the weather in paris, part three

Part 3

Just as I was about to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming, I felt Nicholo grab my hand as we walked down the street. As surreal as these moments seemed, I felt him hold my hand, and I knew I wasn't dreaming. It was real.


Shortly after our walk began, we bumped into a group of four German men that Nicholo knew. They were friends and clients of JoJo. They quickly invited us to join them at their destination. After walking a short distance down one of the streets, we found ourselves at a smaller bar which had softer music making it much more conducive to conversation. It was crowded with an older clientele.


One of the Germans we encountered spoke excellent English. He had been in a relationship with an American for almost a decade and walked away with, not only their prize winning Lopso Opso, but also with a polished English dialect that could carry him easily through a conversation with the most American of Americans. His current partner, who as of that evening he had been with for 24 years, was British but spoke impeccable French (at least, I assume it was impeccable… not speaking of lick of French, I could not tell). While his partner and Nicholo said their ourves and sev u plez, I had my first, flowing English conversations with the German.


I was fascinated by his relationship with his partner and how they made it all work. In my experiences, it has been rare to find a gay couple that can celebrate 24 days, much less 24 years. He told me the story of how they met, the bumps they encountered during the stereotypical "seven year itch," and how they overcame them. It was a sweet and encouraging display of love between two men, but this is my story. If he wants to share it with you, he can write his own damn blog.
After a nice time with the Germans (one of the rarest phrases ever used in the world), we said our goodbyes to them, left them there and exited into the curving and purposefully confusing streets of Mykonos. Holding hands, we walked in silence.


Designed to lose pirates, we found ourselves lost in the streets. We knew where we were headed. We knew where we were going, but we took our time as we held hands and walked the winding streets. I could feel the breeze from the water which was not far away. I heard a mixture of the sounds of the surrounding ocean and the music from the various clubs we passed.


We were in no hurry. Our pace was slow. And, then we stopped.


I leaned against the outside wall of a closed shop, and looked at Nicholo. There in front of me was a nice and friendly guy. Even in his limited knowledge of English, he still was funny. He was cultured and traveled. And, as if that weren't enough, his olive skin, his dark hair and his blue eyes captured me. At that moment, looking at him, I couldn't help but smile. (As I sit here, months later, I can't help but still smile.)


That's when Nicholo leaned in and kissed me.


I couldn't tell you the name of the street. I couldn't tell you the time. And, I couldn't tell you the day of the week. But that is the most romantic moment of my life. Against the wall of a shop, in a winding street, on a beautiful night, with waves and music echoing throughout the air, on an island in Greece, I was kissed by a kind, funny, beautiful, French man.


It is a scene taken from a film. It is a moment stolen from a dream. But, it belongs to me. It is mine.


With any perfection, it eventually was interrupted. Moments of utter perfection cannot last too long in one place. It disrupts the universe.


To bring this bliss to an end, our German friends happened to be walking by a few moments after we had begun.


"Oh, now," he said teasingly. "Look what we have here. I thought you two had left to go to the hotel for the evening."


That is why we left, and that is what we did. We left that beautiful moment and returned to the hotel where we made a few more.


The next morning, we leisurely woke up and lazily began our day… the way it is done when someone is on vacation (or the way it is done every day on the island of Mykonos). Knowing the hotel served a light breakfast buffet, we called Jojo and headed to the patio to meet him for a morning meal.


Jojo was there in all his glory. Being an Italian who lives in France (would he be called a Italench? Frenalian?), his style was double European which can catch a Gap-shopping American like me off guard. There, at the breakfast table, sat Jojo, in a black, mesh tank top, black Speedos (with rhinestone trim) and black combat boots. My greatest acting challenge to date was going through the entirety of that breakfast as if his outfit was normal, as if I see someone in that every day.


We decided at breakfast that after quick preparations we would head to Super Paradise Beach.

Now, I grew up in Corpus Christi which is a stone's throw from South Padre Island. I grew up very near a beach. And, although I didn't often go, I knew enough about a beach to think there wasn't anything else to learn. "You seen one, you've seen them all." But, like the time I had too much to drink and thought calling me ex was a good idea, I was completely wrong.

Super Paradise Beach, an all nude, pebble beach, is worlds away from Padre Island.


We jumped into Jojo's rented Jeep and headed to our destination. With dance mixes blaring and the top down, we sped around the roads which had more curves then Marilyn Monroe. On the way, somewhere in the middle of Mykonos, we passed a Starbucks which electrified me with both a feeling of complete comfort and a mild sense of suffocation. Even paradise is not complete without a Starbucks.


Being my first time at a nude beach, I had no idea what to expect. Would it be filled with men who looked as though they stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue? Would there be more six packs here than in the finest trailer parks of Oklahoma? Would there be dance music playing so loudly that it shakes the sand? Would there be young men dancing and waving bright colored flags? Would there be some hidden cove where folks could go to "take a break from sun bathing?" The Jeep that carried us to the beach might as well have been a small prairie house from Kansas spinning in the funnel of a tornado. I knew I was about to land in a different land, full of color, beauty and the queerest things I had ever seen.


"Super Paradise Beach" might be over selling it just a little. I might suggest "Pretty Close to Paradise (Depending On The Day) Beach." We arrived and picked our spots. Before I could even spread out my towel and apply my first layer of sunscreen, Jojo had removed whatever mix of leather, mesh and metal he was wearing and had laid himself bare in his towel. Why I was mildly surprised is still beyond me. If Jojo could have shed his skin, I'm sure he would have. He's the type that even being naked wasn't free enough. He doesn't strike me as a person that likes any restrictions, be them rules of society, clothes or skin. But, with the limitations that humans are given, he chose that moment to be as free as we can physically be.


Now, I don't have to see people naked. Sure, there are a few that I wouldn't mind seeing in their birthday suits, but for the majority of the world's society, I can pass. But, certainly, if someone voluntarily gets nude in front of me, I'm going to at least glance. I usually approach it much like an eclipse. I mean, I don't carry around a shoe box with a hole punched through it, but I will look at the forbidden in brief intervals just to view something I rarely see—although I doubt Jojo being nude in public is a rarity.


All evidence points to the fact that this was not Jojo's first time at a nude beach. There was not a tan line to be found on the man. He was the same color brown from the top of his bald head to the tip of his toes. Probably to make up for the fact that his body was all one color, Jojo strategically accessorized with a few pieces of jewelry. I'm sure this helps certain part of the body stand out and not blend in with others (a danger of full body tanning, I suppose). Both of his nipples boasted rings to remind everyone of their existence. And, I would have been disappointed if he did not have a Prince Albert, but Jojo is certainly not one to disappoint. There, in the tip of his Little Jojo, was a ring big enough to hang house keys from. I could have spent the rest of the day asking him questions about it like, "How do you get through airport security?" and "Do magnet give you an erection?"


Realizing that staring is rude and could potentially get me sick, I turned my attention to settling myself. Once my towel placed, my chair properly positioned and the sunscreen applied, I realized I had a decision to make. Swimsuit or no swim suit?


to be concluded...