Hello, fans of high anxiety. And what are the scariest memories of your life now that Halloween's just a week away?
Years ago, I went on vacation to San Juan, Puerto Rico. I stayed at the gay resort, Arcos Blancos, in Condado, not far from the beach. The accommodations, at the time, were very nice, the resort being just a few blocks from the beach. Ah, the sun, the sea, the salt air! The fucking with fellow tourists and locals! Mi bedroom es tu bedroom, as they say.
That's where I met Richard, a banker from NYC. We even had a torrid, little affair back in Manhattan
after the vacation. Unfortunately, I wasn't latino enough for him, in the end, though I tried to talk like Rita Moreno in
West Side Story. ("A boi like dat, he keel your bruddah!") I was dark-haired and petite, and Richard was blond and sprawling. He was a Republican and thought my marching on Pride Day was "radical" (and not in a good sense). Hence, the dynamics of our very hot sex together (talk about your love/hate intimate relationships), though I swear I was always topping from the bottom. Or, as we called it then, "buns power." (I even snapped a lover's unwanted cock up my ass once, but that's another story. Yes, you can break a boner.)
Still, that's not even the scary part! It was Richard who decided we should visit "Isla de las Cabras" (Island of the Goats), which he read about in some tourist magazine. It seemed, from the article, to be an unspoiled little paradise not far from San Juan. I envisioned good times on a blanket over the sand with, hopefully, no sand in the Vaseline.
The ferry dropped us off and it would be two hours before another arrived. Perfect horror movie set-up? Thank you, because there were only the two of us who got off the ferry which then went on to dock at other islands.
We saw trees, strung up with dismembered dolls, rise up before us, hiking through that surreal jungle.
We trudged onward, ever onward. It was clear this was no
Isla Bonita, honeys, right from the get-go with the bizarre dolls tied or nailed to trees, like some ritualistic warning we didn't heed. I remember that, like a heroine in a '50s horror flick, I grabbed onto stalwart Richard's bicep.
Lions and tigers and dolls, oh my! But, funny, I don't remember seeing any goats.
I wanted to go back to the dock. Richard wanted to recklessly forge ahead. We came across a clearing. A primitive village of island natives living in ramshackle hovels and tents, playing percussion on tin cans, viewing us suspiciously if not hungrily. I was reminded of the movie,
Suddenly Last Summer, with Liz and Monty. Not good, if you recall how that played out.
"Maybe we should go back to the ferry," Richard muttered. We smiled and nodded at the inhabitants who continued to stare at us dispassionately. We walked slowly back until out of sight of the villagers. Then, we raced to to the dock, through the valley of the dolls, and waited nervously for the ferry that would return us to San Juan.
May I add that sex that night, back at Arcos Blancos, was especially good? Maybe it had something to do with our afternoon scare.
In any event, wishing you all a Happy Halloween!
