In This Here and This Now

in the channel, small waves. the tide rises.

no visible stars, milky-brown clouds drift across the face of the moon. it's not pitch-dark at this end of the marina, but dark enough.

there are no other boats nearby, this area of the docks is usually reserved for larger craft, making this 34-footer look smaller than she actually is. which is odd because darkness often makes things appear larger than they are.

sometimes.

i take a quick sip, set my wineglass down on the deck floor. a breeze has picked up and, like a dope, i didn't grab my fleece or my husband's sweater before getting out of the car. wasn't thinking. other things were occupying my mind.

are occupying my mind.

stepping up over the railing, i rest a hand on the cabin top for balance while clutching a backstay, then i slide slowly towards the foredeck moving from one backstay to the next. i have to bend and twist to step cautiously over and around a port light that someone had left open. it's precarious but i think i'll make it to the foredeck alive.

"precarious," apropos of nothing, except for what i'm doing here, now, and why.

i make it to about perpendicular with the mast, then stand more-or-less relaxed, still steadying myself with a backstay though. looking up, from where i'm standing the line might be a forestay. not really sure and i don't really care. when anxious, i tend to focus on little details, often inconsequential and unrelated to what's going on around me. it's like talking to yourself as a way to focus the mind.

that's backwards, i know, it's usually to distract the mind.

i know i am a unique woman, unlike others. we all are.

let that sink in for a while.

nor am i drunk. just...nervous. sea legs, like when you don't have them you can easily get tossed around on a boat - gashes, broken bones, concussions - or even overboard. or like when you've had two, three hours of intense sex and you try to walk afterwards.

later, perhaps?

planning to.

lights flicker like fireflies in the distant homes along, from where i'm standing, the port shore of the river. starboard, over the docks and slips and the remainder of the marina towards shore, the clubhouse on the little rise of darkened lawn squared by beach plums and boxwoods and hydrangeas, the entire property framed by scrub oaks and scrub pines. it's lit up brightly and i can faintly hear music. a good party. the prior three this summer have been rather...forgettable.

i'm imagining this one won't be.

it's one of my favorite summer scenes, standing out here on the docks gazing back at the clubhouse lit from within, like a sepia-toned daguerreotype. a lustrous dream of what someone would imagine how a "ye olde new england yacht club" should look during a mid-summer's night.

lustrous. lustful. similar sounding words employed however for vastly different...purposes.

i have lived and do live a charmed life, and i'm grateful for it.

straight ahead about two hundred yards at the mouth of the river, the channel buoy flashes green, green, green, and i'm reminded of, what was that from...

gatsby

. charlotte read that in her ap english lit class years ago, just as amelia did two years before that, and i re-read it alongside both of them, as i did all the novels assigned her and her sister. gatsby sees that green light and thinks of, what's her name...daisy. well, the landscape around here doesn't look much like gatsby's west egg. this end of the marina is actually a real working one not a prop added at the behest of the chamber of commerce for stylized quaintness. and some of the people inside the clubhouse now, several could buy gatsby out and not worry the cash in the least, and two or three of them could easily absorb every one of gatsby's buyers.

such is life, one that i've been around all my life, the early part however living outside its perimeter.

i make my way back towards the stern carefully. out here at the head pier, while the open channel waters usually flow calmly, tonight a breeze creates some surface chop so the boat pitches a little in her berth. i'll check the dock lines, they might not be fastened properly, and i can see the headline now - "hopkinton woman falls off sailboat, drowns", "...blunt force trauma from a head injury...", "...drowned from being submerged unconscious...", "...toxicology reports reveal no..."

the remorse, the grief. my husband, our children. friends, colleagues. "so, so sad."

but what was she doing out there...

the question asked and texted for months afterwards. no one would suspect the real reason why said woman - dressed in a bikini top and an ankle length skirt and strappy sandals and

nothing

else, near a docked boat at the farthest, darkened point from the yacht club's clubhouse -

all by herself anyway?

well, maybe not perhaps "no one." wives and husbands who have done, are doing, are thinking of doing what i'm about to do could probably construct a reason why.

holding the edge of the stanchion, i step gingerly down onto the cushion covering the gunwale bench, then onto the cockpit floor, straightening said skirt while my husband is at home, more than likely asleep, as i kill time waiting to have sex with a man who i didn't know four hours ago on a sailboat that belongs to his boss.

i'm shortly going to be the cockpit of someone who's twenty-five years younger than me.

cockpit, younger, cockpit, younger. cockpit. younger.

the crude echoes in my head shallow out my breathing, the butterflies take flight, gooseflesh rises, and, right on cue, nipples yawn and clit blinks.

where is he?

i climb onto the opposite gunwale, shore-side, and half-step, half-jump out onto the dock. walking beside the slip parallel to the hull, i uncleat the bow line. whoever secured it earlier did a half-assed job - too much scope, and a loose knot as well. i belay it more appropriately, then walk abaft. the stern line's crappy as well. probably too drunk to care, which is never a presumption you make on or around a boat, moving, moored, or docked.

i untie the stern line from the dock and tug it gently. the sailboat glides towards me, graceful and elegant. i coil the line into a lasso and holding it in my left hand, with my right hand and arm i untie the line from the hull's stern cleat then quickly refasten it into a real figure-eight around the cleat horns. i guide the sailboat back towards me, she's vintage, sleek, sophisticated, the dock below me undulating sweetly in the chop. my body rises and falls lightly with the movement, a tranquilizing feeling to some, nausea-inducing to others. i rather prefer it.

bending over, i uncoil the stern line around the dock cleat.

"want me to tie you up with that rope?" a voice materializes from behind me.

upright, the stern line dangles out and over my fist, the remainder in a pile by my feet.

"please," i reply, dropping the line.

"i think we can arrange that." he takes a step towards me. "hi."

"hi." he's four, maybe five inches taller than me, his body rises poised a solid rectangular box against the distant luminosity of the clubhouse. i notice he's not wearing shoes. i'm not sure if he's expecting a kiss. i don't really

know

what's expected. "what kept you?"

i'm embarrassed by a slight need lilting my voice.

he notes that, grins an almost-too-familar gratification.

"a couple of phone calls. i've been watching you." he steps to the side, his eyes taking in the entirety of the sailboat.

i'm wrapping the line around the dock cleat. "really?"

what i'm imaging to be a typical response, smoldering delight, actually rises more as...irritation within me. being...assessed for your...worthiness. something i haven't experienced for decades, and i'm surprised at my response.

but perhaps given the situation, the unexpectedness of it -

"yeah. all the way up the dock. you went around over there" - he points over the cabin top - "then up there towards the post" - mast - "then back down and jumped onto the floor" - deck - "then up there" - points towards the bow - "and played with the ropes" - bow line - "then back here where you untied then tied the rope there" - stern line.

"like you own it."

"i've spent a lot of time around sailboats," i say - a simpler irritation - while sliding over the gunwale onto the deck, where i stand next to the helm. i have - assessment. i know them intimately - worthiness.

i grew up in a town not unlike this one, although mine was in delaware not massachusetts. and we certainly didn't live in a house like my husband's and my summer home here, neighborhood either. his, waspy lineage. i'm from "the people of murky origins" who fixed the engines and riggings of crafts great and small, washed the floors and cleaned the diapers of the families who lived in homes like ours here. assessment. worthiness.

the marina where my father worked, in summers after supper at night, i was able to take runs up and down the river and through its estuaries and on out into the bay in a dinghy i would "borrow" from the sailing school. the marina knew about this, they didn't like it but they didn't forbid it, that's not to say the snotty kids whose parents paid for those lessons would never let you forget your father "got all greasy" and your mother "cleaned shit". that dichotomy exists here, too, you see it, overhear it, and while the language is more erudite, from experience the sentiment cuts just-as-deep, deeper in fact.

sometimes i'd take a friend with me, molly or janice. janice, at first, janice would smoke the cigarettes she cribbed from her mother, then as time went on chugged the booze from her mother's liquor closet. molly would be petrified thinking we were going to capsize and get eaten by a shark. i, of course, did nothing to persuade her otherwise, in fact, i'd get us keeling right to the edge - "lisa, stop!" - before flattening us out.

but my favorite times were by myself. i'd bicycle the five miles to the marina, coming in by the back service road, avoiding contact with the members and their entitled progeny. the sailing school dinghies lined the shore of the lower basin and i'd walk one out and at about waist-deep, haul myself over the hull, grab the boom line, and set out. i scoured those inlets and its tidal flats night after night, high tides and low, rain storms and heat waves, year after year, charting the slow disappearance of tree cover and the low-slung bungalows being replaced by the manicured lawns of the seven- and eight-figure cookie-cutter "new england style" colonials sprouting at respectably zoned intervals. oh the secrets and laughter and tears of

mine

that filled my odysseys crisscrossing the waters of that coastal paradise - which seemed so broad and imposing at the time - slights from janice or molly, secret crushes and private desires, or just a quiet head filled with drifting thoughts centered on nothing specific but the joy of having that joy. and that river held all those intimacies close, in silence, the friend that never abandoned you.

a rather solemn child, i always preferred the company of myself, or if necessary older people, who tended to leave you alone if you weren't either incredibly talented or incredibly disturbed. "mildly talented and mildly disturbed," those "lisa days" are long gone. after her was "liza" in college up through my mid-twenties when i got married. i've been "elizabeth" ever since. i miss lisa, and i think that's partially why i'm doing this.

"yeah, well, it's my boss's boat," he asserts, as if this is supposed to mean something? as if his physical proximity to it automatically translates into legitimacy?

he's young, maybe even a tad young for twenty-five - having traveled that invisible credibility path myself, he has a lot to learn. another reason for why i'm here - a "young twenty-five". i couldn't have chosen better.

"for sure. and a nice one." even though from what i've seen, loose lines, his boss doesn't deserve her.

he's still scanning the boat. i know exactly what he's looking for.

i take a couple of steps towards him and kneel on the cushion covering the bench. "here." i reach an arm up towards him. he grabs my hand, a little too forcefully. fear.

"just step up onto the side," i pat the top of the gunwale with my other hand, " and push up and off and over all in one motion, then step down onto the cushion with your other foot, then let your momentum carry you down onto the deck." he's got his left foot on the gunwale and he's looking down at the cushion. he's uncomfortable, for sure. "just do it all in one motion. don't think about it," then, "i'll be pulling you in."

i almost want to laugh aloud at all my double entendres, though they do perfectly reflect where my mind

and

body are at presently, but the studied look in his face tampers my mirth.

he shifts more of his weight onto the hull. i pull him up and before he can register what's happening, he's crossed the gunwale and his right leg and foot land on the cushion and i'm tugging his arm a little more until his left foot and leg slap down onto the deck.

"not the smoothest," i say, still holding his hand as his right leg comes forward. "welcome aboard."

he's standing next to me, so now i do lean up and kiss him. he kisses me back, not deeply or passionately, more surprised, i'm not sure from the kiss itself or the fact that he survived the boarding.

"i don't get boats," he says. "like what's the point?"

it's a good thing i'm not looking to create any kind of relationship out of this encounter, anything beyond the next hour or so, otherwise i'd disembark now and crawl home.

"like this." he's standing at the helm and he's jostling it left and right quickly, looking like a moron in a cartoon in the process. "like why does it have to be so big?"

he seemed cute, and charming in that cuteness, earlier. now?

disembark?

then the next second,

a young twenty-five...

"actually there's a reason for that. the helm," i wrap my left hand around the silver rim, "controls the rudder, which steers the ship. rudder cables and lines run from this" - i lay a hand on the steering console - "to the rudder. this," i wrap a hand around the curve of the helm again, "is connected to this", i tap the rectangular box that's attached to the console, "which is called the pedestal. and all of this is connected to the rudder mechanism, which is contained partially in there," i point to the lazarette.

"when you turn the wheel to one side, the cables and lines connected to the rudder turn the rudder on an angle to the left or the right of where you're heading. a large helm or wheel makes it easier to manipulate those cables and lines by allowing the captain to exert more force on them while expending less energy. it's simple physics, in a way."

"huh," he replies, politely disinterested. "yeah, you sure know a lot about boats. i guess all rich people do."

i return a polite smile, and then he quickly begins pointing to and touching things - "what's this?", "what's that?", jumping up and slapping "what does that do?", "compass", "depth sounder", "a topping lift, it supports the boom."

i'm growing tired of

this

form of show and tell.

"wanna show me inside?" and i take a step towards the companionway.

"you read my mind," and he follows me down the hatch. "down the hatch". like "cockpit", my heart flutters.

it's quite cozy and attractive in ways most cabins on crafts this age and size aren't. except for the navigation station to my left, not in the least bit nautical, not even a tacky wooden cutout of an anchor or whale hanging anywhere. soft light rises from thin strip lights mounted along the top-side of some decorative moulding at the curve of the cabin ceiling and walls. the woodworking isn't the expected teak, it's either ash or maple, like a refined, swedish-modern kitchen. in front of me extending to the right, white speckled countertops, marine-grade corian for sure, and, peering closely, in the inlays as well. impressive. microwave, sink, three-burner stove, refrigerator. on the other side of the countertop, a small table surrounded by a three-sided horseshoe-shaped sectional couch. and as my eyes adjust to the light, nice, little touches throughout as well, including small, translucent paper venetian blinds obscuring the port lights. i spy the open one that i had to maneuver around on deck earlier. someone who relishes privacy intended to spend a lot of time on this boat. and while it's his boss's, a wife - which one, in a line of perhaps several, who knows - oversaw a remodel. i'm certain of that.

"what do you do for a living again?" i set my summer mini birkin on a small cutting board by the sink.

"as little as possible." he's already crossed the cabin, seated in the corner of an el-shaped sectional couch opposite the small table, one leg tucked underneath him. white leather, real cushions as seats, with pleats in the sides and backs. more wifely details. which, for some reason, relaxes me. being in an unfamiliar place, more or less, with someone i don't know whom i'm about to have sex with, somehow, i feel less alone. i feel i know the woman who designed this space. i have things in common with her for sure. like she knew there'd be many a time she and her husband - or, she and her wife, or she and her lover or lovers - would be here as i am, the two of us about to bare ourselves in ways intimate and beyond. i find that thought comforting.

i stand next to him and reach up to latch the portlight closed.

"cold?" he asks. he's dressed in a thick, aztec-patterned pullover and knee-length shorts. the thin slab of an exposed coral sole of one foot appears sharper, more defined against the white leather cushions tucked under the thigh of his other leg. hands, face, too.

"yes."

there's a tumble of bed linens and a blanket and a duvet in the v-birth next to me. not enough headroom to sit up full while cowboying flat-straight or flat-reversed.

i

have

done my homework.

i collect the duvet and blanket, and approaching, ask "you mind?"

"sure."

he slides off the seat as i slip to the left. i loosely cover the seating area with the blanket and tuck it along the long-side, it's fleece so it'll feel soft and warm, more inviting than cold leather. and it will absorb some moisture, so it won't feel like sliding on wet plastic.

he looks me in the eyes and kisses me again. this time, our intensities match, and it's nice. really nice in fact. he deftly slides the tips of his fingers under the waist band at the back of my skirt, and i moan a little as i let myself fall into him. i can feel him start to get hard, his kisses grow more urgent, as do mine. i fumble at the buckle of his shorts, he brings his hands up to unfasten it for me, i'm sucking on his tongue and he breathes hard into my mouth as he undoes his belt and snaps the button open and lowers the zipper of his shorts and bends over to step out of them and i can feel his hardness through my skirt and my heart leaps and my clit buzzes like a doorbell.

this is what i've been waiting for.

i nudge him gently at the shoulders. he catches my intent and sits back down onto the couch, close to the edge. i know he knows i know what he wants first. he's acting as if

he's

making it happen. whether i'm a fantasy of his - rich, white, small-breasted, thinly attractive milf - or a first time encounter, it matters not to me.

ding-dong! ding-dong!

dong, dong, dong...

i drop down to my knees and slide between his. i run my hands over the tops of his thighs from his knees to his where his legs meet his body, his body hairs tight in small whorls. i hold his dick at the base of the shaft in my right hand and with the index finger of my left i trace the opening of his slit, then around the rim, the over the frenulum. his hips flinch. yes, of course you like that.