On a shrimp boat trawler well out to sea, you and a big muscle-bound bruiser of questionable intellect are telling me while we are taking a coffee break in the trawler I'd signed on for my sophomore summer in college that the senior crew all have privileges with the new guy. Just an initiation—like crossing the equator for the first time. But more fun.
What privileges and fun for who? I think, fear rising from my gut.
I'd been avoiding the bruiser because I didn't like the way he looked at me. But you've been nothing but friendly to me and have shown interest in who I was, why I was spending the summer working on a trawler, how old I was, did I screw all of the coeds—stuff like that. This, though. This, here and now, doesn't seem friendly—or maybe it seems too friendly. It has got me off balance.
You say you know I take cock because I'd been with the captain in his cabin the previous night and the bruiser heard how well I liked the captain's cocking. He says the captain was crowing this morning, saying he'd won the crew poll on who would be first.
Would it make any difference if I told you that the captain had gotten me drunk, and that I'd never done it before, and that, other than the soreness, I wouldn't be half aware that I had done it last night? Somehow I don't think you'd care—or that the bruiser would care either. And the captain said he wouldn't tell anyone if I came to his cabin again tonight. And he said it in such a way for me to understand that it wasn't really a request—out here on the open water, where it's just those of us on this trawler.
Flustered, I say I don't know what to say. What I'm thinking is how the bruiser heard. The captain's cabin isn't anywhere near the quarters for the rest of the crew. But what I say is that I'm not easy like that, and will think about it.
I'm trying to remain calm—cool. Trying to cool man my way out of the cabin. But if they'd seen me riding the captain's cock that second time last night they'd have a right to think I sniffed after it anywhere I could get it. I'd just been letting loose. And he'd gotten me drunk. Three months on the sea completely free from the constraints of land and college. And the captain was a stud and a half and he wore practically nothing, just a Speedo—just like all of us when we are out to sea. It was just a fling. Just a summer madness to mark the end of the school term. And he got me drunk. I'd thought about it, yes, and I'd fantasized about it when I was thinking of signing onto the trawler, because I'd heard what could happen on these isolated vessels out on the open water. But I'd never done it before last night.
