No, that’s not entirely true. I don’t hate people, per se. What I hate is the little games they play. You know the ones I mean. The ones where it’s, “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. You scratch first”. Then when it’s your turn to get scratched, they’re gone in a flash.
This seems to be a realm well-populated by women. Not all women. Just the ones that I attract. Or maybe it’s the ones that are attracted to me? Whatever. It all boils down to the same thing. I give them what they want, and they give me . . . nothing.
Take Sally Johansson for instance. I gave her a roof over her head, food in her belly, clothes on her back, and all the devotion one man can shower on a woman. And what did I get in return? An empty house, an even emptier bank account, a lot of unpaid bills that I knew nothing about, and blue balls. She found herself a younger stud with more money, and the rest is history. Mind you, so is Sally, but I’m still working my ass off to clean up her mess. And my nuts still hurt a lot.
All that’s part of an explanation of why I’m sitting here on the aft deck of a 32-foot sailing sloop, by myself, on the west coast of Vancouver Island, with not a soul within a hundred miles. Well, maybe there are one or two, but I can’t see them, and they can’t see me. In my mind, they don’t really count.
Take last night, for instance. I was looking forward to dropping anchor in a small cove I frequent, about eighty miles north of the last marine outpost of any consequence. Usually I have the cove all to myself. No people, no noise, no disappointments in the morning. Just me and Mother Nature. If I wanted to stay up late and get drunk, no problem. If I wanted to just sit around naked, playing with myself, that was fine. Whatever I had in mind was what I’d do without having to answer to anyone or anything. No phones, no TV, no internet, nothing. Just me, by myself, at one with the rest of the Universe. In the isolation, I could sit back with whatever there was for liquid comfort and feel sorry for myself.
So it was with an undefined degree of disappointment that I found there was another boat already riding at anchor in my little secret cove. How dare they! Invading my space and making me feel guilty about my own selfishness. The nerve of some people!
In this particular cove, there aren’t a lot of safe anchorages. At high tide, it’s a fairly large expanse of water, but when the tide goes out, all the rocks that have a habit of punching holes in a fibreglass hull sit just below the surface, waiting patiently for their next victim. That other boat was sitting smack dab in the middle of the best anchorage in the whole cove, making my goal of isolation ever tougher to achieve. But I’ve been in that cove so many times that I can pinpoint exactly where I can and can’t anchor. Within six inches, and with my eyes closed, too. There have been several occasions when I’ve found shelter in this cove from a particularly strong storm, living proof that Mother nature is definitely female, and suffers from PMS.
When I got to one of the few safe anchorage places, I heaved the Danforth overboard and let it drag until it found a secure hold, then set the sea anchor off the stern. It sounds complicated, but I can do the whole operation in less than ten minutes. Something about having had lots of practise over the years, I guess.
Once I got the sails furled, I spent the next half hour settling in, getting something to eat and digging out the first of what would probably be many cold beers. These were the good ones. Imported. Two would give me a decent buzz on my way to daily oblivion. I had a couple dozen on board, just in case my math was its usual crappy self. The food was only to keep me from getting sick as a dog after I’d over-indulged. You’d think I’d have learned by now that the food always comes back up first.
It was quiet. Just the wind rustling in the trees onshore and the lapping of waves against the hull. This was what I had been looking for all week. Peace, quiet, and a chance to commiserate. But the silence was broken by the greetings of a female voice.
“Hello,” she called, “can I come over?”
Somehow, the word ‘No' evaporated from my vocabulary. There was something soft and appealing in that voice. Despite a feeling that I knew so well, the one that tells me to shut the fuck up and run or hide, I invited her over anyway. You’d think that after twenty years of involuntary bachelorhood, I’d have learned.
You’d be wrong.
She rowed over in a punt-nosed skiff and tied off at the stern. I helped her climb aboard, noting that she was probably just a couple of years younger than myself, and those years had been kind to her. Maybe it was the exercise of sailing that had kept her fit and trim. Maybe it was all the men she’d fucked over the years. Maybe it was a case of “Check all the above”. At the time, I really didn’t care. She was definitely eye candy for a lonely old gypsy sailor like me.
As she climbed over the stern, I could see that her striped crew-neck shirt was all that stood between me and her breasts. They weren’t huge, but they sure were firm looking. Her pert little nipples gave away the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra as they poked into the fabric and left definite outlines. Those breasts looked to be just enough to fill a hand, with maybe a little extra, just to make sure. The horizontal stripes of her shirt only accentuated her chest. She wore a pair of denim cutoffs that might just as well have been spray painted on. And those legs! They started at her ankles and went up to God knows where! I almost had to wipe the slobber off my chin!
“Hi. I’m Brandy. Brandy Bendall.” she introduced herself. The muscles in my jaw had ceased to function as I babbled incoherently, lost somewhere between civility and rampant lust.
“H-h-h-h,” I started, “hi. I’m Jerry. Jerry Wallace. Welcome aboard the . . . .“ Shit, I’d have to go look at the name of my boat painted on the bow! What a hell of a time to suffer from Alzheimer’s! She giggled a little, very definitely aware of the effect she was having on my oversexed and under-supplied person. She had the bluest eyes I could remember, and in that moment, they gobbled me up and spat me out. And I didn’t give a shit about anything else! I would have happily committed harikari for the chance to die in those eyes!
“Relax, Jerry. I don’t bite, ya know.” she crooned. “I was just trying to be neighbourly, and I could use some company tonight. Usually I’m quite happy being by myself, but tonight, for some reason, I wanted some company. But, if you’d rather be alone . . . .”
“No, not really.” A part of me wanted to throw her overboard and let her drown. The rest of me was busy trying to find a balance between a possible escape from loneliness and a bad case of raging hormones. The latter was winning by a large margin.
“Can I offer you a beer?” I asked her. I felt like adding something about a good roll in the seaweed too. Discretion, being the better part of valour, won out. Sometimes I hate discretion. This was one of those times.
“Yeah, I’d like that.” she confessed as she found one of the only two comfortable spots on the whole deck to sit. I made a mental note that the other spot was right beside her. Hmm. That was the usual pattern that played out whenever I let my poor heart become some woman’s playground. Or so that little voice in my head reminded me. I was getting good at ignoring that voice.
“How about something to eat?” I offered. She gazed into my eyes as she contemplated whether or not she wanted to be poisoned by a lonely bachelor.
“Chef Boy-Ar-Dee?”“ she inquired.
“Sorry, all out of that pre-digested shit. Beer-battered cod, and there’s some home fries left.” as I tried to calm her fears. “ I think” I added.
“Yeah, that sounds good. You make it yourself, or have you been talking to Captain Highliner?” she asked, referring to another one of those frozen fish outfits that managed to remove most of the fat, and all the flavour.
“Nope. It’s the real thing. I’m not what you’d call a gourmet chef, by any means, but I haven’t killed anyone off with ptomaine poisoning yet. Still working on that, though.” I had tried for some levity to break the feelings of stalemate stuck in my gut. It went over like a lead balloon.
Brandy accepted my offer, hiding her trepidation well enough so that I didn’t notice it. I guess she’d heard horror stories about bachelor cooking before, or had maybe lived through a couple.. I seriously hoped that this wouldn’t be another chapter in that book. The newspaper headlines alone would be enough to send me into the culinary underground if it was. Hell, I’d be relegated to fast food restaurants for the balance of my existence. Just the thought of living off hamburgers from the take-outs made my stomach want to define a whole new dimension for the term ‘recycling’.
I served out a plate of food for her, then grabbed two more beers as I passed the cooler. I wasn’t sure if she was ready for another one, but I definitely was. Passing her the plate and some cutlery, I sat down next to her and proceeded to fill my face with what was left of my own meal.
“Hey!” she injected. “This is pretty good. You catch this yourself, or snag it from one of the docks?”
“The docks? Please! A guy has to have some pride, ya know” I scolded her lightly. “That one came out of Hecate Straights yesterday evening. Took me almost an hour to land the son-of-a-bitch, too. I’d guess he weighed about fifty pounds, because there’s another twenty pounds of filet left. Guess what I’m living off for the next week?” At the time I'd caught it, I was amazed and more than a little impressed with myself that I’d managed to land a ling cod of that size. Especially with only ten-pound test line.
We ate in relative silence until Brandy tried to start a conversation by asking me to tell her about myself. There’s two versions of my autobiography. One takes about two hours. The other cuts that down to five minute. I went with the abridged one, then asked her to enlighten me with her own story. She talked, I listened, and neither one of us remembered a single word. It was all a part of the game of breaking the ice between two dissimilar people.
From the little I remember, it seems that Brandy was a marine biologist, out for the summer in pursuit of information on the habits of some aquatic creature with more Latin names than all the people listed in the white pages of a telephone book. She picked up the blank look on my face when she rattled off all those names.
“Ya know those little tidal crabs that always show up when the water’s low? Those creatures.” she educated me. I knew of them. They were the ones that were big enough to do serious damage to a toe if you were sloppy, but not big enough to make a meal out of. I tried to look intrigued anyway. Brandy started to expand on her study criteria. She went into the importance of these particular invertebrate in the overall scheme of things. I had other things on my mind. Two of them kept rising and falling with her breathing.
“You really don’t give a shit about all this stuff, do you?” she asked, finally becoming aware of my disinterest.
“I wouldn’t say that.” I told her. “But you’ve got a pair of the most beautiful breasts I can remember seeing. They’re alive and heaving right in front of my face. They’re more hypnotic that Sigmund Freud. And I’m supposed to be concerned about little crabs? About the only crabs I give a shit about are the ones I hope you don’t have.”
“Me? Crabs? Not in this lifetime! Maybe I should make sure you don’t have ‘em either?” she teased. Promises, promises! Typical female!
Brandy spent what felt like a lifetime studying something on my face. I could see her eyes shifting from side to side as though looking for those horns that might sprout from my forehead any second now. I know about her eye movements from first-hand observation. Mine were locked on hers, focussing on those gorgeous deep blue ones she had. It was like hers were the gateway to all the answers that mankind needed to explore the stars. Maybe they were. I wasn’t about to take a chance on missing any of that possibility.
Then out of nowhere, Brandy reached her hand around the back of my head, pulled me to her, and kissed me more passionately than I’ve ever been kissed before in my life. Not that it was a hard thing to accomplish. I really haven’t had too many passionate kisses in my forty-something years. But if there was a kissing scale from one to ten, hers was about an eleven-point-five.
I wanted to grab her, hold her, capture her as mine for the rest of time. Don’t ask me why. Even that annoying little voice that I was so desperately trying to ignore screamed in my head. “Don’t do this!” it yelled. “She’ll eat you up and spit you out, asshole!” Like I said, I try to ignore that little piece of shit as much as I can. Brandy was making my job insufferably easy.
My first instinct was to grab her shoulder and pull her to me tightly. My intentions were great. My aim wasn’t. Instead of the shoulder, my wandering hand found her breast, which seemed to draw me to it like a moth to flame. As soon as I made contact, all I could think of was how well some asshole newspaper reporter would fuck up my obituary. This woman would probably kill me on the spot and feed my remains to the dogfish.
But she didn’t flinch! I figured that if I was going to die anyway, I may as well go out a happy man. With her tacit approval, I cupped that delicate orb in my palm, my thumb on reconnaissance for that perky nipple that I knew was here somewhere. Finally attaining my objective, I lightly rubbed my thumb over it, eliciting a soft, lusty moan from Brandy‘s throat. For some reason, I froze on the spot.
“If you’re waiting for a step-by-step manual on how to feel up my tits, there isn’t one. You’re on your own.” she whispered to me softly, then kissed me again, harder, more passionately, and with an undeniable urgency. My hand slid down her side to the hem of her shirt, then snaking up inside, re-established my claim on her breast. God, it was magnificent! Soft, round, smooth, pliable, firm, and peaked with a turgid nipple that felt harder than a diamond. I squeezed that delicious flesh, wondering if I’d died and gone to heaven yet. Brandy‘s moans of delight weren’t much help at finding the answer. It sounded like she was on her way to somewhere, though. Could I follow?
We continued to kiss for several minutes, tongues battling, lips seeking and searching, fires of lust blazing inside us. My cock was hard in seconds. By the feel of the heat from Brandy’s body, it became a toss-up which one of us would spontaneously combust first. Which part of whose body ignited first was yet to be determined. At the time, I didn’t care. I doubt she did, either.
We remained locked like that for somewhere between a few seconds and a few millennium. It felt like forever, but not long enough. Damn, she tasted so good, so warm, so soft. Her tongue seemed to search out places in my mouth that even an oral hygienist didn’t know about. Those fingers running up and down the back of my skull imparted their unique brand of static electricity in every nerve ending above my big toe. A man would have to be dead a long time to resist this woman. I thanked God I wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway.
I became aware that Brandy had moved her touch from my head to my neck, slowly working down and out to my shoulder. Even through the fabric of my T-shirt, her fingers evoked sensations I couldn’t remember having experienced in my entire four decades. As her fingers traced down my arm and over the hairs on them. It felt like they were standing at attention, ready to salute the passing revue of her soft and delicate skin. By the time she’d reached my elbow, every nerve in my system was ready to scream in response. I wondered if she would follow my lower arm back to the hand that cupped her beautiful tit. Her grasp on my cock answered that question in a rush. I almost came right then and there!
In response to her obvious need, I sought the hem of he shirt, then lifted it up and over her chest, pausing to kiss each breast and nipple in turn, then slipped the garment over her head. I was half-way through tossing it wherever the wind took it when I remembered that we were still on deck. With mind-boggling consideration, I dropped it on the deck beside her, then returned to those magnetic nipples that had captured my lustful attention so thoroughly. With each flick of the tongue over their wondrous hardness, Brandy moaned, each time a little louder and insistent than the one before. Her hand had returned to my crotch, rubbing and squeezing it almost as wantonly as my hand on her breast. Somewhere through all of this we had slipped down onto the deck and were now horizontal, Brandy underneath my chest as I paid tribute to her one breast with my hand while my lips paid homage to the other.
I could feel the tug of something at my waist, but being otherwise occupied, I paid little notice. The pressure of the fabric wrapped around me released soon afterwards. I was vaguely conscious of a cool breeze playing through my pubic hair, but was more concerned with the delights that Brandy’s firm chest imparted to the nerve endings in my palm. As soon as she attained a grip on my cock, however, I became acutely cognisant of her touch. It was like small electrical charges arcing between her fingers and my thoroughly engorged manhood. Just as she had moaned when I teased her chest nubs, so I too issued a lustful groan in appreciation of the arrival of those silky fingers.
Becoming aware that I had one breast captured in my hand and the other one between my lips, simple deduction rendered the decision that there was an extra hand doing nothing. It slipped down her arm, over her wrist, and then contacted the softness of her belly. Despite the fabric barrier, I moved that hand down between her thighs and lightly slid up and down her pussy. She answered my beckoning probe with the thrusting of her hips, pushing her mons harder against my palm. On one up-sweep I found the tab of her zipper and released its purchase over her lower abdomen, undoing that remaining top button within three heartbeats. Brandy wiggled herself into a position whereby she could scoop the denim covering over her hips, leaving me with the job of its complete removal. I thanked her by repeating the manoeuver as she snagged the leg hems of my cutoffs and used them as finger anchors to facilitate the destruction of that barrier too.
Now both of us were naked, our skin in heated contact with each other, and the fire of our lust growing in intensity. Running my finger down the length of her slit, I sought the warm wetness of those juices emanating from her entrance. Smearing that feminine nectar up the inside of her labia gave me the sensation of contacting liquid glass, soft and slippery to the touch, and begging to be deposited on the nub of her clitoris. Finding that sensitive centre just under its protecting hood, I flicked it lightly, teasing and twirling over it in a dance of desire. Brandy gasped sharply as her hips involuntarily presented me with an open target. She strengthened her grasp on my cock to a point of almost painfulness, just on the side of pleasure. As I continued to stimulate her clit, she returned to the business of milking the pre-cum out of my piss hole and smearing it the full length of my shaft. It took all my concentration to keep from cumming right then and there.
My mouth felt parched. Our heavy breathing wasn’t helping any. In a need for moisture, I returned to those luscious lips and kissed Brandy long and hard. She slaked my thirst with her own saliva as our tongues resumed the dance we had started together. Temporarily satiated, I returned to her exposed nipple and nipped it between my lips while running my tongue over and around it. My finger moved of its own volition down her outer lips and into her cunt., parting her inner lips as it sunk inside her to the full extent of its length. Brandy mewled in delight, then again as my thumb replaced that finger that had been strumming her clitoris. Her hips once again forced themselves off the deck in a desperate bid to push her pleasure centre tightly against that digit that rubbed against it. As if her cunt wasn’t hot enough before, it felt like her entire vagina had risen in temperature by a full ten degrees.
I searched for and found the ridges of her pussy that belied the location of her G-spot, tickling and teasing them as Brandy humped herself against my hand, rolling over onto her side in an effort to capture that digit deep inside herself. Her entire focus was now on pleasuring her pussy with that finger as she humped and ground herself more and more, harder and harder against my hand. Her juices were flowing in copious amounts, their warm milky smoothness lacing my palm and soaking her entire crotch.
“God, Jerry! That’s it, right there! Make me cum, lover!” Brandy growled in my ear, the first words spoken in almost an hour. I acquiesced to her demand and wiggled my finger as softly as I could. Within seconds I could feel the walls of her vagina flutter, gripping and pulling me in deeper as her orgasm broke open and flooded her entire body. She reacted to that feeling of pleasure by tensing her vaginal muscles as they gripped me tighter and tighter, then began to tremble as wave after wave of orgasmic delight washed through her.
“God, I’m . . . I’m . . . unghh!” and she exploded into a world of light, feeling, and erotic surrender. My total concentration was on her, trying desperately to prolong and intensify her climax. It must have been relatively successful, because Brandy continued to mewl, twitch, and shudder for a good thirty seconds. Only her collapse against me signalled the culmination of her cum. Well that, and the puddle of girl-cum running down over my thigh. It radiated a heat that threatened to scald the skin off my leg. I loved it!
As Brandy came off that orgasmic high, she rolled onto her back, spreading her thighs as she dragged me with her and between them. The grasp on my cock demanded I fill her with my own heat. She reached between us and positioned my cockhead against her lips, then thrust her hips up in one sharp and decisive movement. My cock had nowhere to go but inside her. Its capture was like nothing I’d ever experienced before in my fuzzy memory. All I could feel was the wetness of her pussy and the heat of her vagina. The heat! God, it was like sticking my prick into a blast furnace! Her cunt walls conformed exactly to my cock as they pulled me deeper and deeper inside her. Our coupling was more of a pull than a thrust. I had no choice. I was almost forced to extend my entire length inside her whether I wanted to or not. Within seconds she had me buried to the hilt, her juices flooding over me and encasing my full length in their glorious warmth and softness.
With great reluctance to leave that warmth, I pulled back until just my cockhead remained inside Brandy’s cunt, then slowly returned to that source of heat. Repeating that choreography, I began to thrust and parry at an ever-increasing tempo. I could feel my balls slap against her ass, driving me faster and faster. My muscles seemed to have a mind of their own as it became almost instinctive to fill her, then withdraw for another assault. Within what felt like mere minutes I could feel my balls lift as they pushed my semen into place for that final launch inside Brandy’s thirsting vagina. The anticipation of my own release was long and teasing, almost like a slow motion scene in a movie.
“Girl, I’m gonna cum . . . “ I hissed softly in her ear.
“Yes! Cum inside me! Fill me with that wonderful seed!” she cooed.
I couldn’t have pulled out of her at that point if my life depended on it. The sensations she was giving me were too strong to resist. I just had to cum, to release my burgeoning load of spunk, to fill the void inside this marvellous woman. As the initial rope exploded from my cock and sprayed her steaming cunt, all I could see was the blur of lights in my head. Thousands of them, like fireworks in a night sky. The tension was so high that I have no idea if either one of us moaned, groaned, or screamed. Not to this day. I do know that through the fog in my brain I was dimly aware of Brandy’s walls gripping and pulling on my shaft, milking every drop of my hot seed out of my balls and into her waiting womb. I think she came, for I was soaked and sprayed with her girl-cum, and she pushed herself tight against me. I was just so lost in the ecstasy that she sucked out of me that I’m still not sure.
In our post-coital bliss we rolled onto our sides, holding there, and each other until my cock softened and became flaccid, then slipped out of her delicious womanhood. I’m not sure who kissed who, but I remember that kiss like it was yesterday; deep, warm, passionate, and with true feeling. If that little voice in my head issued one fucking word, I promised myself that I’d rip the son-of-a-bitch out and feed him to the killer whales!
We must have fallen asleep in each other’s arms. I woke later that night with Brandy still curled up beside me, her head resting on my chest. The night air was wet and cold. I searched the locker for something to cover us up with, not wanting to move one single millimetre more than absolutely necessary. Retrieving an old piece of Dacron sailcloth, I pulled it over us and dropped back into one of the most restful sleeps of my entire life.
The next thing I remember is waking up with the morning sun in my eyes. The lack of weight on my chest told me instantly that Brandy was not there any more. Fearing the worst, I slowly raised myself up. Her skiff was gone. As I turned and looked aft, her boat was gone, too. I had the cove all to myself. That’s what I had set out to do, to have somewhere to be alone with my misery. This morning, I felt like screaming at whatever entities had left me to endure that crushing feeling of being deserted.
Thinking that I was an asshole for not listening to that little voice, and knowing that this was just another example of “Same shit, different day”, I dragged my sorry, and now sore ass off the deck and headed below to the galley. I felt like something that should have been left on a bait hook. Damn! I’d let some woman use me again! Took her pleasure, then took her leave! I wanted to scream, to rant, to let the entrapped pain out of me! I almost threw the coffee pot overboard.
“Damn you, Brandy Bendall! Damn you to Hell and back! You bitch!” I screamed. Despite my rage and anger, I filled the pot, found the coffee, and put the whole assembly on the stove to perk. Then I sat down at the galley table, put my head in my hands, and tried to cry. The tears just wouldn’t come, no matter what.
As I looked up, my blurry eyes spotted a piece of paper on the counter that had not been there last night. More out of curiosity than anything else, I got up and retrieved it. There was something on it that wasn’t in my handwriting.