Banishment

I stood, almost in disbelief, and looked at the two run-down buildings, both of weathered wood that once had been white, but no more. Both were small. The church appeared to be leaning, although Frank assured me that that was an optical illusion caused by the lack of balance of the foliage engulfing it. It hit me how hard this penance was going to be to fulfill.

Standing at my side and looking at the same buildings I was, Frank said, "You're lucky. The buildings are in better condition than most that the Gullah live in on the island. The walled vacation estates of the millionaires along the island's coast, are, of course, a stark contrast to these. But if you want any of the Gullah to be attending your church, I suggest you do little more than repair the window and door frames and put on a coat of paint. We are one with the earth here. We aren't much for putting on airs."

Somehow, this bucked me up—and even more so when he added, "Tom and I will be here tomorrow to start helping you with the repairs."

I wasn't going to have to do this alone. He added, though, "Which should we start with first? The church building or the house you will live in?"

"The church, I think," I piously said. "God's work first."

He laughed. "Maybe you shouldn't answer that until you've seen the inside of the house."

He was right. We started with the house first. Somehow it didn't matter that much. It was just a joy to have him there, working with me—in fact, doing most of the work. I could not have done it without him. I would not want to try.

The downside is that, although my determination to remain celibate in fact remained intact, any determination I might have had of not fantasizing in the moments of lying on my bed at night and drifting off to sleep of a man like Frank covering and moving inside me did not hold.

* * * *

The black shirt and trousers and clerical collar lasted all of two days. I found that Frank had dressed up to meet me at the ferry and wore even less than that when he was working on the church buildings. When he appeared for work Monday afternoon, after saying he'd be there bright and early on Monday, he was wearing gym shorts that dipped to show a curl of black pubic hair in front and the crease of the curve of his lower, flat belly into his upper thighs, as well as the start of a separation of the buttocks in back. He was wearing the rope sandals as well, though. Anyone thinking of calling him Droopy Drawers would be arrested by the reality of how sexy he looked that way. Tom, a younger and smaller man, fully Gullah, who accompanied him, was similarly attired, except his cotton trousers were longer. But men were well-worked muscular, and both worked hard, but in sporadic spurts.

I was to learn, from brief conversations with the two, that they both picked up work as they could, that this was the way of the Gullah of Daufuskie Island, and that it carried them through. Most of their subsistence—the subsistence of most here—came off the working of the land, which was taken care of mostly by the Gullah women and that was close to communal in both effort and sharing. It apparently worked for them. I didn't meet a single Gullah on the island who wasn't smiling and moving at his or her own languid pace. In addition to the stipend Frank now had and shared with Tom to work on Saint Mary's church and my house and to help me get established here, he was a backup golf cart tour guide of the island for tourists coming over by ferry from Hilton Head for a brief visit to the island, and he ran a fishing boat out of the marina by the public dock. I gathered that he lived in the fishing boat as well.

By day two, I was in a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers, with socks, and by day four, only the shorts and sneakers, without socks. I was growing brown as a berry from working on the outside of the buildings while Frank and Tom mostly worked on the insides, miraculously bringing the standards of the house to almost civilized and the interior of the church, with four pews recovered, that being more than enough, back to order and cleanliness. I also was hardening up. I'd been in good shape before, but now I was getting toned. Frank remarked on this, which embarrassed, but also pleased, me.

The two men worked a sporadic schedule, not showing up when there were other odd jobs to be had or when Frank heard that fish were running down off the mouth of the Savannah River. Even when they were on the job, they took long breaks whenever they took the notion, often leaning against trees and smoking despite my "friendly" lectures on the dangers of cigarettes. I was piqued at first at their half-hearted approach to work, even though when they were working they were productive and efficient, but Frank would just smile at me and say that there wasn't anything that had to be done today that couldn't be done just as well tomorrow, and I slowly fell into the rhythm of the island.

Sometimes the two disappeared for a half hour or more on one of their frequent breaks. They were working with me for only a week before I found out where they went and how they took their breaks. It also provided an answer to my wondering what Frank's living arrangements were. The Gullah seemed to be one large family, even though they lived in scattered family units around the island. More often than not they congregated to eat and party and, in one of their major revenue projects, work together in weaving intricately designed sweetgrass baskets that sold for big bucks in the Charleston and Savannah markets. They worked the fields together communally and one afternoon when I took a long walk, I discovered that the men were casual about covering the women in the fields and that the women could be casual about letting more than one man cover her.

I wondered if Frank, an unusually handsome and well-formed man, satisfied his needs by casually covering Gullah women in the fields. He may, as far as I knew, do that, but one afternoon when I went looking for him and Tom when one of their breaks dragged on and I needed advice on how to replace a board on the side of my cottage, I found out at least one way that Frank satisfied his sexual needs.

Both men were naked, both of them had beautiful bodies, the beauty of which was enhanced in how they were working together as one unit. Ebony-skinned Tom was bowed over, feet and hands buried in the ferns under a creeping-rooted Cypress tree next to a bog, his tail held high. Taller, milk-chocolate-skinned Frank was plastered to his back, draped over him. Frank's feet were planted beside and outside of Tom's feet, and his fists were gripping Tom's wrists. His chest was pressed into Tom's shoulder blades, his face into the hollow of Tom's throat. He was fucking Tom's ass in long, slow slides. Tom's eyes were set in a glassy stare, showing the pain-pleasure of what I could see was a long, thick, jet-black cock working his passage. His mouth was slack open in an expression of sheer pleasure and submission.

I watched for a moment, lost in the beauty of the tableau—what I'd been determined, when I came here, to understand as a sin that I was to shake in my own life and that I was enduring penance here for having indulged. The natural, primeval way these two men were engaged in it, though, and in a simple, honest setting such as this challenged both the ideology-based prejudices I was attempting to acquire to be right with my church and my resolve. I was particularly mesmerized by seeing that, although of light-chocolate skin tone from his mixed heritage, Frank's hung cock was jet black.

I couldn't help but shudder in arousing pleasure as I watched the huge shaft move in and out of Tom's hole.

Thoughts of sex with men—sex with Andrew McLeod—that I had been trying to suppress for weeks came flooding in and I turned and stumbled back to and into the cottage. There had been so much I had wanted to write about—to put into a novel—in thinking of these past several weeks. I hadn't been able to do so, as the electricity to the two buildings hadn't been connected until the previous day, and, more important, I was trying to convince myself that it was a sin to write about my feelings let alone think on them.

When Frank and Tom returned to work, Frank stuck his head into the front door of the cottage, finding me pounding away on my computer on the desk.

"There you are," he said, "You asked me a question about replacing a board in the siding before I went off on break. Would you like to come out here and show me where—"

"It can wait," I answered. "There's nothing that has to be done today that can't just as well be done tomorrow." And I turned, blushing, from looking at him, as I now couldn't see him without imagining him naked with that big jet-black cock hanging down between his legs.

The buildings quickly became usable—they'd never be full presentable—and I moved forward to holding my first mass, digging around and finding my black cassock, which, when nothing was worn under it, proved cooler than the collared black shirt and black trousers I'd brought to wear on the island.

My first mass was attended by two squirrels, a cat, and, outside the door, a bleating goat. There were three Gullahs, an old crone in addition to Frank and Tom, at the second mass. A half dozen showed up to the third one, attending, Frank assured me, out of curiosity and flexibility. They would attend their regular three-hour-long services at the Baptist church that afternoon. They were interested in what Catholics did in their services. Thereafter I put on a real show of full-blown formal ritual, and they loved it, filling the church. It wasn't too hopeful, but it was a start—and I was fulfilling my end of the bargain with the church.

At least I was fulfilling my duties in that regard. I also increasingly was lusting after Frank, dreaming of him lying between my thighs, mining me deep with that jet-black cock of his. With Andy, and now Frank, I obviously had an obsession with black bull cock. I tried working off my frustrations by banging away on my computer on a novel draft. That helped, but it only served to hold me in check, not to decrease my desire or sexual frustration.

I took to taking long walks in the evening and, on more than one occasion, I passed gatherings in one clearing or the other where a few of the Gullah shacks were gathered of a festival party going on, with communal basket weaving moving into picnicking off a common table, music on primitive instruments, dancing, and raucous laughter. More than once someone from the group would wave me to come join them, and the smiles turned on me assured me I would be welcome, but I had nothing to share, so I would politely demure and continue with my walks.

I noticed that they wore clothes of colorful cotton for these festivities and I ordered a few bolts of material from Savannah, figuring I'd find some occasion of giving them in the community to symbolize my wish to fit in here. The opportunity presented itself when I asked Frank about the parties one evening.

"You should attend them. You'd be welcome," Frank said. "It would help you become part of the community. Many of the Gullah have told me that they enjoy the entertainment you put on at your church. They would be happy to include you in their celebrations. We celebrate life here. Often when we weave the baskets together we celebrate the beauty of them—and of what we've been given here—and the friendship of each other in our gatherings."

I couldn't think of anything better that I could be preaching to these people than they already had—and that I was aching to have as well.

"Until now, I've had nothing to contribute," I said. "But I've ordered this material from Savannah and I know they like to dress in colorful clothes for their festivities. Do you think—?"

"That you've taken an interest in the people of the island—that you aren't just vacationing in a walled compound at the water's edge and raising huge piles of rocks to live in—is enough for the Gullah here. We accept all kinds, and we do not judge. I know you have talked of being banished here for some sin or other, but we don't judge here."

"I am a priest, Frank, and I've taken a vow of celibacy. I am here to do penance for that, which includes not falling into the pit again. I haven't just sinned against the vow of celibacy, but I've done it with a man." I don't know how that escaped me, but it had been bottled up inside me too long. Well, that was a lie. I knew why I did it. I'd seen him fucking a man. As much as it scared me, I wanted him to know I was a man who had let a man fuck me. I wanted him to know that we were closer connected that he thought. I couldn't look at him, but when he spoke, I could clearly hear him.

"This is a world of our own on the island, Matt," he said—using my Christian name for the first time and laying his fingers gently on my forearm. "We banish the guilt of sin from here. You can be what you want here, and you can be a priest to the people here. They have room in their hearts and lives for all manner of spiritual nurture and lifestyle. If you have sinned with being with a man for sex, you are no worse than I am. I have been with a man for sex too."

"Yes, I've seen you," I murmured. I couldn't look at him to see how this registered.

"I know where there will be a gathering tonight," he said after a moment of silence. "I will come for you in a cart at 8:00 p.m. Will you go to the party with me?"

"And afterward?" I asked, not being able to help myself. I was open and vulnerable to him, as good as lying down in front of him and open my legs for him. I did lift my eyes to his now, but I couldn't gauge his reaction. He must have known that I was offering myself to him—begging him to take me.

He merely repeated, "Will you go to the party with me?"

"Yes," I said, still not being able to look at him.

He turned to walk away and then turned back and said, "You've been honest with me about the nature of this sin you say you are fighting. I'll be as honest with you. I was told of your desires and needs. And I was told I was hired because I lay men and that I was to make sure you were happy and satisfied—if you wanted to be. When and if you wish it, I will be pleased to lay you too. We aren't much about being coy on the island. If I didn't want to lay you I wouldn't tell you this. Since I do, I see no reason not to be open about it. I understand if being a priest means something to you in a man being with a man, but it doesn't mean anything to me. Sorry, but I just see you as a man I'd like to fuck. Now, I guess I should ask again with all my cards on the table. Do you want to go to the party with me? It doesn't mean that we ever have to get it on, depending on what you want. But if you want me to fuck you after the party, I will."

And then he, as I blushed and stammered that, yes, I still wanted to go to the party, turned and left.

I also said, "and lay me afterward," but by then he was gone.

The party was a delight, everything I could have hoped for it to be. From the time we arrived and a group of women took me in hand to laugh at my crude attempts to weave sweetgrass into a basket and Frank went off with the men cooking sausages on a grill and smoking their cigarettes, I was welcomed with smiles and friendly conversation.

I sat with the group, cross-legged on the ground through a shared meal, and listened to the harmonica and strange string-instrument music. I even participated in the dancing, in which there were no partners, just everyone moving about in a circle under strings of colored lights. And when the home-brewed booze was passed around, I imbibed in that—fully.

Perhaps too fully. All inhibitions flowed away from me. I became one with the Gullah of Daufuskie Island.

* * * *

I woke to a rocking sensation and staring into Frank's eyes, which were open and watching me. We were in the cramped cabin of his fishing boat, lying stretched out against each other, both naked. He had shown me his fishing boat before and I'd been in this cabin. I'd seen where he slept, and I had dreamed. It was like I was in a dream now—except that I wasn't. I was lying on my back, one of his arms under me and the other laying across my chest. My legs were spread and bent, the soles of my feet flat on the mattress. I could feel his erection laying on my thigh. I was open and feeling the sensation of rippling inside my passage. I had been fucked—I certainly knew the feeling of having been fucked. In fact, my rim, gaping open from the feel of it, was still puckering and releasing. I'd been fucked within the last several minutes. My passage was sore. I hadn't just been fucked; I'd been reamed.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "It was the booze. I never would have taken the liberty otherwise. I know I said I wanted to fuck you, but I said I'd wait for you to say you wanted it. I'm afraid I might not have waited. The booze did it for both of us—erased the inhibitions. I'm sorry. If it's not what you wanted or were ready for, I'll never—?"

"You've fucked me?" I asked, putting a mock edge on my voice.

"Oh, yes, I fucked you. More than once, I'm pretty sure. I'm still hard from the last time. Again I'm—"

"Shhh," I whispered, raising a finger to his lips. "I did tell you last night I wanted it; you just weren't still there when I said it. I'm just sorry I wasn't conscious for it. I wish—"

"You want—?"

"Yes, please," I whispered.

He rolled on top of me, between my open thighs. I arched my back, gave a little cry, and dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades, as he slowly, relentlessly entered me with that big, jet-black cock of his. He been there before—often enough that I had been reamed to accept him. The muscles of my passage walls responded as in joy, clutching at the throbbing cock as it moved deeper inside me, rippling over the steel-hard shaft, pulling it inside me. His lips found mine as he started to stroke me in long, hard, deep, slow, possessing slides. My pelvis went into motion of its own volition and we were going with the lapping of the waves under the boat, joined in the coordinated rhythm of the deep fuck. Fifteen minutes later he came—again—in a peaceful flow deep inside me and a harmonious shared sigh—his a deep baritone, mine a low tenor. I had already given up my seed up his flat belly, moments before.

I drifted off to a light sleep. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me with his eyes again—but from across the cabin, where he was perched on a cabinet, smoking a cigarette, and looking pensive. My eyes went to his crotch, mesmerized again by that big jet-black cock, half hard now, protruding from a thatch of curly black pubic hair and standing out in stark contrast to the milk chocolate tone of the rest of his body. His free hand went down to stroking his cock and I took mine in hand as well. We stroked ourselves hard, me lying there on his bunk and him just a few feet away, crouched on a cabinet. We said nothing, letting our eyes, electric with arousal, say it all.

He turned and flicked his still-smoldering cigarette into a small sink in the cabinet and, with an animalistic grunt, covered the space between us in two strides. He turned me on my belly and whipped an arm around my midsection, bringing me up on my knees, with my chest flat on the mattress, in one swift movement of covering me. I cried out as he thrust hard and deep inside me. His fists went to my wrists over my head, trapping them. He buried his face in the hollow of my neck and I felt his teeth latching onto me, painfully, there. I groaned and moaned and whimpered as, breathing heavily, he took me hard, vigorously, almost cruelly, showing no mercy, giving no quarter.

We fucked like dogs in heat, him pounding my ass, me crying out my need and my want and churning my pelvis against his onslaught, wanting him to take me fully and totally, which he did. I was as wanton as he was, as much in high heat as he was, fucking him as hard as he was fucking me. Both of us animals in full rut. We both ejaculated joyously and prodigiously and he lay on top of me, collapsed to the mattress now, and chewed lightly on my ear lobe and played inside my ear with his tongue.