On the same Yacht

  

I don’t know why she insisted I come on this cruise with her, since this is her beat not mine.

I feel a little like a pull toy being pulled behind her on a string, tagging along because she wants me here, not because I’m needed.

She seems a bit distant when we climb the gang plank, and then gets lost in the crowd, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs and other parts of my anatomy on the poop deck.

I feel a bit guilty about all of this, about what I think might happen, hoping we can find a dark cubby hole on this eloquent cruise boat where we might cuddle and well… you know.

Only there are no dark corners on the newly minted boat, taking its virgin journey from the dock up river down to Lady liberty and back.

Even the dance floor is bathed in bright lights, alternating colors, sometimes purple, sometimes blue, sometimes intensely crimson.

The worst part is that we both know almost all of the people taking this maiden voyage, and most of them know us, especially the public officials who frown at seeing the two of us together, asking why it takes two writers to cover such a short trip as this.

“What’s the matter, bright eyes?” she asks, suddenly appearing again at my shoulder, her pen and pad in her hand, her gray pants suit making her look incredibly official and incredibly sexy.

I can picture myself unbuttoning each button to her jacket and blouse, getting down to the nitty gritty beneath, my mouth watering for a taste of more than the free drinks the cruise is offering.

“I don’t know exactly why I’m here,” I tell her. “Frankly, I feel a bit useless.”

“You’re here because I want you here,” she said with a twinkle in those deep, brown eyes.

As always, something stirs in their depths, only I cannot read what, a mystery that makes me ache even more to delve into her.

“Just stay close,” she says, leaning near my face, her lips glistening, and I do everything in my power not to steal a kiss.

“As for being useful, I’m sure I’ll think of a way to use you before we’re through,” she says, touching my arm, eye gaze full of promises of what might transpire later.

My imagination goes nuts!

I can see it all in my head, drawing her open like a clam shell, her blouse, her pants, laying her down on some flat surface where I might probe that space between her legs where the real treasure lies.

I start looking around, searching for any secret place on this elaborate tub where we might settle in long enough to turn fantasy into reality.

Maybe she knows a place where we can go? Out of the prying gazes of this crowd of over-inflated dignitaries, none of whom even remotely interest me. I wouldn’t be here if not for her.

And then, out of the blue – charging across the dance floor and through the array of lights, comes a greasy-haired official, who I dislike, and assume she dislikes, too, a raging bull with gaze thick with the same lust for her as I feel, and I hate him for it, and get very shaken when she smiles and greets him like her long lost friend.

“So, what kind of hanky-panky are you two up to?” he asks, looking her up and down the way a cattle buyer might a prize cow, and then with distain at me as if he thinks I have no business feeding on the same range.

He’s joking, of course, but it makes my heart skip a few beats, and I realize how obvious all this looks, me and her, here together, he thinking maybe I’m here play thing, someone she only hangs out with when she can’t find a real man.

When I look at her, her expression has gone cold again, clammed up, wearing the professional expression that is a thick and inaccessible as a new Berlin Wall, taking a world war for me to break through.

She also looks a little annoyed at him, and me, and tells us both she has a job to do and storms off.

Befuddled by it all, I decide I need air and climb the stairs to the upper deck, outside, with the boat moving south, the New York skyline glittering in bright sunlight on one side, our neck of the woods on the other. I go out to the bow – thinking of that scene from Titanic, where the two lovers stood arms wide, to hold her like that, hoping desperately, this trip doesn’t end up the way that one did.

The breeze from the movement and river clears my head a bit. She’s not with me. But neither is anybody else.

Then, I see her moving around on the more populated part of the deck, her broad sunglasses hiding a bit of her face, but adding to her mystery, making her look like Mata Hari on some dark mission where she must seduce someone to gain their secrets and save the world.

Each time she moves, it is like a dance step, graceful, yet determined, a powerful being hidden in the guise of a reporter. She is not Clark Kent or Superman, but some Greek Goddess in disguise, evoking a presence that even the unsuspecting public senses but cannot define.

I find myself aching for her all the more, this goddess of the harbor, who might if I am lucky settle for me.

Only at that moment, my bubble bursts. She is surrounded by admirers, including the official from below, powerful men all aching as much to possess her as I ache, but with infinitely more to offer, and she seems aware of this, laughing and smiling, touching their arms, looking into their eyes as if promising them something sweeter later, and she seems particularly drawn to the greasy-headed official from below.

He is close to her. He touches her arm. She presses her chest against him, tender, pointed breasts my fingers tingle to touch.

And worse, those others around them, the petty dignitaries who are with his party seem to encourage him with looks and laughter.

Something in my stomach turns, as if someone – that greasy man – has eased a knife into me and twists it to make the pain worse.

It makes me angry. I abandon the bow of my imaginary Titanic, marching towards the middle of the ship, painting this bastard with the same brush as that rich bastard from the movie, telling myself, he isn’t good enough for her regardless of how much money he had or power.

This startles him, giving me a surprised look as he asks what my official capacity is, implying that maybe I am a stowaway and that the captain ought to make me walk the plank, and if I don’t drown, then at least, she – this amazing woman – will be rid of me.

“You can’t both be covering this event,” he snarls.

“I’m just along for the ride,” I say, daring him to have me thrown off.

She looks amused, glancing at him and then at me, seeming to enjoy our efforts to outdo each other, two raging bulls, the winner of which gets to fuck her.

And for some odd reason, this excites me, and a scene flashes through my brain of both of us, ole greasy-head and me, doing her at the same time, pressing her between us like some exotic hor dourve, each of us probing her delicate interior in search of the pearl we know we will find.

She, however, turns cold again, her puzzled gaze seeming to pick up on a vibe in me she doesn’t like, and reverts to her professional self, taking the arm of the greasy-haired official and marching off, leaving me standing there, dry-mouthed, speechless.

When the boat docks, I see them getting off together, and picture them going to her place, where he slowly undresses her, slowly explores his hands, and mouth, and diving into her with his scuba gear to those deeper places he knows her pearl lies.

I am crushed. I stand on the deck for so long, I don’t realize dark has come and the ship mate tells me I have to leave.

I make my way down the gang plank resigned to my fate, when she suddenly appears at the bottom.

“What the hell is taking you so long?” she asks.

“I … I thought you went off with him.”

“Him? Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t associate with a scumbag like him except when I have to do my job.”

“And you came back for me?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says. “But you’d better hurry if you expect to make love to me. I don’t have all night.”

In my mind, we’re back on the bow of the Titanic.

“Get that silly look off your face,” she says. “We’re not doing anything until you buy me dinner first.”

 

 

 

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