Today, at the height of Hurricane Season, which has been relatively calm so far, there was a storm that came close in the Gulf, just close enuf to give us that pre-storm moist warm air and passing bands of rain. Just enuf to bring back memories of Hurricane Georges in September 1998 a category one storm that I sat out in my apartment on Miami Beach – but with a most interesting guest.
His name was Humberto and he was the maintenance man at our Miami Beach apartment building. He was in his late thirties, fairly well built with the typically handsome face of most of the Cuban men I've seen. I first met him when my wife and I were together and I noticed that when he would work in our apartment he seemed intrigued by my nude/erotic art and photography that was displayed on our walls. However, we rarely spoke at the time.
Then I separated from my wife and found a smaller apartment, one of those one-room efficiencies that are so common here on the Beach in another building of the same owner. So, Humberto was still around. In fact he lived in an efficiency a few doors down the veranda but our involvement was no more than a nod and smile and a few pleasantries. He had a girlfriend or wife who lived with him and I often wondered just what Humberto thought of me and my openly erotic life, especially when he saw some young man leaving my apartment, often with a parting hug and kiss.
Then Georges came. Not a terribly big storm, there were no mandatory evacuations so I elected to sit it out in my apartment a block away from the ocean. Humberto had been busy all day picking up loose items around the complex, and throwing pool chairs into the pool. Not much else to do except hope things don't leak too much with the sideways rain.
That evening the lights went out and I got the kerosene lamp lit with a few strategically placed candles around the apartment. There came a knock on the door and when I opened it, there was Humberto, large flashlight in hand saying he would be around if I needed him for anything. The wind was getting to almost gale force by now, so I motioned that he could step inside the door.
Blame it on The Storm
For those who have not lived with hurricanes, you may not know of the camaraderie that often occurs during this force of nature. Hurricane parties are quite common because there is something about sitting out all this noise and power with other people. Or, another person, which is why I asked Humberto if he would care for a glass of wine. It wasn't like either of us had anything better to do at the moment than sit and idly talk over a drink so he gladly accepted my invitation.
Actually, it was quite pleasant talking by lamp light while the wind gusts rattled the sliding glass doors to the balcony. Even with the wind blowing the air was warm from the tropics. I was already shirtless, wearing only cutoff shorts, my normal attire at home and Humberto soon removed his damp T-shirt as well.
I had never seen him without a shirt and now in the dim light of the lamp I could see that his entire muscular back and chest were covered with tattoos. Not fine ink work but crudely drawn pictures and little verses written in Spanish – the kind of tats guys do in prison. In our talking he told me he had come here in 1980 from Mariel, Cuba and that he had been in prison in Havana – for killing a cop. But he said it was alright because the cop was shaking him down. OK! So, here I was sitting out the storm with a killer Marielito!
I guess there was an element of risk with my guest, but somehow he seemed harmless enuf and it all seemed to fit with the howling wind and bursts of rain outside. We had some more wine and Humberto stretched out on my bed nearby.
As we talked I could sense that Humberto was quite comfortable lying across another man's bed and I invited him to take off his shoes and stay a while. He happily obliged, telling me how he had really worked hard today getting ready for the storm and was a little achy from it. Of course I offered to massage his sore muscles and he said that would be great.
I got the oil and warmed it in my hands spreading it over the black-ink tats on Humberto's white back. He had a workers tan on his neck and arms contrasting with the white skin under his T-shirts. I enjoyed the feel of another person gliding under my palms and with the subtle moans I could tell that Humberto enjoyed the touch even more. In fact, there was a certain shared intimacy that belied Humberto's usual macho posturing that I've seen him assume around other guys, his deriding other men by calling them maricon or by talking of his exploits with las putas. And yet, here he was moaning so softly under the gentle touch of my hands on his back.
