The Feluca

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 3 (v.1)

Submitted: May 01, 2009

Reads: 76

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Submitted: May 01, 2009



Thus, here I present to you the Big Moment. The weeping boy at the very pit of My heart. One dusty afternoon, after grooming Myself with new clothes and cologne, I decided to take a lazy ride on a feluca. My guide advised a certain boat, Tom & Jerry, with a sailor named Mahmud, and I accepted the offer. I was hand-held on a plank to cross the boat, yet still I tripped and fell off several times. In fact, it took about nine attempts to actually reach the boat. But, by God, it was worth it! For when I stumbled onto the boat, My eyes were blessed with the site of a young boy. A young boy, I tell you. My teeth grinded and My legs shook like palm leaves at the mere sight of him. He was just heaven-sent, with honey-hued skin, wispy dark hair and… oh, those eyes! The boy was surely made from a blend of cream and toffee apples! How very dignified he looked, like a Pharaoh! How golden he looked as the sun shone straight at him! It was love at first sight! And at forever sight! I lost all concentration throughout the trip, and uttered one-line responses to all questions. Arms folded, I sneaked glimpses here and there at My ripe honey-boy. But oh! When he returned My peeks, I all but turned to sand. So many questions ran through My head - how old was he? From where did he hail? Was this distinguished young man a street urchin, rescued to work on a feluca? Curiosity bit on My brain cells. The only thing I knew was that he was The One. The one and only.


I sailed the very same felucca several times, in order to quench My thirst for the boy, whose name I discovered to be Samara. What a beautiful name! The mere sound of it brings a pang of joy to My ears! Sa-ma-ra, with a rolled R. Samara, it rhymes with Sahara. How I would love to elope to the Sahara with him, and no one but! I analysed the boy intensely, from the way that he blinked in the sun, to how his sturdy toffee-coloured legs ran to the mast. It also appeared to Me that Samara was mute… a prospect that deeply saddened me. I wondered what brought on his condition, and whether there could be a cure. I was positive that a kiss from Myself would cure him in an almost instant.

Ah, what eye candy to see him perched at the very front of the felucca as we sailed across the Nile… oh, what a joy! Oh! My heart thumped rapidly inside My chest, thrashing to and thro. What a fool, I was acting rather like a teenager! Which brought Me to the question of the age of My honey-boy. My heart dropped at this point ------- could he be below the age of acceptance? I studied him further: no, his limbs are far too well-developed, firm and muscular. No, no, My honey-boy was 16 at least, at this I rejoiced. It makes it acceptable in the book of Honest Goodcharity.

Alas, My everyday thoughts were filled with Samara, Samara, Samara. Samara, God dash it! Each night, I prayed to God to end My torment, and cease punishing Me for a change. And each morning, when I was awoken by the call to prayer, it was Samara’s name that I heard as I sobbed into My pillow. Samara Akbar.

In a misguided attempt to fit in with the local inhabitants, I purchased - for the small sum of LE10 - a billowing white “man dress”, which seems to be all the rage here in Louqsor. Twas a tad too large for My delicate frame but a delight to wear nonetheless. Donning My new attire, I took a stroll along the corniche and, with squinted eyes, I searched across the Nile for My sweet, sweet Samara. Can you possibly imagine My excitement when I did spot My honey-boy swinging upon the mast of the Tom & Jerry, the Tom & Jerry, God damn it. I squealed like a young child at the sight of a candy bar, and jumped up and down, waving My arms in a bid to catch his eye. Waving a kerchief, I suddenly came over all peculiar and passed out. When I opened My eyes again, I was no longer on the Louqsor corniche, but in a place and time that I had cared not to think about for many a year. Standing over Me was My ice God, Janis, platinum hair blowing wildly around his ruddy face. Good gosh, the boy was just made to be spread across the pin-up pages of Gay magazines! Ah, the mere thought of My blond Adonis made My heart spin! He giggled mischievously as he ran, beckoning Me to follow. I did as he asked and we soon arrived on a Baltic beach, which I remember quite well to this day. Oh sweet Jesus, Janis was clad in nothing but tight red swimming shorts, his neat little bottom tucked within just perfectly. How I artfully wished, in the depths of My bleeding soul, for the shorts to just burst somehow and be off with! It was, I confess, rather a homoerotic moment. As he playfully threw sand at My person, oh… how content I was at that moment! I chased him, laughing ecstatically, My heart beating at unnatural rates. But then… alas, the moment ended. I was now curled up in a foetal position on the ground of the Russian quarter of Riga, surrounded by a group of cackling Slavic boys… with, I repeat, with My Janis amongst them. It was he who hurled the first stone, I tell you, and the other lads followed, pelting Me until I was sobbing like a young child whose candy bar had been seized from him. I felt most pathetic. I sobbed and I sobbed… and after this period of blackness, I opened My eyes and found Myself back on the corniche of Louqsor. My “man dress” (of which I had been so proud) was now flung up over My head, My bloomers revealed once again. Could I possibly be humiliated any further than I had already been? I was sobbing mostly loudly and violently that the tourist police had to come and drag Me away.

I was imprisoned until I came to My senses. Though I don’t think I ever did.

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