Elvis of the Deep and the Jailhouse Rocks [Dangerous Liasons]

By Christian DeBenedetti | June 16, 2009

Underwater, no one can hear you scream.

Underwater, no one can hear you scream.

Here’s a hilarious eyebrow-raiser from a lusty lass who travels far and wide, stopping at nothing in pursuit of thrills and chills on the road. Almost nothing, that is! Let’s just say it’s rated NC-17, and consider yourselves forewarned.— Ed.

I have spent approximately one year of my life in Indonesia. During my travels there, I had many encounters with Indonesian men who wanted to sleep with me. This is the story of one. Perhaps I’ll write about the others later.

I was backpacking with a French girl possessed of a high sex drive, and each place we stopped on our northern route through the island of Sulawesi—to see the dead bodies in the trees, to see mysterious stones, to see giant blue butterflies—it was her habit, her instinct, to quickly identify the most pleasing man in the village or the town or hotel, drink with him, flirt with him, and eventually sleep with him.

This also affected my travel experience, for if you travel with a carte blanche humper, you too are likely to be pegged as one, which meant that after my French companion had chosen her lay of the day, I’d be left to thwart the attentions of his companion, who was invariably less attractive, less interesting, but always hoping to win access to my lightweight-cotton drawstring pants.

The French girl and I had decided to spend some weeks scuba diving in Bunaken, an island located off the northern arm of Sulawesi. The waters of the dive area are known for attracting large numbers of eagle rays, and I had always wanted to see one. Of course, Manado should perhaps be better known for its dynamite fishing—there’s nothing more depressing than a football field-sized bed of coral blasted to smithereens and attracting algae instead of fish—but that’s a different story altogether.

The French girl chose and quickly won the attentions of the town’s hottest dive master. On Day One he plucked an urchin from the ocean, pulled off its legs, drilled holes in them and fashioned her an urchin necklace. He drilled her later that night, too, and brought her nasi goreng and fresh fruit for breakfast. He took her on a lot of free dives. They were cute together and preferred to be alone both on land and underwater.

Which left me to dive with his companion, a wide-nosed, crater-faced man who’d given himself the English name Randy, since his clients could not pronounce Rizuko, or whatever his Indonesian name was. His hair was wiry, not unlike a Brillo pad, a mass of black that he forced into a sort of mini-pompadour with pomade that congealed after a swim, and gave him the appearance of having been lightly frosted. Also, he had pimples on his back that turned into glistening white pearls of pus when wet.

The French girl and I had been there for two weeks or so when Randy began to court me in earnest. “Oh, but he’s very sweet,” the French girl said when I told her I just wasn’t attracted to him. But by that time, my reticence with regard to Randy had become a minor social irritation within our small group.

One morning, at the end of a shore dive, Randy and I were slowly swimming up the beach when he grabbed me by the arm, pointed at his mask, and gave me the okay sign. I signed back, yes, okay. But he had something else he wanted me to see. He began to gurgle through his regulator. After a few seconds, I realized that he was not just gurgling but trying to sing. And a few seconds after that, I could make out the tune of Elvis’s “I can’t help falling in love with you.” He had memorized it in English.

I don’t know why exactly, a mix of guilt and group pressure and other unprocessed feelings, but I finally gave in to Randy’s efforts, let him visit my thatch hut, lit some candles and, eventually, reached into his pants.

Whereupon I felt two small, hard lumps that are not part of the standard male anatomy. I pulled back my hand like I’d just been bitten by a moray eel: what the hell is that?! (Fine place for cliché, you coulda cut the tension in the air with a knife.) Eventually, Randy, breathing heavily out of nervousness rather than excitement, confessed: “I have to tell you something. Once, a few years ago, I went to prison.”

I cannot remember what Randy said that he did to get himself in trouble. But I do remember the Sulawesi prison culture he described. On the inside, Randy had to join a prison gang for protection, but unlike your good old American prison gangs, which prefer to mark their members with tattoos or by carving insignia into their bodies with homemade shanks, the Sulawesi prison gang that Randy joined marked their members by surgically inserting small plastic ball bearings just under the skin of the penis and right below the place where the head meets the shaft.

It was when I asked him the question, how did you know which prisoners had the penis balls that I knew this story of Randy’s didn’t make any sense. No, this must be the mark of a confirmed sex con, whereupon my mind produced a terrifying image: an orgy of prisoners pleasuring each other in their cells late at night with their penis ball-enhanced penises. I didn’t want those penis balls anywhere near me, but, being a naturally curious person, I did want to get a good look at them: “Can I see them?” I asked. “Okay,” he said. I got out my shiny blue mini Maglight, affixed the elastic band to my head, and tilted my chin towards his groin.  I thought of Frankenstein and those nodules that protrude from his neck. Randy then showed me how the penis balls moved back and forth under the skin, like they were affixed to a little subcutaneous circular track.

I was fascinated, but I didn’t ever see or want to see Old Poseidon’s hardware again. And, sadly, I never saw an eagle ray, but a few days before I left Sulawesi, one stabbed a guy through the chest with its tail. The poor sod had been trying to catch a ride on its wings and pissed the animal off, which promptly delivered a death blow. That was the story that Randy told me anyway.  I never bothered to find out if it was really true. — J. Davis


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