#BJ TUMBLR FULL#
Look at me, surging over the briny deep flanked by a pair of stripped, sculpted angels, pockets full of money, on my way to a tropical paradise where yet more angels – hundreds more, according to the old organiser – swim, fish, and beg to get blown for a buck by gentle strangers from distant lands. Ah, Serge, you old fuck, you haven’t died in vain, he thought this is even better than the damned book. Sun God Boy took up a position at the rear of the boat and Bernie was suddenly burning with happiness as he realised that no matter which way he turned his head, all he could see was blue sky, a rippling, jewelled sea, and the silhouette of a perfect boy. The boat spun noisily away from the dock, trailing oil. Lito, meanwhile, had stripped off his shirt and jeans and sat proudly displaying his clean white briefs at the front of the boat. After a brief wave, the Sun God Boy swung himself aboard and began struggling with the old man to get the ancient engine started. Bernie was already reclining in the puerile shade of a tiny green plastic tarp strung above the middle of the boat when the object of the whistling appeared: nearly naked, bronzed, slim, long-haired, doe-eyed, maybe thirteen years old and smiling. Lito jumped in, followed by the old man, who stood upright as if the swaying craft were dry land. Gracefully, the old man helped Bernie into the boat. At the edge of the water an unsteady, twenty-foot bamboo-winged catamaran bobbed amidst a school of plastic bottles held together by a minor oil slick. Emaciated goats and naked children sat on the shady side of half-built brick walls. The old man led them down a narrow dirt lane where ragged chickens huddled under shards of cement.
#BJ TUMBLR CRACKED#
The sunlight glared off the water waves of heat rose from the cracked paving that led to the dock. Bernie and Lito followed the old man a few hundred yards through sunbeaten slums to the makeshift dock. The remaining boatmen retreated, grumbling. He stepped forward, nodded politely (had he been trained by conquering Japanese?) and took Bernie’s bag. The man sensed a nod where Bernie saw only a stare. Lito scanned their sun-blackened faces until his gaze stopped at a slim old gent with a pencil-thin moustache and narrow but kind eyes. Lito shouted at the boatmen, who backed off. They climbed out of the taxi, gripping their bags.
#BJ TUMBLR DRIVER#
The boy nodded toward the dozing taxi driver Bernie showered the man’s lap with notes.
“Which one?” Bernie asked Lito, who was also beginning to sweat.
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