Sunday, August 9, 2009

Underwater Explorations and the Shalimar Motel

The crew docked, unloaded the ship and checked into the Shalimar Motel. The Shalimar Motel was a fuck house, fuck pad, fuck stop, fuck whatever. It was where you went if you wanted to keep a secret from somebody you are not supposed to keep secrets from. But it was classy, in a scummy sort of way. There was a whirlpool in each room and above each whirlpool was a retractable roof that opened into the Rio de Janeiro night. There were mirrors on every bedroom wall and ceiling, porn on every television; king sized beds and a glass cabinet stocked with lubes, oils, condoms, champagne and bottled water. It was cheap and, hell, if you can’t bring back a woman in the evening, you still got a whirlpool and porn and all sorts of oils to get weird with. It may have looked odd for a crew of seamen to be checking into the Shalimar Motel without women on their arms, but it was where Captain Kane liked to stay before a major exploration, and tomorrow they would be setting out to find Atlantis.

It was also in the Shalimar Motel where the crew’s deckhand, Steve, was fingered in the ass for the first time. And it was the last time he ever thought about home.

Ever since Deckhand Steve was old enough to recall memory he couldn’t recall his home and had only a vague memory of his parents. He had a constant stream of ocean coursing through his memory, but could not put a land to that sea. A runaway orphan, deckhand Steve had been working ships since he was twelve years old in hopes of one day docking in a place that he could recognize as home. Five continents and five years later, Deckhand Steve was now in Brazil, checking into the Shalimar Motel.

He had stayed in fuck houses before, but nothing like the swank decadence of the Shalimar Motel. In fact, the aesthetic of the motel was initially too intoxicating for the young man. Besides, he had a new city to explore, and perhaps a home.
Unfortunately for Deckhand Steve, Brazil was not his home, nor were the Brazilians his people. While feasting on salgados in a nearby bar, the locals quickly informed him in broken English about the cornerstones of their society: women, barbeque, and soccer. Though he enjoyed women and meat, he loathed soccer. He detested the notion that a professional sport could end in a tie, that a championship game could be decided by a shootout and why these guys made such a big deal about scoring a goal if the size of the ball is miniscule compared to the size of the goal. He wrote off Brazil like he had all the other countries he visited, further accepting the fact that his home is no longer a part of this world.

Deckhand Steve fell into a draining depression. He was only 17, yet he had searched the seas, traipsed many lands and penetrated dark caverns in search of origin. Finally defeated, deckhand Steve raised his hand and bellowed, “a beer and a shot of that shit,” now pointing to the cachaca.
His gringo speak spoke volumes in the crowded bar. It said, “I am lonely and god-damned tired,” which upon entering a Brazilian woman’s’ ears, specifically Nilcea’s, it translated as, “money, and sex.”
Nilcea approached Deckhand Steve and asked, “Oi, tudo bem? Voce parece triste, por que?” He glanced slowly up to the beautiful Nilcea. He did not know Portuguese, nor did he feel like trying. Instead he repeated the one phrase the crew told him to say in case of a situation like this. He looked her in the eyes, grinned fretfully and squeaked, “Shalimar Motel?”

Deckhand Steve opened the glass cabinet, pushed aside the oils and lube and grabbed the champagne and two glasses, while Nilcea turned on the whirlpool, retracted the roof and stepped out of her clothes. Steve followed suit after popping and pouring the champagne, and the two sat naked in the bubbling water timidly sipping from the glasses. Though Nilcea throbbed with excitement of being in the Shalimar, Deckhand Steve remained taciturn. His laid his head down on the edge of the whirlpool, closed his eyes and began fantasizing about a home he couldn’t recall. Perplexed, Nilcea was not going to waste her time in the Shalimar Motel. The d├ęcor and the deluge of swank had incited a ravenous sexual appetite inside of her. She lowered herself into the water and waded closer to Deckhand Steve. She reached to his right foot and with her fingertips began lightly gliding up toward his calf and back down to his ankle. Her touch sent an electric tremor through Deckhand Steve’s idle body, clearing his mind of distress and hopelessness. His eyes remained closed, but his lips began to smile. Encouraged by his response, Nilcea sensually continued working her fingertips slowly up his leg.

Suddenly, as Nilcea was exploring the contours of his leg, Deckhand Steve found himself no longer in the whirlpool but in a submarine. He was on an underwater exploration navigating the depths of the ocean, seeking uncharted territory. The submarine was moving simultaneously with Nilcea’s hand. The closer her hand moved towards his groin, the closer the submarine approached a distant radiance.

Nilcea, furthermore encouraged by his glowing expression, worked her way up his thigh, unaware that Deckhand Steve was no longer present but deep within the Atlantic.
The submarine was now gliding through a dazzling glow. It was too bright for Deckhand Steve to see beyond the luminosity. He shielded his eyes from the light; unable to make out what was ahead. Just then, Nilcea reached the base of his penis and began stroking it carefully. As she did this the submarine moved through the light and into the clear view of a disenchanted, ancient city. Deckhand Steve’s heart began to race and his body stiffened in shock. Nilcea mistook this reaction as a sign that he was going to blow, so she quickly removed her hand from his dick and began massaging his balls. But the real cause for his reaction was that for the first time in his life Deckhand Steve had recognized a foreign place. He had been here before.

The submarine moved slowly around the city just as Nilcea slowly moved his balls around. From the viewing window Deckhand Steve saw how this place had once defied dimensions with staircases in all angles, stretching for miles. In the center of it all was an eroded palace with barnacled gates, and it was surrounded by destructed housing foundations and extending roads. And remarkably, Deckhand Steve knew exactly where those roads once led. As he began mentally reconstructing this place from memory, he began to see apparitions of the people who once lived there, and as these apparitions became more vivid he began recognizing the people and remembering their names. The city began to rapidly reshape and rebuild itself. The algae, the barnacles, and the decay all gave way to fantastic reclamation until it was suddenly a functioning city again.

Nilcea began exploring the region between the balls and the anus. As she did so, Deckhand Steve saw his parents. They were walking home from the market and they looked exactly as he remembered them. Then from up the street, little Steve, maybe four years old, came running to greet them. It quickly dawned on him that his submarine had entered a portal to the past, and he became terribly afraid of what he would see next. His parents suddenly froze and his father dropped the groceries. People began to panic and run madly in all directions. In the meanwhile Nilcea was inching closer to his asshole, and he had a wild look on his face. She asked him something in Portuguese, and he responded with a gasp so she pressed on. But the gasp was obviously not a pleasured response to what Nilcea was doing, but to the horrors he was witnessing from the viewing window of his submarine. His people and his place were being crushed and ripped apart by atrocious sea monsters until there was nothing left but ruins and a solitary escape vessel vanishing safely in the dark sea.
As he continued to look on in dismay, Nilcea slipped her middle finger into his asshole and penetrated.
“ATLANTIS!” he shrieked. It scared the shit out of Nilcea and she quickly withdrew to the opposite end of the whirlpool. “ATLANTIS!” he cried out once again, his eyes wide and crazy. He jumped from the whirlpool and skirted across the tile to the telephone. He quickly dialed Captain Kane’s room number.

“Captain, this is Steve, Deckhand Steve. Listen , I won’t be with the crew tomorrow. But I have no doubts you will find Atlantis.”
The captain chuckled. This wasn’t the first time he had lost a crew member to the magic of the Shalimar Motel. “This is a common feeling to have in the Shalimar, young man. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“Captain, what’s the point of returning home when all it means is ending up where you started?” He then hung up the phone, got dressed, grabbed his bag and opened the door. He turned and took a long look at a startled Nilcea sitting frozen in the steaming whirlpool. He really didn’t know what to say to her, so he shrugged his shoulders and squeaked, “Shalimar Motel?”

He left and headed for the docks where he purchased an eternal ticket on a ship that never stopped sailing.

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