San Franciskee

The Sapphire Prince eased into Pier 27 in San Francisco right on time, the morning of Leigh Down’s 4th. cruise day. A roughly day-and-a-half port stop from 0800 (once again on Pacific Daylight Time) Sunday 8 March to 1800 Monday 9 March gave passengers plenty of time to explore the city, possibly even other parts of the greater Bay Area which might be of interest to specific individuals.

Per, Leigh, and Rebecca were amongst the many who disembarked from the ship at varying times in the morning hours.

First off (amongst these 3, not of everyone leaving the ship) Per was a man on a mission: enhancing online business connections via face-to-face meet-ups, all the way down the San Francisco peninsula. For him it was a rare and necessary opportunity: his entire focus for this extended port stop. In some senses it would be more difficult starting on a non-business day. Yet countering this, several of his connections showed greater interest in meeting up on one of their days off without their immediate work pressure, even if business-related.

Leigh had visited S.F. and the Bay Area years ago, but never spent much time there, much less lived there. She was off the ship a little over an hour after it docked, on a mission to the quirky Mission District, about whose eclectic food culture she’d read so much over the years.

Her mission to the Mission District encountered plentiful delays and side-tours, most notably Chinatown, whose aromas hypnotized her! {Mmmm, I’ll be walking enough, I can have a light brunch here, then lunch or lunner in the Mission} she convinced herself.

What wound up happening was Leigh having her first dim sum experience in over a decade. Far and away the best one of the few she’d ever had, all too many dishes whose names she did not know and the majority of whose servers failed to communicate to her in a way she understood tantalized her enough to compel her inner foodie to get them on her table, then into her mouth.

In the late morning during Leigh’s unexpected (and unexpectedly in-depth) dim sum brunch, Rebecca was off the ship, touring nearby in the Embarcadero and North Beach districts. San Francisco had long been on her bucket list, and now it was happening!

{I belong here} she thought, feeling a strong inner sense of connection to the people and the place as she made her way around.

Not in the best of shape, the walk up Telegraph Hill to Coit Tower proved arduous, compelling her to take a long rest break to catch her breath.

Downhill heading inland wasn’t much better, making the leveling-off near Columbus Ave. a great relief. Even better was encountering the Powell-Mason cable car line at Filbert St. and climbing aboard.

She couldn’t help grinning, living this classic, stereotypical San Francisco experience. {This is the life!}

{Get walking, girl} Leigh chided herself, struggling to put the excessive snugness of her waistband out of her mind as she left the dim sum restaurant.

All the homeless people along Market St. proved more depressing than the sights proved uplifting. She figuratively fell onto Fell St., finding the environs more to her liking.

The uphill walk to Alamo Square to view the picturesque Painted Ladies row houses from up high proved worthwhile, and made her feel good about getting in some solid exercise, to hopefully bring her consistency a little more back towards solid. Buried deep within her mind on her way up the hill, the same naughty part that urged her on at the dim sum restaurant made her subconsciously enjoy the jiggle of her hips and rear, even if not the bit on her belly.

Back down Steiner back onto Fell, her destination (having looked at Maps on her iPhone) was the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park, with her eventual goal being the park itself.

Less geographically adventurous Rebecca enjoyed a nice lunch at an Italian restaurant on Columbus Ave. which caught her fancy. What they could possibly do to make basic spaghetti with meat sauce and the house red wine taste so magical she did not know. The only moment of displeasure was needing to retrieve some wayward noodles and sauce from her cleavage, thinking during the after-cleaning about how all her eating was only going to make her boobs bigger, thus an even greater target for such mishaps. Thankfully she had full privacy: no one was in sight lines of her.

Clark remained on the Sapphire Prince, having spent more than enough time all over the Bay Area in his years living there—at least the major parts of it for which he would have had time to reach.

Lunch in the Sip And A Wink Pub suited him well, especially taking a whiskey flight therein.

An hour after lunch and changed into his swimming trunks, he couldn’t help hearing a decades-old Boz Skaggs song in his head as he made his way to the big open-air swimming pool on the Lido deck.

Hhhh, hhhh {Doing great} Leigh panted and thought, proud of how she’d been walking all over Golden Gate Park hither and yon, all the way to her current location near a historic windmill, in view of the Pacific Ocean. {Thank goodness I’m wearing my walking shoes!}

She was in for more up and downhill walking than she’d anticipated, on her mission to the Mission. Stanyan to 17th. had her feeling like a true athlete, even with the actual athletic locals jogging or running by her now and then, at her leisurely walking pace.

Once in the Mission District proper, she found a nice, and, judging from its line, well-liked taqueria. The steak taco proved worth the wait, and eminently affordable. She enjoyed it on-the-go, staying eastbound on 17th. St.

The steak taco was history before she turned northbound onto Harrison St., figuring it was as good a way as any to meander back towards the ship whilst staying off Market St.

{Oh noooo! Food trucks!} was her thought on sight of them, at what Maps told her was SOMA Streat (sic) Food Park, just north of the U.S. 101 freeway she’d walked under. {I’ve been good! I’ve exercised a lot today! Must have the San Francisco food truck experience!}

Lines were short at this early-mid-afternoon hour, making it easier for her to sample all of Korean fried chicken with garlic fries, a slider called the Screwball featuring buffalo chicken and blue cheese, ending with a porchetta sandwich to die for!

{I’m out of control, and I love it! Wish I could eat this way all the time.} Hhhhhh, {Thankfully I have a-ways to walk back to the ship.}

Rebecca was already back on the ship, resting in her stateroom.

Per was already in Santa Clara county, making more business connections.

Clark was shooting some hoops, playing a for-fun pick-up game with some new friends on the Sports deck.

Beryl was using the bed in her stateroom for sex with her second man (so far) of the day.

The to-the-ship walk Leigh promised herself she’d make didn’t happen. Feeling more lethargic and lazy than she cared to admit, she climbed onto the northbound Muni 47 bus at 11th. St. and Harrison. The view along busy Van Ness Ave. gave her plenty to keep her mind off her unexpected weariness, especially the stately City Hall and all the car dealerships. {Who needs a car in San Francisco?} she mused.

On a spur-of-the-moment whim she got off at Van Ness & Clay, backtracking 2 blocks to the end of the California cable car line. Taking that line to its eastern terminus at the Embarcadero, she felt just barely refreshed enough to solider on along the basically flat terrain north on Drumm St. then along the waterfront back to the welcome sight of the Sapphire Prince at Pier 27.

Upon re-boarding the ship, she returned directly to her stateroom, for a refreshing shower and a nice nap, re-living in her mind the many adventures she’d just enjoyed.

The only one of our so-far-named day adventurers not back on the Sapphire Prince for the night was Per, staying overnight with a friend in Sunnyvale.

On the ship, Leigh was assembling a light evening meal at one of the self-serve buffet restaurants, when someone who kept occasionally briefly worming unbidden into her mind startled her with his sudden corporeal presence.

“Looking good” he sleazily grinned, holding his plate with its overstuffed self-assembled custom burger, plus fries. “Gotta say, I’m down with your wiggly wobbly shimmers, Ms. Down.”

She knew what he meant from all she knew of him, parts of this knowledge quite recently learned. Still, she couldn’t believe after their past interactions and his apology that he’d say such a thing out loud, especially right there in public where others were likely to overhear. “My what?”

“Your fat.”

She blinked twice, struggling to believe what she’d just heard. Not even the sparkle in his eyes nor his sweet smile that often softened her romantic heart more than she wished could take the edge off his to-her harsh words. “Dear mister Martian: here on Earth in our culture, it is considered rude to refer to people as ‘fat’.”

“Not in my world, Venus” he defiantly and annoyingly flirtily glared at her, taking his leave.

Upset enough at being called out as fat after her hearty day of fine walking exercise to nearly toss her singular hot dog and small green salad with fury into the nearest trash bin, her emotions drove her the opposite direction: she loaded up her plate with taquitos, spring rolls, and a second hot dog! {I took this cruise to eat freely and without shame, and dammit, I’m going to eat freely and without shame!} Grabbing a bag to hold some fries then filing up a large cup of soft-serve vanilla milkshake, she had everything she felt she needed.

Emotionally hurting and not wanting to allow anyone else to call her out for any reason, Leigh rushed back to her stateroom and closed the drapes for full privacy, so she could enjoy every single bite and sip. She had no idea what drove her to take her clothes off and doodle herself to orgasm whilst she ate, binning it as temporary insanity and focusing on the sensual pleasure rather than the mental Why.

Clark found himself back at the Sip And A Wink Pub, alone at a table in the corner, sighing as he struggled to enjoy his craft brew. Hhhhhhhh. {Why do I keep messing up so badly with every potential love interest that I need to apologize?!} Hhhhhhh. {If I haven’t figured out how to date by age 61, it’s likely not gonna happen.}

His pulse jumped, spotting one of those to whom he felt the need to apologize taking a seat at the bar, the unabashed sexiness of her magnificent width and spreading rear making her look better than ever, thus him that much more upset. Thankfully, she hadn’t looked around much and hadn’t seen him.

“Anything else for you at the moment, sir?”

The sweet high-pitched voice of the somewhat scantily-dressed all-too-twiggy young barmaid startled Clark anew. “Yes please, if you’re willing.”

Taking full advantage of a situation better than he could have hoped, he pulled a beautiful baby blue small card envelope out of his pocket, laying it on the table with its back side and the shiny gold circle seal face-up. From his wallet he pulled out a pair of $20s, setting those atop the card.

“One of these 20s is your gratuity, if you’ll be so kind as to deliver this card to the lovely large blonde woman in the mauve dress sitting across two stools at the bar. The other is my payment for buying her whatever drink she may wish to order that 20 dollars will cover. Is this acceptable to you?”

The pleading look in the expression of this man, older than her father, tugged at the barmaid’s heartstrings. “Yes, I can do that for you. Nothing else to drink, for you?”

“I’m good with what I have, thank you.”

He pounded the remainder of the craft beer he had and was already out the door whilst the barmaid was on her way to deliver the card.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“The gentlemen in the corner over there wanted me to give this to you, and has paid for whatever you wish to drink, totaling no more than 20 dollars on his tab.”

Rebecca couldn’t imagine what this was about. “Who?” she asked, whipping her head around to look where the barmaid was pointing.

They both saw the empty booth at about the same time.

“He was the one over in the far corner booth.”

“Didn’t see him. Thank you, luv.”

She studied the envelope before opening it. Unable to pick up any meaningful scent when sniffing it apart from a vague floweriness, all she could tell on the outside was that the handwriting in which she saw her given name appeared to have been an attempt by someone who didn’t normally write longhand to do so in flowing, rounded cursive. She unsealed the envelope with care.

The message on the card inside was written in the same lopsided, halting longhand. Thankfully, she had little trouble reading it.

Rebecca didn’t know whether she felt more touched or confused. Having been hurt so many times in her past, she had to also consider that this could be the clever ploy of a seasoned womanizer. She slowly read it over and over, as though struggling to find something between the lines able to explain the true meaning of this apology card.

“Thought about how you’d like to use your drink credit?” asked the bartender, as he dried a glass.

“Yes” she replied with a faraway look, and somewhat of that tone, “I’d like a Manhattan, please.”

“Coming right up” he smiled.

Further studying the missive through the mind alterations of the cocktail for which Clark had paid, thinking back amongst the various nerds and geeks who’d gotten with her (or tried) over the course of her life, she concluded that this was not the work of a philanderer: it was an honest, surprisingly literate admission from a man forthrightly admitting his limited social skills. She decided that taking Clark’s message at face value was far and away the most reasonable interpretation.

While Clark Barr might not be a womanizer, he certainly had some perv in him. Since leaving the Sip And A Wink, he’d taken up residence in the Main Lobby’s spacious lounge area on a fancy upholstered exposed wood large loveseat or small couch: an older style which surely had a name he didn’t know, the kind with the big ornate mushroom-shaped tack heads all the way around the fabric rim. It was about as good a spot as any during the chilly night hours to people watch. In his case as an ardent male het FA, he was on the lookout for women cruisers who may already have visibly fattened up since he’d last seen them. No plans to actually approach anyone, given his recent track record of offense, but looking was free 😜.

{How and where might I approach him? Should I even? It never seems to work out} Rebecca mused in her mind, starting to pass through the Main Lobby. {There he is!}

She managed to duck behind a pillar before he spotted her, making her way out of his sight to the nearest women’s room for some touch-up work.

Clark had trouble believing whom he was seeing walking directly towards him, smiling. Rebecca’s sexy sway and hot pink lipstick (freshly applied, though he didn’t know this) sent his lust into overdrive. Thankfully with a face as easy on the eyes as hers (despite, or possibly because of, her eye-catching big nose), it proved somewhat easier to keep his gaze there rather than farther below.

In moments, she stood directly in front of him, tantalizingly close and smelling great. “Is now a good time for you, for a conversation?”

“Absolutely” he couldn’t help smiling back.

She sat down surprisingly intimately close, flustering him. “I do have one condition, about the discussion we’re about to undertake.”

{Of course you do.} “Alright.”

“I reject the notion of this being a flirt-free conversation. I want another chance with you too, moving at a more gradual pace so we can better know one another before considering moving past platonic.”

“I’m delighted! But I don’t want to wreck things again, nor leave hard feelings between us. On that basis, I’m now distracting myself from your luscious body so I can ask you about life in Bedford–Stuyvesant, about which I’m genuinely interested. As I mentioned in the card I looked it up, so I know where it is in Brooklyn in New York City and should be able to find it on a map, but nothing beyond what Wikipedia has to say about it. What was it like?”

“Well, my earliest memories as a little girl in the 1960s are of living in a brownstone—one of the rowhouses—on Throop Ave., between Lexington and Greene. Where I’m from ‘brownstone’ and ‘rowhouse’ are synonymous, even though we both know one’s a building material and the other’s all about houses with shared side walls regardless of what they’re made of.”

She noticed him looking lost.

“I’m going too New Yorker fast for a Cali boy like you, aren’t I?”

“A little bit” he smiled endearingly. “I’ll try and remember the street names and look them up.”

“Throop is T-H-R-O–”

“–O-P. Apologies for interrupting, but that one I know from the original name of Caltech: Throop Polytechnic Institute, spelled the same way. Sorry!”

“That’s alright, but let’s please try not to interrupt one another. That’s a New York thing I’d rather leave behind, to help me slow down and get more into your laid-back Cali ways. Did not know that about Caltech.”

“Is it rowhouses all one word? Or two words row houses? I ask ’cause I’ve seen it both ways online.”

Rebecca momentarily snort-chuckled. “We’re New Yorkers, we talk fast, so we run it together as one word. We never had time for row… houses. Come to think of it I’m surprised it’s not already smash-contracted to rohos. What?” she asked with a smile, regarding his latest look.

“Nothing” he weak-voice responded.

“Yeah nothing right” she couldn’t help affectionately smiling back, unconsciously aping his expression.

“Feeling strong feelings toward you. Tender, affectionate ones.”

Brief, fluttery, mutually-frightened passions swelled within each of them at different exact moments, quickly scampering at least a bit away in each case.

“I admit I used to be bigoted against New Yorkers. Irrationally, based upon likely-unfounded stereotypes and select personal interactions with a very few individuals, like two.”

She dared to tentatively lightly rest her hand atop his, “What you needed all along was an encounter like this with a nice Jewish girl from the City.”

“Careful: San Francisco also considers itself the capital-C City. Is Judaism important to you?” he asked in earnest.

“Nah. It’s my heritage and ancestry, but not my religion. This nice Jewish girl’s all secular.”

“Secular humanist? Atheist?”

“Jayzo, Clark; I’m me! I’m not into the labels. Don’t believe in God, nor any other divine power of that ilk. Gaia/Mother Nature almost, but not really as a matter of fact and science. But I’m not a scientist, nor a doctor, lawyer, indigenous chief, nor an engineer” she briefly squeezed his hand. “None of that. Just trying to be rational and smart and open-minded as I go through life, learning every day.”

This was only the start of a very long discussion roaming over many topics. They became so absorbed in each other’s stories—and each other’s immediate presence!—nothing and no one distracted them… not even a cute guy who’d several times caught Rebecca’s eye and passed right by them, nor several BBW on Clark’s radar who’d already visibly thickened up a little in his mere days on this cruise.

“I didn’t mind growing up as a White Jewish girl in a heavily-Black neighborhood, nor did my parents mind, that I’ve ever known. What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop it with the ‘nothing’, bae.” Rebecca couldn’t help smiling despite her annoyance, feeling so many positive things for this handsome, alluring man so obviously over-the-top for her—and for once, not just her top. “You’ve already ‘nothing’ed me over half a dozen times already this conversation, and every single time it’s something important, and usually something I’m glad you finally shared.” Needing to stretch, she unintentionally distracted him of necessity sticking out her chest(s). “Out with it.”

“I don’t consider this”—he pointed towards his then her skin—“to be anything near white in color, the way this piece of paper” which he quickly pulled from his pocket “is. Nor are the many wonderful and usually beautiful shades of brown on people who get called Black all that close to the true color black… not even some of the real dark brown-skinned people I’ve sometimes seen in photos, more often in Africa though elsewhere too.”

“Brown is its own other thing, m’ friend: mixed race.”

“Which makes no sense.”

“It makes total sense!” she stridently countered (still with a smile). “There’s only so much time in a day, NYC’s a busy place with busy people who have places to go and things to do. We’ve already established and you’ve agreed that the tendency in our society and at least in American English is to go for the fewest number of syllables, so we can speak faster and get on with life.”

They had indeed agreed on that, so he had to nod to confirm his ongoing agreement with her point.

“White, Black, and Brown are each one syllable—monosyllabic, but that’s 5 syllables and one syllable is 4, hence the way I first said it. Caucasian is 3, or maybe to some people 4. Euro-Caucasian is even worse at 5 or 6, so White wins. African-American is a whopping 7 syllables, and not all our dark-skinned peeps are recently out of Africa anyway. Black avoids pissing people off by getting their ancestry wrong, and is one syllable, so it’s a double winner. Not only is Brown the syllabic winner compared to mixed race or that strange phrase mulatto, but the former of those two makes it sound like we’re putting people in a blender or mixing them like a cocktail with a swizzle stick or that they’re mixed up or something, and the latter sounds like some kind of mule lottery. Play Mule Lotto and win the mule of your dreams!” she suddenly loudly exclaimed like an excited advertising announcer, with an equally exuberant zesty playful (and a touch impish) expression.

Clark’s explosive all-out laughter got Rebecca laughing to the point of tears too.

Several elsewhere around and passing through the lobby clearly heard her sudden dramatic explanation. Some smiled and/or laughed. Others looked on quizzically.

“Oyee. So where were we?”

“You were describing what it was like to grow up as what you prefer to call a White girl in a Black neighborhood.”

“Yeah right yeah. It wasn’t all Black, with others besides us in the Davidson household, but mostly it was. Stayed that way from my birth through my youth and is still kinda like that, less so with the gentrification in recent years.”

“How long did you live in that house?”

“Looooonnnng time. All the way ’til I moved to L.A. 20 years ago. Went to college super duper locally at Pratt Institute, literally within walking distance 9 blocks away, right there in the ’hood.

“So anyway, my experience of race is different. Everyone around us was Black, or some Browns now that I think about it. Whatever. Point is it was normal and how it always was to me. Wouldn’t say I’m a bleached-out Black girl or anything, but I could hold my own doing the dozens and bustin’ the occasional rhyme on time on the line, boyeee. It was intercultural exchange from birth, so normal I would have thought that term weird, had I understood it as a young child.”

“When was that?”

“Ohhh, sneaky, Mister Barr! Trying to entice my age outta me!”

“A general decade will satisfy my curiosity.”

“I’m a child of the ’60s. And if you suggest 1860s, I’m layin’ a beatin’ on ya.”

He suddenly pulled back.

“Kidding!” she assured him, rapidly repeatedly rub-caressing his hand. “By ‘child’ I mean born then. Not like the 40s-50s-born Hippie children of the ’60s.”

“Yeah, I’m end of the decade before, so we’re not that far apart.”

“Whew! I thought you might be younger, and I’d be too old for you.”

“Too old to be friends?”

Tellingly, Rebecca suddenly and sharply turned away. “Moving on…” she started once she turned back, “’60s and ’70s it was normal and natural for Mrs. Franklin next door to be showing my mom how to prep and cook collard greens, and other times Mom would show her how to make Latkes. Nowadays everyone prob’ly looks on the Internet rather than be sociable and visit their neighbors, but that’s how we rolled back in the day. We learned to make what weirdly gets called soul food and other Black culture cuisines plural specialties; they learned how to make Jewish staples. I remember my first boyfriend Jamal from 3 houses down and I would sit on the front stoop of either of our houses and share matzos with an onion-okra-corn meal spread that was pretty rad, as you westies say… or at least I see and hear that since moving to this coast.”

“I’ve heard that first loves are memorable. Mine was, but not necessarily in a great way.”

“Nah nah: this was high school puppy love—training wheels training bra love. Not that I’d ever worn a training bra, having grown right into an adult woman’s 36C in under a month from when the hormones turned on and I first started developing. Two weeks later 36D, then on up from there.”

“I’ll not ask you what age that was.”

“Eleven. Start of 5th. grade.”

“Oh” he winced.

“Yeah, it was rough. But I was and am a tough cookie, and boobs are power. So far no breast cancer knock wood”—Knock knock she did on the couch’s wood frame—“so apart from social issues, it’s all good.”

“No back pain?”

“Everyone always asks that” she wanly smiled. “Yes back pain, but not debilitating. There are moments on occasional days where my back hurts and demanding privileged asshats may be dogging me more than usual when I ask myself why the hell I’m carrying these huge flesh torpedoes around. But the same thing’s true other times or once in awhile the same time carrying around all this belly fat, butt fat, hip fat, and so on. It’s how I’m made—all of it I just mentioned. Surgeries can be dangerous as well as expensive, with no promises that things removed won’t grow back.”

Lost in thought listening to what she was sharing, Clark’s eyes had drifted down on her breasts and had been there longer than he knew. Even though he’d not been focusing there (nor anywhere), he quickly snapped them back up to hers.

“Y’know, here’s the thing—and I don’t wanna confuse you: I’m not good with strangers staring at my boobs. Yeah they’re huge, yeah they’re eye magnets, yeah you’re all programmed to go for them—you men into women plus some women into women. It’s not that I don’t like having them most of the time, because if I didn’t, I’d more proactively do something about it. They’re awesome and I love ’em myself.

“The problem is Privilege: too many men—and sorry hun, but it’s so far all men—freely staring as long as they want as though it’s their innate right, regardless of how I whose body parts they are may feel about that kind of attention. Worse are the ones feeling so entitled that they go for a grope, though those idiots get the hardest, fastest kick or punch to the groin I can give them—no holding back, going for permanent damage so they won’t reproduce and make more of themselves.”

She squeezed his hand to focus his attention before continuing, “Now in a separate category are men to whom I’m attracted, and whom I’ve gotten to know and with whom I’ve reached an acceptable or better level of comfort. Love to my LGBTQI peeps, but I’m attracted to men—no apologies.”

She squeezed his hand again, gazing less-than-subtly at his crotch. To Clark it looked like she was initially pleased at his moderate turgidity he could not hide, then nauseous, leaving him confused.

“When there’s a strong enough attraction, when I’ve reached a sufficient level of comfort with a specific man I know and feel safe with them as well as into them and vice-versa, then I like having them checking out my bodacious rack, as long as there’s still some appropriate eye contact now and then.”

“The longer I’m with you gazing into your face, the more drawn in I am by its—your!—loveliness, making it ever-more easier to keep my eyes looking into, or nearly into, yours.”

The powerful shot of pure affection Rebecca felt nearly knocked her off balance. “Even with my big schnoz?”

“To me, schnozes are big angular pointy beaks, not the admittedly big cute roundness decorating your face. Durante had a schnoz. I have closer to a schnoz than you do.”

“Nah, you’ve no schnoz. I like your nose.”

She smiled more than Clark had yet seen her smile, melting his romantic heart further. “Maybe sometime someday we’ll decide to share nose-rub kisses.”

“Hhmmh” she peep-squeaked, holding back the instant appearance of her inner race horse of passionate desire, chomping at the bit to attack him and make out right then and there!

“Everything about your face is so wonderful to gaze onto… or is it into? Mouth, nose, eyes… oh your eyes! Is it OK for me to refer to you as doe-eyed? Or is that offensive?”

“Given that my middle name is Ayala, which is Hebrew for doe, my parents would be offended if I took offense at someone respectfully referring to me that way.”

“They’re the center of your look of sweet innocence.”

“I’m not as innocent as I look” she salaciously and flirtily gazed his way, with a touch of defiance.

It was another opportunity for her to take a big stretch, this time with a yawn. This time she clearly knew that doing so was working him up. She was good with this.

“Thirsty?” she asked, “For anything non-alcoholic?”

“Are you alcoholic?”

“What?!”

“Not an alcoholic!” he quickly backtracked. “I was wondering–… never mind.”

“Stop.” She squeeze-massaged his hand. “Say it.”

“It was a bad start of an attempt at a joke, using language I don’t fully understand, hence none of my business to utilize. I’ve read the word ‘thirsty’ being used in recent years as some sort of synonym for desperately horny, or something like that. I was trying to find a non-offensive way to flirt with you and show more of my desire of you/for you without being a boorish ass nor privileged dick nor any other bad M&M in the Man Bowl. So please allow me to start apologizing right now, because you’re a wonderful person and I’m truly enjoying this long conversation we’re having on its own merits, with the flirting and the ability to hopefully respectfully and tastefully check out the rest of your body below your head being wonderful unanticipated bonuses.”

“Am I misinterpreting where your eyes have been, or are you physically attracted to me below boob level?”

“I’m a Fat Admirer. Do you wish me to candidly speak further on this topic?”

“Yes, but not here, please. If I invite you to my stateroom, will you take it the wrong way?”

“I’ll take it the way you tell me to take it, as long as you explicitly and clearly tell me.”

“I want to be private with you, so we can freely talk about anything in any depth like we’ve been doing, and take our conversation further than I feel comfortable doing here. I also want some tea—herbal infusion, actually. Some I brought rather than what Royal Prince Cruise Lines provides, nice as several of theirs are. I promise nothing about taking things further towards intimacy than what we’re doing here, but I do want that option.”

“My intent is that all that happens between us—me and anyone, actually—whether here, in your stateroom, or anywhere else, will always be fully consensual and as informed as we imperfect humans are capable of communicating successfully.”

“You’ve got a way with words, mister engineer” she brightly smiled. “Let’s go.”

The hip-rubbing hand-holding stroll was scintillating to Clark (and Rebecca) from the moment they started across the Main Lobby towards the stairs from which Leigh had eavesdropped on him (wider than the escalator, hence Rebecca’s choice). Once she moved in closer and put her arm around him, encouraging him to do the same, the stroll became magical!

Far from being offended as he trembled, fighting to hold back his lusty desire staring at her boobs bouncing mightily up and down with each step on the staircase they ascended, Rebecca was pleased. {Can’t have anything less than a boob man I’m into. Not worth my time.}

Some corridors were wide enough for them to continue walking side-by-side, others narrower. As an experiment she had him walk behind her along one of these narrower sections.

{Hmmm, I feel the burn. He’s an ass and hips man too—even better!}

She reached her arms out behind her, pulling him into her, specifically her butt, soon as his hands clasped hers.

He had no idea what was happening, putting all he had into staying in the current moment, to optimally experience all of it.

Passions and moods mercurially cycled in and out and back and forth in a swirly mess, once Clark and Rebecca were inside her pleasant ocean view stateroom on the Vista deck. Rebecca in charge and him struggling to stay on the same page with her as well as manage his own instinctual desires had them repeatedly jerking jackrabbit forward then slamming to a stop, quite like a new driver learning how to drive a manual transmission automobile struggling to master the clutch.

Somewhat like that new driver learning to drive that automobile and possibly having trouble restarting it after a stall, despite several repeated attempts many minutes apart, neither Rebecca nor Clark succeeded in restarting their conversation, whether where they’d been or on any other subject.

The lavender-lemon-chamomile tea was sublime, and soothing. The very soft Brazilian jazz music she’d put on in the background to ease the tension absolutely succeeded. The main issue seemed to be that the sexual tension between them felt thick enough to cut with a knife, on both their part: a passion fog so deep and so blinding, Clark several times tried to wipe what was not there out of his eyes. Rebecca kept waiting to hear a fog horn sound, eventually hearing a real one somewhere on the San Francisco Bay.

One particular jackrabbit start blasted further forward than others so far: Rebecca led Clark by the hand over to her stateroom’s couch, sitting down very intimately with him, each of them holding their tea mug in their free hand.

With her own slight trembling and a frightened, pleading look, Rebecca announced, “I’ve gotta tell you something, and I’ve just got to blurt it out.”

“Please do!”

“Set your tea mug down, please” she asked of him as she did so herself.

She claimed and held each of his hands tightly, melting him further with that frightened, innocent, pleading doe-eyed look she in part could not help projecting. “I’m powerfully into you… romantically, passionately. But it’s complicated, and I don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

With nothing to say, he continued giving her his own intense undivided attention.

“I’ve been abused in my past, sexually and otherwise. My trust issues are deep. Many things trigger me, including some things of which I may not be aware, therefore can’t explain nor warn anyone about. I have a literal love-hate relationship with men’s genitals. I desire them more than I can tell you, yet they’ve so often been used as supremely hurtful weapons against me, that it takes a very very long time with a man, continually building up trust, before I even consider going there.”

{The poisonous M&Ms} Clark couldn’t help thinking, maintaining his full eye contact and other than this thought, his attentive focus.

“You may have the best penis and scrotum in the world, and from what I’ve been seeing so far, what you have is extremely appealing to me. I cannot go there—with you or anyone I’ve not known a long time—at least a year of frequent dating in many cases, if not longer, and it’s case-by-case as so many things in life are.

“So what I want to do is have what I call up-top sex with you. Specifically what that means is you and I get to the point of being topless, but no further. I’ll have a skirt I’ll change into on and we’ll discuss those details in a moment. You’ll keep your pants on.”

“Shoes and socks?”

“Off please, when the time comes” she smiled, relieved that so far he seemed genuinely willing to go along with her requirements, which had not always been the case in the past, despite what her on-deck lover of the moment told her. “We’re free and encouraged to get into any consensual sexy loving things we can do with one another with our hands and mouths, and after we please discuss the details, maybe feet, other than playing footsie is a go, I’ll tell you right now. Hands and mouths mostly, above the waist. Nothing below the waist. Well OK that’s not quite true” she blurted out, working out the details in her mind as she spoke. “You may feel my butt and my hips through the outside of my skirt and panties, and as long as you keep your pants fully on and zipper closed, I’m even good with you pressed into my butt and rubbing if you want, like a sexed-up version of the fun we had walking.”

He raised his hand and was acknowledged by her. “Did you have fun with that?”

Her eyes widened with surprise, “Yes! I’m into you, Clark—sexually! It’s just hard for me, as I’m explaining.”

“Thank you and apologies for the interruption. Please go on.”

“We’re good, I think. You get what I’m saying?”

“I think so. As long as we agree beforehand on what’s happening, my hands and mouth can experience you from the waist up per what we agree, as yours can on me. Other than footsie, feet are more complicated and will likely require more careful discussion. With all pants and skirt and stuff on, you’ve told me it’s OK for me to rub against your clothed hips and buns. Correct?”

He could see the tension in her body melting away. “Yes.”

“My only question is where you’re defining your waist.”

She tensed up again, sensing him trying to push a limit, more stridently replying, “Where my waistband is, after I change.”

A few tears snuck unbidden out of his eyes as he explained, “Your deliciously fat belly looks so wonderful, I would love to caress and kiss and rub it! I was trying to figure out whether it was off-limits or not.”

Her cheeks glowed brighter red as a fresh burst of lust blasted through her. “I’ll have my belly out. It’s fair game for everything you just described, no additional consent-seeking needed for that. Unless you have other questions or comments, as far as I’m concerned we can get into the logistics, then the fun!”

Logistics amounted to his asking to please be able to go to the bathroom before they got started, and that they each wanted the pleasure of taking the other’s top (and bra, in Clark’s case with Rebecca) off gradually, as the mood felt proper.

The tantalizing touch of his index finger tracing around her default new low-cut top-on exposed boob flesh unleashed her lust enough to have her panting and her chest heaving moments after they started. Her hands needed to feel his very slightly scruffy face, easing down onto his shoulders, then his upper arms.

“It looks like you need a little more room in here. I may need to unbutton a button.”

“I do!” she breathily sighed, tantalized by every little bit of finger skin she could feel gracing any part of her vast bosoms as he slowly and tantalizingly unleashed them. She snuck a finger between his shirt plackets, needing to caress more freely there. Her voice remained lust-addled breathy, “Your chest is getting hot.”

“Hot for you!”

“I’m going to have to unbutton all your buttons and let you out!”

Apparently more eager than he, or at least wanting to move things along faster, she not only fully unbuttoned his shirt in short order, but with his unspoken cooperation following her lead, eased it off of him, setting it carefully aside.

“I’m swelling up for you! Seriously, for realz: my boobs are getting bigger from arousal. Let me out, Clark! Pleeease!”

His eyebrows shot up and his eyes grew wide feeling and seeing the suddenly measurably (and he was qualified to measure it, had he the necessary equipment with him) greater difficulty unbuttoning her top’s remaining buttons (not already unbuttoned as some had been all night) from her visible swelling. “Holy granola! You are bigger!”

“Yes! All women’s breasts swell up when they’re aroused. Did you not know this?”

“I’ve read about it and very rarely experienced subtle versions of it, but I’ve never experienced anything like this—you!” he said as he finished unbuttoning her top, which only had buttons halfway down and was otherwise a pull-over.

Her beautifully soft, fat arms were already “reach for the sky” up in the air as she urged him, “♫ Frrreeee-eeee Bec-ca Day-vid-son! ♫” sung like the opening line of an early 1980s The Special A.K.A. song.

He had her top off straightaway, yet she obviously still wasn’t free. “I can’t believe how much you’re swelling out of your bra every which way!”

“I am so turned on! Squeeze them as necessary to reduce the tension to unhook them, as I know your boob-loving engineering mind knows how.”

“Hhhhhhhh” she gasped from a combination of great relief and great pleasure once the last hook was undone and her bodacious breasts eased her bra to the sides as they regained freedom.

He barely managed to finish slipping her bra off, in shock with how massive she was—and how aroused!

Rebecca herself was somewhat shocked: it had been too long since the last man she trusted enough to get to this point, and a long time since she’d been this extremely aroused. {Ohhh I love being huge-boobed!} she couldn’t help thinking during her shock. {This is why I do what I do!}

As she kept thinking about it, she realized that while she’d been this fat or even fatter in the past, she’d not been like that and this fully aroused at the same time. {Wow!}

Thankfully (as far as Rebecca was concerned) Clark couldn’t hold back: his hands and mouth were deep on/into the biggest breasts he had ever felt by far, and some of the biggest of which he’d ever even seen pictures! All in his hands and mouth, the mind of the woman part and parcel of them surprisingly (to him) thrilled to be sharing herself this way with him! Not only were hers the biggest in sheer volume, she also had the biggest areolae and biggest, hardest nips he’d ever experienced—far and away so!

“Uuaaaggghhh, AAAAAAUUUGGGH YES!”

Even he, sometimes amazingly clueless about such things, knew she’d just experienced a likely-powerful orgasm. Her expression of bliss rather than pain strongly suggested she enjoyed it.

“Oh please more and don’t make me beg!”

“Really?”

“Yes! It’s not fair but we women get more, and I want more! Please.”

So did Clark, and at this moment, not of her breasts. His deep passionate mouth-to-mouth sudden kissing attack leveled her, making her weak enough that together they rushed over to her king-sized bed and crashed down atop it.

The flexing and creaking noises pulled Clark nearly all the way out of his passions and into his rational mechanical engineering mind.

She felt the sudden disappearance of his lust immediately. “What?”

“Noth–”

“No” she punctuated with a potent, deep kiss. “I need to know.”

“Mentally analyzing the structural integrity of this bed, based upon the impact we just now imposed upon it.”

Slightly frustrated, she grabbed her boobs, gently smashing them into his cheeks, “Wouldn’t you rather be calculating the angle of these danglers of mine? Or, better, getting back to full passion?”

“Yes. Thank you. My preference for doing that is some slow, affectionate kissing with sexy and affectionate caressing. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Yes.”

She was the one actually in charge immediately after her response, super-deep face-eating + french kissing as her hands wantonly grabbed his upper arms, now deliciously skin-to-skin.

This night of passion continued for several hours, basically every moment of which was at least pleasurable to both of them, more often enthralling, occasionally blissfully sublime. Highlights in the latter category over the hours included 2 other breast-centric orgasms for her at unexpected moments well apart from one another, Clark enjoying more than one orgasmic release of his own within the confines of his pants, and both of them being surprised when the biggest orgasm of the night happened unexpectedly with no explicit intention of such a thing during the extended time he was kissing, licking, lipping, and hand handling her belly. His brief offhand comment that big fat bellies could be like a third boob resonated within her more deeply than he could ever have imagined.