FAIR WARNING THIS IS FICTION, and ADULT Themed. NAUGHTY WORDS AHEAD. NOT my usual garden stuff. Nor photography. ADULT fiction.
PART ONE, follows
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Scratching.
Something was scratching gravel?
And smelled.
That’s what I first remember. My face was cold, wet, and sore.
I knew I was face down on a deck, but little else. My eyes were crusty and I managed to pry them open… to see a cat’s ass, pooping in a litter box a inches away.
I barely raised my head to hurl into the toilet.
No, head. I was on a boat. MY boat. I recognized the boat… not the cat. I don’t own a cat. I felt the movement, waves, ocean, pretty decent sea state. That’s not why I was sick. Seasickness wasn’t my thing. Given the way my mouth tasted: foul, I guessed I was seriously hung over.
I was aware, later, that same cold wet, and foul smell. My face was again on the floor, but I was not facing the cat’s ass this time. I could smell I had been sick and my tee shirt was a mess. So was parts off the floor.
The sea had calmed. Some. Still some chop, but not as bad.
I tried to stand and ended back face first in the head, hurling again. Jeez… this wasn’t me. Not in decades.
This time I woke, feeling hungry. Odd. Maybe dehydrated… definitely that. Dizzy, too.
I felt the engines thru the deck. Low, steady, calming. I managed to sit this time, without getting dizzy, or sick… thank god for small miracles.
I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I knew I needed to clean myself up. This head had a shower, so, I stripped off, and climbed in under the hot, hot water. Never in my life felt better. I turned my face up, let the shower fill my mouth. Spit quite a few times. Even that felt great.
Finally, dried off, and made my way to my cabin, for clean clothes. And find out what was going on. I couldn’t remember much, except being sick, and seeing a cat pooping in my face. Being sick a LOT. And the smell.
I climbed the steps and was completely shocked. THE LAST thing I expect… was waif. I’d called her waif for maybe 6 or 8 years, since I first met her. She was always hanging around the marina. I’d guess she was 10 or so, when I first saw her. She’d grown some, but still small. Waif was not a bad description. But WHY was she in the pilot seat of MY boat, and where were we.
She turned and smiled at me, “Finally back among the living? Feeling Alive?”
And laughed her little laugh.
She’d always worked some, here and there, and did odd jobs in the marina. I didn’t know much about her. I assumed she was either related to someone at the harbor, or a homeless waif, hanging around. My wife hated her, but tolerated when she got the boat ready if were going out for a day trip. Not that my wife was a fan of the boat. She liked to talk about it. Would show it off to friends visiting. But waif? no. When waif finally grew up some. She was still small, but managed to put some curves on. Gone was the gangly little kid, and now, she sported some small B cups, gently moving with the boat, beneath her tee. Long, sinewy legs, were pulled up onto the chair. I really like that tanned look on legs. An tight curves on calves. I closed my eyes, and shook my head. BAD MOVE.
“Uh…” I croaked out.
She laughed. “OK, I guess you’re feeling better but NOT perfect. We’ll be pulling in, in about an hour.” I looked out forward and could see some nautical daylight to port, though the sun wasn’t quite up.
“Where are we?”
I grumbled... barely.
“Just below New York City, heading to Ocean City”
“New York…? ocean cit…? What the HELL?” I blurted. Maybe too loud, she looked a bit frightened, maybe? Certainly she recoiled from me.
“You said, we need to get away, head to Florida, so, a couple days ago, we set off. You’ve been below throwing up since… Tuesday? That’s three days now.” She was worried. Maybe thought I was mad at her? or, what?
My brain was not comprehending. I live outside Boston. My boat was on Cape Cod 100 miles from home. And yet, here, we were heading into Jersey? That made sense, three days. I certainly wasn’t standing any watches, so, she did three days, solo, while I hurled and recovered. I looked outside again and noticed, we were not near shore.
“What happened?” I asked her.
“All you said, was ‘bitch.’ A few other words, I prefer not to say. I asked If you wanted me to call your wife, and you threw up off the dock at her name. If I was a betting woman, I’d say she made you mad. Really mad.”
I barely made it back to the head, and nothing came up. Just, more dry heaves. My brain WAS remembering. BITCH. Vaguely that much.
“So, Florida, huh?”
“Your idea, you were emphatic.VERY” She smiled at me. “I got nothing keeping me tied down, so, I packed my backpack, Blue, and some food for him. And kitty litter.”
“Yeah, The litter I remember.” My stomach did some small flips at THAT memory.
She had her phone out… wait, my PHONE? And snapped a pic. That made me stop, and think. That sound, the camera sound, hit me. ALL of it flooded back. Pictures and my world collapsing.
My entire world. Everything I was sure of, gone in a half dozen photos. Gone.
I sat, at the table behind her.
She went below, and grabbed an ice water. Pushed into my hand and said, “drink. You need to catch up.” My mind a mess, I started looking around. She kept her backpack within reach. She was clearly still nervous. Over then years, I had spoken to her, and had her do some work, here and there for the boat. Not many did, but she was a kid, needed the work. So, I paid her here and there. Last winter, I asked her to stop by once a week or so, to check on the boat. I had cameras and system monitoring, so my boat didn't need it. Showed her my hideaway key. I am fairly certain she stayed all the cold months on the day bed down by the galley.
Later, after first tentative bites of some crackers, and a LOT of water, I sat at the pilot house table, and let my mind relax, and my story tumble out. I’ll say this for Waif, she sat silently, her legs up, knees tucked to her body, and listened. She didn't interrupt. Just listened
About a week now? Maybe only 5 days? No idea, since I lost to many during my blackout days. I went to the yard sale. My neighbor had passed. Young. 35. He was single, a photographer, and loner. I know he had a few women visit. I’d see over the back fence into his yard and porch. They were thirty, sometimes as young as maybe 20, or rarely, 40. But never more than a few days at a time. AND almost never the same girls twice.
I grew up stopping at yard sales, mom and dad would, so, I would as well. Yard sales and craft fairs. I was fumbling thru some of the old electronics. And then, paging thru some of his photo albums. To say that he shot some racy stuff? THAT was an understatement. No faces, but lots of naked women. Bodies. Parts, and many sexualized images.
What stopped me, was a pile that were clearly shot on his deck. I could see the back of my house, and my deck, in the distance. Many women, cropped just below the neck. Sunset. Naked. I could see that some, …Let’s just say, wet. Dripping. Clearly, we’re recently fucked. And legs raw red. Hips blush colored from friction. And their lower body, engorged. Wet, too. I was trying to guess, which naked body belonged to the few faces I remembered, when my world collapsed.
Those hips. Thighs. And that rose tattoo. I knew it well. I had kissed it often. Yet, here it was, raw, red, and dripping wet right beside that tattoo. My house, in the background. I barely spun away before I threw up. I grabbed that pack of a dozen or so photos, and ran. Vaguely hearing some yelling.
I don’t remember the rest. Not going to my house around the block. Not the two hour drive. Not getting to the boat. and certainly not Waif, or setting off from the marina.
I barely remember the cat, dropping little deuces an inch from my nose. I barely remember the cold of my face, on the deck, and the stench of my own vomit. My brain basically kicked back in a few hours ago and what waif told me, I lost three days, and quite a few hundred miles of open ocean.
I looked like hell, that was obvious, based on Waif’s expression. She was shocked. Her own face doing a quick goldfish impression. Mouth open. Close. Open. Close. She simply reached her arms around me and held me. Until that moment, I thought I was holding up well. Drunken stupor not withstanding. Once her arms wrapped me, I lost it. I don’t no how long. 5 minutes? 30? A day? I simply balled my eyes out. Waif held me. Comforting words, not actually heard. But received… you know?
Finally, I looked at her, embarrassed and, a little bit better. “Thank you… uh. I know this weird but, I am not exactly sure of your name!”
She laughed. Kept holding me.
I’ve heard people call her Marina. Alyssa. Olivia. All manner of names.
“I’ve been on your boat a dozen times with you and too many days alone. Now?" big sly smile, "OK, time for introductions, I guess.”
She smiled, and said, “Susan.”
I was NOT expecting THAT, but that truly cracked me up. I’d been thru a half dozen or so girlfriends name Susan, Sue, Susie. My friends had nicknames for them. Sue 1, Sue 2, Sue George. Just to keep it straight. Susan. Of course. It had to be. In my head, though, I knew her as waif. Far from it, but that was her. Gone was the 10 year old straggler. She’d filled out. Curves. And her eyes had a look. I guess my wife was worried. I guess I was too.
She’d been on my boat for a few days trips, when I did some big repairs, to helps me test out the boat. She could handle it, dock the boat, and handle lines. Well, for three days, she clearly could not only handle the boat, but also navigate. I mean, we’d made it a few hundred miles, and the boat was still floating! There was more to this waif’s story than I really knew. Then again, clearly there was more to my story, and she knew.
