or something that Heaven likes but I’ve never heard of. Finally, Heaven arrives at their invitation. Dinner, with drinkies, as they say. They’ve made a reservation already. I like their forwardness. I’m also delighted they’ve chosen an evening date: I shine brightest in the dark. And I’m pulling out all the stops this time.
“Sounds great, can’t wait.” Message sent.
***
Hugh and I spend the day off ship in Istanbul. We walk and walk amongst throngs of people peering into chic restaurants serving platters of mezze, clutching cups of pomegranate seeds in their sweaty fists. We lose ourselves in a bazaar, two figures in black, with oversized sunglasses, packed in between case after case of brilliant textiles; shoes; precious, glittering junk; red hills of spices. We become invisible to the hawkers shouting in the faces of some of our fellow passengers, who wear bright T-shirts and shorts and ship-provided iridescent fanny packs, with hats.
I see Heaven waving to us.
“Hugh, isn’t that...” No, it’s someone else. They look nothing like Heaven, I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess certain people just have a Heaven-ish sheen to them.
“Who, mi amor?” He seems peckish.
We have to get out of this bazaar. It’s too much for Hugh, and he needs a snack. I grab his hand and elbow-jab our way through the crowd toward the natural light. The bazaar contracts, expelling us.
We find a museum full of things so ancient, it makes us tired. Nobody feels anything in there, it’s empty, they’re just seeking refuge from the heat. Why is it so hot? At home, we don’t really have a summer, only disappointed tourists in shorts with chapped knees. The building itself is dark and cool and beautiful. We linger there for some time, marveling at the tiled dome of the ceiling, imagining the scaffolding it took to make it. This is the closest I’ve ever come to meditation.
We exit and wander the streets. We don’t speak, we just slide our feet over the stones that are older than god, listening, watching. We don’t sweat. We don’t pant. We barely breathe. We don’t touch anything, not even each other, nothing but the crust of the earth under our feet.
Then Hugh jets ahead. He takes a sudden turn into a narrow stone alley, and I have to run to catch up. I find him halfway down the block. I don’t see anything, but I hear it: wailing. Hugh’s head is tipped back, mouth open. He’s looking up, he can spot where it’s coming from, but I can’t. All I see is stone. Even though we know each other’s thoughts, in this we are different.
The wailing is full-bodied, an operatic melisma of agony. On and on it goes, filling the alley. I hang back to give him room. Hugh closes his eyes, taking it in, the most exquisite pain. A tiny shard of a tear escapes his eye and glistens.
In a moment, it’s over, the street sounds resume. Hugh looks at me with love in his eyes. He is full.
We go back to the ship and have sex, slow and steady, with lots of eye contact. Then we slumber so we will be fresh for our dinner with Heaven.
***
I wear my lips red. A fuchsia cocktail dress, crepe lace at the breast that looks like feathers, bands of velvet ribbing across the bodice. Hugh wears warm chocolate. I don’t have to show him what I’m wearing, he just knows. He’s overheard there’s a bookstore aboard and as we make our way to dinner, he chatters on about it. It’s near the spa, next to a meditation room because massage, books, and meditation all lead to slumber. He’s very excited. He keeps touching things for no reason: his hair, elevator buttons, gold banisters. Normally, Hugh wouldn’t lay a hand on any of this, he doesn’t like germs. They can’t harm him, but neither can musical theater and he can’t stand that either. Right now he has hummingbird energy. He doesn’t even care about the bookstore. I wonder if there’s an expensive, ten-pound art book in there with Hugh’s name in it. His work’s probably on a tote, too, or a mousepad.
