Go Wash In the River
by Stephen B. Starr
All five of us are happy and sweaty as we make our way together down the half mile dirt road to the beach. It is one of the hottest days of the summer and we have come to the favored spot where nudity is acceptable: one of the places where gay men have discovered they can discover one another. The beach is arranged on the Kinsey scale: heterosexuals are furthest west on the open, expansive sandy banks and homosexuals are six notches east where the beach gives way to dunes and tall willow weeds form a labyrinth of pathways broken by open areas of sand. On the way to the "gay section," a path winds past male and female couples and men sitting on their own. I find myself wondering if they have positioned themselves there to be seen or to look; perhaps not sure enough to venture further east, but curious enough to see if they incite a response from the men who file past.
I am not curious just now. I find men most interesting when I know something of their souls or their intellects. I am skeptical of my opportunities to satisfy that quest here where the body is first and foremost on display. I wish the juices of my prurient self were driving me to furtive glances, but I feel like I'm in a locker room where nudity is expected and minimally noted. I have the healthy voyeuristic tendencies most people have, but I am trying hard to appear neutral and comfortable. I have some insecurities about my body. I don't think I'll attract much attention, so I don't allow my gaze to linger on another man too long for fear I will be ignored. Perhaps, too, I have drawn a line in the sand before I even got to it: a line that says I am here for the pure joy of being naked in the sun and the water and that is all.
We set up our encampment of blankets, towels, heaps of clothes, flip-flops, and coolers. In the center of an open area, there is a couple near us and we nod politely. I am unsure of the protocol. Are people here to socialize or is this a tanning Mecca? Stripping down is a relief. Now sweat can run freely off my body, cooled by the whisper of passing air. Quickly I apply sunscreen. I want the sexy burnish of the sun without melanoma.
The ritual of applying sunscreen to each other keeps us occupied while we release our inhibitions and jitters. Men are coming in around us, placing their blankets and umbrellas nearby. Apparently we aren't scaring people away. I head straightaway to the river and dive in, the shock of cold welcome on my overheated skin. The water carries me gently and I am held up—buoyant—cradled in the cool bath. From this vantage point, I see the men on the banks. Up and down the shoreline there are a lot of men. Some roam through the paths that connect one opening of sand to another. There is a sense that some are looking intently. Some are enjoying the sensation of being looked at with longing.
I see a man on the sandbar 100 feet away. He is lying on his stomach with his lean legs stretched straight out behind him, his feet arched up with his toes curled into the sand. His buttocks are perfectly round from this distance and suddenly he becomes the unreachable fantasy. I laugh at this hastily formed myth and play with my fantasy from this safe distance. He is the perfect man: physically vital and muscled, with broad shoulders and six pack abs broken by a perfect circle navel and a thick penis. He is staring intently into the microcosm below his slightly downcast dark eyes contemplating the wonders of the earth and his place upon it. The ringlets of his dark curly hair drip down his face and neck. If I could find my way to him, I would discover the man whom I would call soul mate and we would recognize one another with a penetrating gaze.
I float long enough in my reverie to watch the perfect man arch up to a standing position and begin to walk away from me. I laugh again, delighted and relieved, as his strong back recedes into an impossible distance. The prospect of such a dream come true is too frightening to take on today. I watch the men on the shore as I make my way back to the edge of the beach and pull myself onto the bank by the exposed roots of a tree. Back on my towel, I sit with my arms around my bent knees and allow my mind to float just above myself where it is easier to see the men around me. Two men stand in front of my towel. One has a ripe belly with salt and pepper hair on his chest and stomach. He has an easy smile, an embarrassed laugh. He is pierced: his nipples, navel, and penis. Well past mid-life, there is something nubile and boyish about his energy. He talks to a slender man with slight shoulders, weathered brown skin, and delicate fingers and toes. This man's chest muscles are loose and the skin at his elbows bunches when his hands dangle at his sides. He smiles and his teeth glow white against the brown of his face. His penis points to the ground like a pencil that has been sharpened. He is wiser and older than his companion—perhaps not in years, but in spirit. He seems reflective.
The pierced man laughs about the "accidental sex" he just had. "Oops!" he says, and I wonder what he means. It's as though he looked down for the first time at his penis to discover a solid silver ring and wondered how in the world it got there. The wise man listens to his story. It is a confessional. The pierced man is somehow contrite and proud, foolish and playing at innocence. He is embarrassed about his sex in the sand and he must laugh and brag a little to his friend, hoping to feel like he belongs, hoping he hasn't crossed some line beyond the pale of acceptability. He is at once delighted with himself and disturbed by his impulsive energy.
The slender man smiles wide and easy. He has no malice or jealousy in his voice. "Go wash in the river," he says with a gentle nudge. It's not a dismissive comment. He wants the other man to feel the clean kiss of the water washing over his body, washing away his embarrassment along with his habit of thinking of sex as accidental. He wants to make his sex sacred. And where is the man he had sex with? Has he washed? I wonder if the two could stand the ritual of bathing in the cool, clear water together or if they scampered off immediately to separate corners of the beach when they'd finished.
I am in my own circle of questions. My arms are hugging my knees. Do I belong? Am I an accidental guest on this river bank? No, I am sure that my feet carried me here. I am an invited guest sent here by a greater energy urging me to long for those souls beneath the lovely tanned and hairy skins around me. The phrase, "go wash in the river" plays again in my head. Those words were for me too. I've been invited to let the river baptize away my postures, my pretense, my self consciousness. I plunge again into the river. I am clean. I am whole. My sexuality—my longing to give and receive love—is a divine gift. I am absolved.
Stephen B. Starr is a graphic designer with a business in Evanston, Illinois. He sees his work as the art of putting visual and poetic metaphor together to communicate. He has been writing poetry and prose as an avocation since his freshman English teacher told him to pursue writing as a career. Personal experience, the natural world, and spirituality are his sources of inspiration, and water is one of his favorite metaphors for writing about the vitality of life.
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