Beacon Of Love 03 Forced Foucaultization

I awoke to seagulls feasting on all the dead cod that had washed ashore in the storm. My gym shorts and ripped T-shirt had dried overnight, but they left my midriff totally exposed, like some kind of trashy crop-top. Alas, I had nothing else to wear. I'd never fit into any of Jacques's muscle shirts. Reluctantly, I put the ripped crop top back on. I could smell coffee wafting up from the kitchen and decided to follow the smell. Jacques was playing The Beatles again, this time Norwegian Wood off of Rubber Soul. I entered cautiously, worried Jacques might call me out for peeping, but he didn't seem phased, nor Skipper any the wiser. She was still in her sports bra, making us vegan pancakes and hash-browns.

"Bon matin," Jacques greeted me.

"How's the storm damage?" I coolly inquired.

"Not too bad. The grounding cable from the lightning rod fell off. We're lucky there wasn't a direct hit on the lighthouse. I'll have to climb up and reattach it tomorrow, but we should be fine for today. It's nice to have company. It's not everyday sexy coeds wash up on this lonely island. I'd like to relax and enjoy it. Looks like we've got a few minutes to go on the pancakes. Come out with me and I'll show you around."

"Sure," I shrugged.

Jacques showed me out the front-door. The storm had passed, but had surely left its mark. Sand dunes were smeared all over, smothering low-lying ferns here and exposing bare rock there. The smell of dead fish was overwhelming. And also... wait, what was that? Is that weed?

Jacques lit up a blunt. "Strike your fancy?"

"Sure, thanks," I took a hit, sitting down next to him on a rock by a tide-pool.

"There isn't much to do for fun out here," Jacques lamented. "I smoke a lot of weed. And read a lot. Sometimes I tattoo myself. That's about it."

"How does a Canadian sailor get to be an American lighthouse keeper, anyway?" I queried.

"One doesn't," Jacques replied. "The lighthouse is just a convenient place to stay. It runs itself. I'm an ornithologist. I have a grant from McGill University."

"So you didn't save us then. We just got lucky and saw the light."

"I suppose you did."

"Then what's with all the sailor tatts?"

"I used to be in la Marine Royale, Canada's navy. That's where I became interested in seabirds. I'm only on this island to monitor the osprey, whose migratory routes run from all the way down in South America up through this island every spring on their way to breed in Canada. Osprey mate for life, you know."

"No, I didn't know that."

"Indeed, it's a beautiful bond to witness... speaking of which, how did you enjoy the show?"

"What show?"

"Vraiment, mon ami? Tu ne sais pas? Come on, I saw you creeping down the stairs last night..."

"...Uh, I, I'm so sorry!"

"Relax. I'm the one who should be sorry. I saw you hooking up with Skipper when you got here. It's obvious you were into her, and I swooped in and stole her from you. That was a mistake."

"Thank you, but... a mistake?"

"I shouldn't have sent you upstairs. You seemed like you were in a bad mood, but I should've encouraged you to stay. We should've included you."

"You mean like a three-way?"

"Oui, une ménage à trois. Intéressé?"

"Would it be, like, her blowing me while you fuck her? Some kind of double penetration situation?"

"No, you misunderstand me. I'm not talking about one position; I'm talking about a whole love-making experience. We can't have boundaries between us while we're making love. We must each be equal partners without inhibition, you and me just the same."

"I'm not gay."

"Sure you are. Everyone is. There's eight billion people in the world. Would you rather fuck the four billionth least hot woman or the number one hottest man?"

"The hottest man," I reluctantly conceded, "but that's a bullshit question."

"Nobody's sexuality is oil and water, kid. We're all playing with a mixed deck. It's just a matter of where you draw the line."

"I'm straight, Jacques. I like girls. I always have."

"I'm sure you do, because you disinhibited yourself from liking girls sometime in grade-school. Before that, you thought they were gross. Aren't you glad you let go of that inhibition?"

"Come on, I was just born straight. Most people are."

"Born straight is an American lie. Sexual identity is socially constructed, not biologically inborn. If your parents never fed you spicy foods, it wouldn't mean you didn't like them, only that you'd never tried them. You wouldn't go around building this phony macho identity around how you only eat plain potatoes. That would be ridiculous."

"Phony macho identity?" I balked. "You're the one covered in tattoos and leather."

"I live the part. You ever read Jean-Paul Sartre?"

"Duh, I've got a semester and a half of freshman philosophy under my belt. Sartre and Foucault are on my reading list in every class, even gym. Not that I ever do the reading."

"Well, the French post-existentialists had it all figured out. Even Foucault started to see things Sartre's way by the end of his life. See, I laid myself down at the altar of creative self-transformation and allowed myself to become who I am; my own creator."

"That's what I don't understand! If I grew my hair out and wore jewelry, I'd look like a girl. How come when you do it, you look like a rockstar?"

"I didn't choose this life; it chose me. I didn't force it; I simply chose to submit to it. Whereas you're living a lie. I see the way you act around Skipper. You want her so badly, you're trying to be somebody you're not. I think you're afraid of who you really are... But I don't mean that in a judgmental way. I was the same when I was your age, before I let go."

"How did you let go?"

"I saw you checking out Skipper's tramp stamp before. There's a lot of feminine energy back there, you know."

"So I've been told."

"Check this out." Jacques pulled up his shirt to reveal a phoenix inked into his lower back, right on the kundalini chakra. In the sea of sailor tattoos, it didn't even look out of place. It wasn't exactly masculine, but it wasn't effeminate either.

"You really are into birds, huh?"

"It symbolizes resurrection. I got it in Saint Catherine, the gay neighborhood in Montreal. I had to let my old masculinity die so that something new could rise from its ashes..."

"From the ashes of what? How did you figuratively die?"

"En français, we call the orgasm la petite mort. It means the little death."

"So your phoenix rose from the ashes of getting your rocks off?" I scoffed.

"No, no, you misunderstand me. Think of it more like an ego death. The death of your old inhibitions. When you die, you let go. Nobody ever died wishing they'd been more inhibited, right?"

"Literally Foucault."

"You know that's not what I mean..." Jacques looked me square in the eye. "Do you trust me?"

"Only a little," I answered honestly.

That was enough for Jacques to kiss me, with tongue. I participated, though I really wasn't sure what to do. I'd never made out with a guy before. I closed my eyes and went with it.

"--Breakfast is ready!" Skipper called out.

"We should go inside," I nervously concluded.

"Oui, d'accord..."