It was a hot, dusty day. I was meandering along the marina on my way back to the boat. Hey, I’m a loyal guy. I don’t philander or run around. I still have and love my first real bucket. She’s never let me down or given me cause to have a roving eye.
That day, I passed the chandler, and was thunderstruck. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her, petite, but everything was in proportion. Her lip was sensuous, and spoke of indescribable and unnamable pleasures, that awaited someone fortunate enough to have her. There was a sleek handle that screamed ”caress me, tie me – use a double hitch so I can’t get away!”
I was breathless. In a trance I walked over and reached out my hand. Holding my breath, and without touching her, I let my hand glide close (oh, so heartbreakingly close), by her bottom. I could feel the heat she radiated. My breath came irregularly.
I was lost
. I looked at her lip again. Perfectly formed. Wide mouth. With a Herculean effort, I tore my eyes away and ran for my boat. I don’t remember that run. I ran from myself and my secret desires and perversities. I finally came to, down in the salon
, stroking my long-serving bucket. Perhaps she’s not so flashy and perhaps there are some miles on her, but she’s always been there for me.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and was unable to get her out of my mind. My sweat drenched the bedclothes. At two in the morning, I went topside, naked and sat in the moonlight, thinking of her, and things that could never be. Dawn finally came, much too late.
The chandler opened at 9:00. I was across the street at 7:30, leaning against a building, shivering slightly in the cool morning air. The owner finally came out and set up his display. And there she was again. I hadn’t imagined her. The sun glanced off her, reflecting from all her glory. Unable to continue, I stumbled back to the boat.
Every morning for the next week, I stood my vigil as the chandler opened, not daring to get closer. She had an unnatural attraction on me. A Lolita effect. I was disgusted with myself, but unable to stay away.
That morning, a week later, she was gone. I hurried over and looked again. She was truly gone. I asked, casually, “Did you sell that little red bucket?”. The Chandler looked suspiciously at me, “Yep, sold it to the guy rebuilding his boat over there. Why? “
I didn’t answer, just sprinted out the door and across the yard. There she was, already scratched and dirty, he was mixing fiberglass
in her. I thought about liberating her, but knew she was taken.
A couple of days later, I saw her again. Lying in the dumpster, split open down the middle. He had abused her in ways I couldn’t comprehend. She was broken, not only in body, but also in spirit. The sun briefly flashed over her and a small spot glowed, but it was weak and a last heroic effort. The spot suddenly dimmed and I realized she was gone forever.
I cast off and have never laid to in that marina again.