Feed Me, Burp Me, Hose Me Down

“Oh my god.” I can’t see the man around the corner, but I’m pretty certain that anyone in a two-hundred-foot radius can hear his light tenor. “Oh my god,” he repeats. “Listen to what this says: I’m a little stinker. I make bigger loads than anyone!”

A chorus of laughter erupts from the other unseen gay guys who surround the speaker in this little store. I’m in a portside tourist shop on the island of Grand Turk—the first port of call on my week-long vacation cruise. It’s apparent that this section of the island isn’t accustomed to much tourist traffic; only two ships are stopping here the entire week. Though the little mall built next to the docks is neat and cheerful, the stores here don’t offer much in the way of the typical Diamonds International chains, or those inexplicably popular t-shirts that change color in the sunlight. Even the duty-free shop is a wan little affair, only missing a sign that reads, Hey, we know you’ll do better at any other port, but while you’re here….

And this little shop, this tiny purveyor of tourist claptrap and the oddest and endiest of odds and ends, sells some of the most perverse objects ever. I’ve been looking for something fun and colorful as a souvenir for the friend feeding my cats while I’m away, but in this little emporium there’s precious little from which to choose. I’ve already rejected the crudely-painted objects purporting to be ashtrays, since all of which have been sculpted into convex domes that would seem to repel ashes to the table, rather than collect them. I’ve rifled through a plastic milk jug of Grand Turk refrigerator magnets of varying tackiness, only to discover that the so-called magnetic strip on the back don’t actually adhere to the empty rotating iron magnet stand sitting next to them. The colorful images of tropical flowers printed on a dispirited rack of tees have all been printed askew, at a Dutch angle.

In fact, everything in this strange establishment looks as if it has been purchased at a deep discount well below wholesale from some tropical island factory seconds bin. Or perhaps, made in the dark by amateurs who, guerilla-like, had snuck into a tchotchkes factory after night and couldn’t quite work out how to operate the machinery.

Then there are the bibs. I’m fixated before an entire wall of cheap plastic bibs in garish neons when the unseen man caterwauls again, “I make bigger loads than anyone!”

I’m not really paying attention to him. Each bib has a slogan printed—again, slightly off level—in crude block letters on its front. I love daddy cuz he treats me right! reads one. Another has been emblazoned with, I might look tiny, but I’m a mighty big boy underneath!

I’ve actually been staring at all these bibs (and there are a hell of a lot of them, since I don’t exactly know who would ever buy them) for a couple of minutes. I’m trying to figure out if it’s just me, or whether there was something a little—I don’t know—off about these damned things.

“Oh my gawwwwwd,” drawls a deep Southern bear within eyeshot. He’s a massive man with tree trunk legs stuffed into combat boots, his belly bulging out a tee sporting a glitter-farting unicorn. Apparently the display of bibs extends around the corner, because he’s plucked one in a cornea-searing shade of pink from the wall to display to his gaggle of bear friends. “Spank me hard and put me to bed.” His group bursts once more into hilarious laughter.

No. It’s not just me.

“Daddy hugs and kisses me best,” reads the first guy. “Why are these thingies all about daddies? Don’t they hang around babies’ necks or something?”

“Want me to stop crying? Shove something good in my mouth. God daaaaaamn!” hoots the Southern bear.

“Mommy made me, but daddy spanks me. Y’all, this is some seriously deep-level weird Freudian shit,” says the first guy.

“I’m-a gonna have to buy me a bunch of these.” The Southern bear grabs several in his paws. “Oo, I like this one: Feed me, burp me, hose me down.”

Two of his friends dissolve into hysterics. “Hose me down!” says one. “It’s like they made these especially for gay men.”

“You mean, it’s like they made these just for you.”

“Y’all, they did make them just for me,” says the bear as he lays a bib against his chest, like he’s trying it on for size. “This one that says Open wide and swallow is going to be my outfit to the tea dance tomorrow, I swear.”

“Buy it,” someone urges. “Buy it! It’s the best!”

“Yeah, you can’t top that one.”

That’s when I make my appearance. I’ve been quietly laughing along with them, mostly out of view, but now I step out and brandish a bib from my side of the display. “No,” I announced with authority, holding aloft my prize. “This one is the best.”

The Southern bear narrows his eyes and reads aloud my proffered bib. “My hands might be tiny but I can still wrap them around daddy.” His eyes met mine and widened. “Oh. My. God.”

The other bears crowd around the corner to see the bib for themselves. They whoop and holler their amusement so loudly that other men from the cruise start poking their heads through the open doors to see what’s so funny.

“Gimme that,” say the bear, snatching the hanger from my hand. “Please. Unless you want it for yourself, that is.”

“All yours,” I grin.

The following day, at the afternoon tea party back on the ship, I spy the Southern bear dancing in the crowd with his friends. He catches my eye and waves at where I stand on the balcony above. Then he backs away to a clear spot to show off what he’s wearing. Somehow he has jerry-rigged a whole mess of bibs into a poncho of sorts; it’s multi-colored, painful to the eyes, and covered with slogans that probably had been intended innocently enough, but to a mass of gay men would seem like the worst (and best) kind of double-entendres. The one I’d showed him is in the dead center.

Well, I think to myself, at least that weird little shop made money from the tourists that morning.