It had been a hell of trip sailing from Larochelle to Casablanca to the island of Tenerife in about week of shifting November winds. When endured ten days of storm the captain threw his hands in the air and said "we're dead" and headed below deck and only peeked out the hatch a few times per day to check on me and the large ships that floated about the rugged Spanish coast.
And found some relief out in the open ocean. We tried to follow their example and put some distance between the fragile hull and the jagged rocks that could rip a hole and sink us in seconds. Often passing them within mere feet was nerve wrecking.
My misplaced sense of invincibility faded quickly when I spotted the bodies of some unlucky sailors floating past. Unable to pluck them from the sea, leaving them to the elements until rescuers who waited out the storm reclaimed them. Unfazed by way of lack of experience, but talented enough to steer the yacht through, over and across enormous waves, I volunteered to stand at the wheel.
It gave me me a misguided sense of control while the other crew members huddled inside, occasionally handing me a warm beverage, can of beans or reached out to rub my ice-cold feet. I tried to keep the bow from heading in to rocks and the stern from being washed over by a crashing wave.
After days of pounding rolling and dodging rocks, I actually never expected to ever walk on land again. Let alone have dinner on a terrace overlooking a bay full of fellow yachtsmen rowing in and out to shore on a calm moonlit ocean. That same ocean no longer fooled me, under different conditions it could sniff out life in an heartbeat. If you only let your guard down for a second.
There was a lot more than ocean vistas from where I sat, several fancy dressed ladies had already passed, returning our shameless stares with subtle glances, some of which lingered far longer than I could endure without thinking of that morning under the Eiffel tower.
As much as I had wished my friends could have seen me making love to mesmerizing Isabella, as much I wanted to have her see me steer the Clementine down thundering foam crested waves. It would have made her see the man in me that emerged from below the layer of boyish naivety I had been so eager to shed, living up to all of her expectations.
While the six years she had on me weighed heavy, I may have overlooked the fact that I wasn't exactly a "little" boy in the same sense I viewed my self compared to other, mostly shorter but older and more experienced men. For me, my height was nothing special. Sure, the gasps and moans of the ladies in Paris had confirmed, I wasn't exactly small in the nether-region department, another thing I would learn to appreciate in ways I had not been able to even imagine.
It would take a few more steamy adventures with experienced ladies kind enough to point out such basic facts, adding confidence to my insecure demeanor.
I may have been six foot five, and about to grow another two inches, but despite Isabella and Veronique's encouraging sexually enlightening lessons, on the inside I was very much an eighteen year old, barely scratching the surface of sexual enterprise, especially in terms of romance,-- the part that plays outside of the bedroom.
I still had no idea how to pursue a woman who wasn't falling all over me or dragged me to their love nest the way Isabella had done. Unaware of why, the teenage girls who kissed me within moments of meeting them obviously liked me, but adult woman in their prime were a whole other animal. Isabella was a fully grown woman and I wasn't so sure if she was an exception. Would other gorgeous grown women even look at me?
The crew, Jean, Robby, Wim, Bertus Frans, my fellow sailors, all older than me by at least ten years, loved the endless supply of strutting ladies in their finest wear. Whenever the men looked at the women it hit me that they were as enthralled as I was but in a slightly different way.
Despite the unbelievable liberating lessons in Paris, most of which none of my friends ever believed, if it wasn't for the fact they knew I never made things up, I was still overcome by shame.
To blatantly look at strange women, even when they put their bodies on display by wearing heels, mini skirts and tiny tops, that all asked for attention, I still felt it was "wrong." Maybe because it always bothered me when men looked at my mother with the same lusting eyes I saw around the table. I liked these guys.
They were my buddies who sailed through some terrible weather conditions. I respected most of them for one or another skill. Their character, trust, loyalty meant a lot to. They voiced their appreciation after I steered them through a hell I never wanted to face again.
Despite all of that it still bothered me that they evaluated ladies the same way the casting directors and producers had evaluated me in Paris. Or was I wrong? Was is OK to "check out" these gorgeous creatures without any hesitation or shame? Didn't they dress up to be admired?"
"My time to give it another thought ended when captain Jean leaned over and said "D., that foxy lady over there, the one in the white form-fitting one-piece is checking you out."
I followed his glance and saw a tall woman, turned toward a shop-window. She had a perfect round firm bum and beautiful long legs, but since she had her back turned toward us I couldn't see her face.
"She's looking at you via the mirrors in the window. I am telling you, she is all over you," Jean insisted when I shook my head, laughed and said "Come 'on, she's window shopping, not looking at us, and for sure not at me."
"Yes, she is looking at you, and if you don't get your ass over there and introduce yourself I am going to make sure you sleep on the beach tonight. You may steer a yacht, but I want to know if you can steer that cock of yours in the right direction. And that over there is a worthy way-point on your life's map my friend. Trust me."
Now everyone at the table looked at the girl in white, then to me, clearly expecting me to get up and beeline toward not only a total stranger, but a woman who was obviously much older then me and dressed to kill.
I hesitated, got up and carefully made my way to her. When I nearly reached her, overwhelmed by fear of rejection, I turned right, headed down the stairs in to a disco and stopped at the door, totally confused about what to do.
When I finally rallied some courage to head back up and confront her, hoping she had left, I looked up and saw her standing at the top of the stairs with her legs slightly spread, like a goal keeper, smiling at me as if telling me 'what are you doing, where are you going, what is the matter with you? I dare you talk to me."
When I made my way back up, I saw the men were watching, enjoying this silly old game of boy-meets girl from a safe distance. I knew it was time for me to grow some balls and confront the simple, but very scary act of speaking to what I now saw to be a stunning chestnut colored brunette with huge round boobs.
Her long wavy hair was parted over her left shoulder until she shook her head as if she was getting ready for a fight. With both hands she grabbed her hair and brushed it back and then shook her head again.
Her boobs swayed back and forth, making me think, once again, of Isabella, who still darted in and out of my thoughts every day, at night, and whenever I was trying to forget her. "Where are you from," she asked without wating for an answer adding, "My name is Vivianne. I am from Germany."
"Oh, well...I am from Holland and I am Dietrick...and I do speak German. I went to school in Germany."
She looked at me, for a what seemed a long time. Absorbing every emotion and movement I made as I started to walk toward the crew, as if to see if her first impression of me matched her second.
She must have indeed peeked through the mirror at me because she caught up, perhaps viewing me as a good prospect to succumb to her charm and a inpromptu source of pleasure.
Ill prepared to match her determination, I knew then and there that I had to let go of every form of hesitation. Take charge if any away possible, and be a man. Like Isabella she was obviously much older, perhaps 25 or even 26 and I was, despite my height, once again outmatched.
Modeling in Paris and my quick vacation to the South of France had certainly made me aware that women were no less interested in playing the game of seduction while feasting on the attention they received from men, but also other competing women, who not always admired their favorable attributes.
Unlike like men who often view ladies as objects and necessary sources of satisfaction I learned that while women view men as a source of sex they also see them as life-style enhancing gateways. However, it appeared to me that the ladies had a little more finesse expressing their desires.
Men, the few I had seen, were brute and direct. It took the joy out of the dance, the emotion out of the song, the passion out of the act of conquering, no matter how little I know about any of it. But then, in all fairness, men didn't exactly have all the tools women have to do the dance.
Isabella and Veronique once explained the enormous effort and expense men went through. They loved turning in to absolute irresistible beasts of pleasure to drove men crazy, open their wallets, and lose control far beyond their better judgment.
Of course, they were lucky to be born pretty much physically perfect, as far I could see. Certainly ompared to all other models I had seen personally and those featured in magazines.
Fortunately for these men, Isabella and Veronique didn't take advantage of their suiters, but simply enjoyed the game of 'catch and release' instead. It gave them a sense of "conformation" and what they called "self expression."
Like an artist manipulating paint or materials in certain order or a fisherman who winds his own flies and lets go whatever he enjoyed catching, they refined their skill, analyzing the phycological and logistical methodologies.
Unlike many other women, self sufficient and not materialistic in nature, these two babes made men donate a lot of money to charities they believed in. It became a sport. Men really got off easy.
So many other models loved being chauffeured in Bentley's 'n Rolls Royce's, eagerly accepting lavish gifts and toys, all paid for by "some old geezer" who, as they confided, "couldn't even lift their shrivled pecker."
