What's the Chicken?
 mm mutual


What's the chicken?

I was leaning against the balcony of the roof of the Palacio del Valle
looking across Cienfeugos Bay sipping a mojito when Ivory slipped his arms
around my waist. I could tell it was Ivory as the arms were thinner than
Richard's, and I could tell it was not Virgil as they were lighter. He
squeezed me tightly, then slipped a hand into the armhole of my vest and
began to tweak my nipple. I could feel his cock pressing against my arse and
his other hand joined the other nipple and began to tune me in.

Then a hand ran down the hair on my chest, combing it through his fingers,
down to the top of my shorts, inside and pulled up to my stomach what was
becoming a very uncomfortable erection down the side of my leg. On the
street below children were playing unconcernedly. Two boys rode by on a
bicycle, looked up and broke into a broad grin as they saw the four armed
beast.

There was a period while I was still looking at the view and admiring the
sun passing through the clouds and the shapes of the buildings of a hundred
years of booms and busts, of belle epoche grandeur now tattered but
attractive, more so without people, through the trees. Then there was a
period when his stroking became more insistent and I began to lose interest
in anything except that.

I reached behind to feel his cock, then pulled down his zip and slipped my
in hand . Thus we stood for some long time. Squeezing and hugging, his nose
nuzzling my ear and his tongue stroking it. He wasn't bad for a straight.

My shorts could easily be slipped down and he could be inside me, a head
shorter so not uncomfortable, but I didn't have a condom and some sense
held.

I wondered whether I could turn round, or if that would break his
concentration and his fantasy. Then he lifted a hand and began to stroke my
beard, long strokes from my forehead right round to my chin. As I turned, he
effortlessly slipped his hand round without losing grip or pulse. Face to
face we fondled one another, noses and cheeks, beard and chin, faster and
slower, tightly, top and bottom.

Actually none of that happened at all: he was sitting talking with the other
two the whole time as I stood looking out over the bay. Then I walked over
to the other side of the roof and looked out over the town: more turrets,
more baroque, streching right up the Prado. Ivory came over, rested his hand
on my shoulder and asked me, in French, what I was thinking of, and I
replied, "the whole world". Then the others joined us and we walked down
stairs to sit on the sea wall

The two hunters had picked us up the previous night, but just after we'd
sorted out our particular and pallidar, a disappointment for them. None the
less we agreed to meet later than night and did. It was the 30th December
and the town was at party: the whole town. We sat on a step and chatted.
Ivory took me for a walk through the crowd and I had the unusual sensation
of towering above everyone, a good head higher, and much bigger. I'm
accustomed to that glance in any town, face, cock, face; usually with a
wince after the first face and the other two missed out. Sometimes all three
then a head turns away. But here is was different: face, cock, feet. And now
the glances stayed fixed for moments but whether on my cock or my feet I
couldn't tell. My Cats were the butchest and sexiest thing in town.

Virgil, the darker, was an electronic engineer with an interest in computing
and some English, Ivory spoke some French. It took us some time and many
explanations to get across what being gay was, or that was their game. In
any event they weren't into it. We parted at midnight agreeing to meet the
following day to corrupt their revolution another stage. Richard had
discovered the marvels of tourist dollars in walking into the hotel shop
past a long queue waiting for the chance to spend a year's savings on jeans
or t-shirts as the prices fell at the end so the targets could be met. Thus
everyone waiting. And he'd agreed to take them in, past the queue.

And so they did, successfully I gathered for when I returned from my walk
the next arrangement was that they would help us with our bags on their
bikes to the hotel to meet the bus back to Havana. This they did and that
was how we'd come to be on the roof of the Palace, where they'd never been
before, or so they said, sipping mojitos, them holding the shirts they'd
been given to avoid carrying the weight back to Havana.

I'd been so taken by the entusiasm my cats had attracted that I decided a
habit of a lifetime should be broken and a photograph taken: Richard's
camera to capture my Lee vest, elasthern revenge black shorts, beard, chest
and cats! But it was Richard's idea that it would be better with Ivory
standing next to me, then with his arm around my neck, while I slipped mine
round his waist, began to stroke under his arm and tease his nipple, all of
which produced a wide grin a tight squeeze and our whole bodies molded
together. Our straight friend was becoming flexible.

Then I reciprocated in clicking for Virgil and Richard.

The three of them went off, I refilled my glass. It was that moment which
produced the dream of heaven without which we cannot live.

Sitting on the sea wall I was wondering whether I could renew the sense by
resting my hand above his trousers on his back, when almost telling what I
was thinking, he put two fingers to his shoulder. I leaned over and asked
Richard what it meant and he said "Police". Looking over across the car park
by the front of the hotel, there they were in a car. We sat, the three of
them talking, me sitting in silence, for a while. The car started up, drove
out of the hotel, past us, stopped, reversed then that supercillious
flicking of the finger of policemen the world over. He had a vicious tight
face, moustache, gun, long truncheon which beggered the are you pleased to
see me?

The three got up and walked to them. I stayed sitting. I have no Spanish and
therefore could not contribute and I have a bravura insolence to authority
which has landed me in as much trouble as it has got me out of, so staying
clear if possible was the best.

The police looked at the Cubans' documents, talked into their mobile radios
and pushed them into the back of the car, moving over a young woman who was
already there. Were they going to shove us in as well, and take us off? We'd
miss the bus back to Havana, not able to communicate, stuck in a Cuban
prison on no charge, for how long? On the other side of the island, with all
our documents stuck in the hotel's left luggage. Not a word to us, no
request for our passports, no explanation, no apology, just drove off. The
last we saw was the two smiles and Virgil's wave from the back window. The
thin razorblade road the friends of Dorothy walk, between heaven and hell.

We went back to the hotel and had a coffee. The bus was now more than an
hour late. Sitting there the dark gloom began to descend. Were the boys
going to just have 600 pesos taken off them to be pocketed by the police?
Were they going to be beaten up to confess they'd taken us to a particular?
Were they going to be beaten up to confess that we'd fucked them? Were the
police going to come back and arrest us for having stayed in a particular
and eaten the meal of a pallidar, even if it was prepared by the wife of a
senior party official? Were they going to arrest us for being mariccones,
force us to have tests, find us HIV+ and accuse us of infecting the boys? I
coughed again. I've never had a test, I prefer not to know, I certainly
don't want to find out like this. Or were they just telling them not to
consort with foreign imperialist queers who were just after their arses and
whose dollars were not worth having and in that the Pope and Paisley would
agree (except maybe for the imperial bit), give them a slap of encouragement
and drop them in town?

Then a police car drove into the carpark of the hotel, drew up, and waited.
No one got out. Did they know we were in the foyer, could they see us?

Shortly behind it the bus, our baggage loaded and on the way back to Havana.
The yellow brick road between heaven and hell is one brick wide: heaven
never turns out to be what it might, and hell seldom quite as bad as one's
imagination.