28 May 2017

A Flock of Gays

by Andrew

Like birds they are, gays. The title "The Birdcage" for that Robin Williams movie where he's gay maybe suggests the same. But I've not seen that movie in maybe 20 years or so, so I can't remember—but maybe.

There are sand dunes here where I am in Portugal. It was maybe my second week here. And in about a 2 km. stretch of coast, there are maybe 20 different beaches. Each is divided by a dune it seems—50 meters, 100 meters, 25 meters, 200 meters, whatever. It's impossible to know all of these beaches. It's all one big beach to me really.

And I had finally found a spot quiet and comfortable enough in which to just sit. How lovely it is to just sit! And I was watching the seagulls fly-round, and watching the waves, listening, relaxing. How wonderful it is to just sit!

And then they began swooping-in, almost immediately. Now, in Portugal, everyone stares. So it wasn't even strange the first guy who popped-up out of nowhere behind me and continued down the dune, down to the beach, to the water, staring back at me again and again.

And he stayed there on the beach, right in front of my view,—my peace and quiet ruined—kicking the sand and pacing-round, and then stopping all at once to straighten-up and look-out to the horizon over the sea. Just generally acting like an idiot he was, no purpose to anything, constantly shifting however, unable to stay still.

But no problem, I thought. Here I am just sitting, doing nothing. I look strange to him too I'm sure.

Then out the corner of my eye to the left, another guy begins descending the the dunes. He approaches the other, fidgety guy, says a few words, and begins pecking-round the sand himself, kicking it, stopping, staring, looking. They go seperate ways then meet back in the middle, then switch ways.

And out the corner of my right eye, a few dunes over, on a taller dune, another guy pops-up. He just stands there at the top of the dune. His body stays completely still as only his head moves-round, surveying the scene ahead.

I'm American—my paranoia. So now I feel something is going-on here. And just as I shift my body into a position where I can better keep an eye on my back, I see a head bobbing in and out of sight as it ascends the dune behind me. Now, I have no idea what's going-on. But something is. They're swarming round me.

Now, these other guys are too far off from me to be any threat at all. It's only this guy behind me now pecking-round himself, kicking the sand, pacing, to whom I pay any attention. And if I had any fear before, I lose it completely when I see him coyly look to the ground as I shoot him a glance of disgust.

So now, my parania is calmed a touch. But my quiet is completely ruined. These guys are everywhere. And this guy behind me is still making me uncomfortable. I feel him looking at me, or something, and he won't leave. There are miles and miles of beach, buddy. Why hang-round here, right next to me, and kick sand?

But after maybe 5 more minutes of pacing-round behind me, he asks can he sit. Sure, I say. This is not my land afterall. It's not his either. But he is Portuguese,—I assume—and he is more entitled to the land than me I feel.

My Portuguese is shit. I tell him so. He speaks easily enough then though so that I can understand most of what he says.

And he asks me almost immediately after asking from where I come and my name, if I like sex—with men. Then he says that this is a very famous gay beach in Portugal, here by the golf course. I laugh, tell him that I had no idea. But I tell him that maybe I should have known because I had seen a nude beach just round the corner the other day—realizing only then that most the people there were indeed men.

Then he asks me how big is my penis. And he says his is like a horse. And he laughs at these other birds, he calls them, these other guys pacing-round, saying that he would never talk to them,—or something—not his type.

Well, it's time for me to go, I tell him. And of course he wants to take me in his car so I don't have to walk. I say I like to walk, tell him that it was nice to talk to him, and I leave.

And then 2 days or so later I find a little plot of beach by the Frenchie-resort, maybe 3 km. or so away from this gay, nude beach. It's protected from the waves by some rocks at low tide, this beach by the Frenchie-resort. It's a perfect place to have a bath, to easily enter the sea. And I can always use a bath.

Of course, just as I'm undressing I see a head pop-up on a rock-face just off in the distance, some guy. Just like birds, I swear, or gophers or meerkats. He is staring right at me. Another fucking gay. And he too begins undressing—on some rocks, undressing. Then his head disappears as he sits I suppose.

He's so far and up on some rocks, no threat at all, so I hurry and dive into the water a few times. I grab my clothes and go sit myself behind some rocks—out of sight—while I dry. I see him poke his head above the rocks again in search of me, like it's a little game or something of his. I feel disgusted. I feel violated.

I asked my language professor, B——, the owner of the cafe I regular, about the gay beach. His face twists to disgust. They are not gay there, he says. I have gay friends, homosexuals. We get-along fine. They respect me; I resepect them. The men on that beach are not gay. They are perverts. There is a difference.

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