Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist - Sea Story

[jack_babalon]

Some of you might ask me later whether this story is true or not? To answer that ahead of time, I'll tell you that this is simply a Sea Story. A sea story, as a wise old Hull Tech explained it to me in a fantail smoke break through a growl -

"You know the difference between a sea story and a fairy tale, Babalon? Once upon a time..."


***

It is with great trepidation, and much embarrassment, that I must confess to have once been unable to get laid in a whorehouse. This sordid little episode in my inglorious career as a fuck-up artist, came while I was sailing the High Seas for the Man – the Man in this case being Uncle Sam. On his dime and dollar I schlepped trays in the scullery during the rocket’s red glare over Baghdad. I manned an endless procession of four hour watches, weaved in and out of sixteen hour days down in the bilges, until I couldn’t even remember what a dream tasted like anymore. I swabbed decks during storms so fierce that they rattled our ship as easily as a child would a toy during bath time. It was only by my having been a secret veteran of the wrong side of the War on Drugs, that I was able to overcome the seasickness that had over half the crew holed up in their racks. And it was in fact that very War on Drugs that took me to port-of-call Cartagena, Colombia – where, yes, I somehow discovered that I couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse.

Shore Leave.

Away Team Roll Call:
Jeremiah Freed – The ship’s golden bad-boy; all chiseled good looks and affable Midwest charm. In my still lingering 80’s argot at the time I figured him for a Jock on first glance. He went scuba diving through sunken submarines with the XO and volunteered for the ship-to-ship armed search parties just for the kicks. Yet for whatever reason we clicked as friends. He dug scoring art books and esoteric erotica through our Med tour, listened to WAX TRAX greatest hits while pumping iron in the weight room and somehow had the uncanny ability to find just the right club that would fit our ‘scene’… despite having only been in the country for less than an hour. He was ambitious but not in the way Command had him pegged. It wouldn’t be too hard to imagine that within ten years time he would go on to become one of the most prominent fetish-club promoters in the Southeast.

Doug Graham – The quintessential nice-guy, the kind you often forget is standing next to you and has been for an hour now. He worked in the communications department yet hardly ever said a word to anyone but me on board. Quiet, unassuming, sincere serene behind his perpetual aw-shucks smile and wide questioning eyes. Doug accepted the world around him with the detached eye of the casually invisible, a Zen Straight-Man and a Tourist to Wonders Just Around the Corner. There was neither room rage or judgment in his mind because it was too filled with curiosity.

These were the only two men on a ship of 600 swinging dicks willing to call me friend .

The only two brave enough, dumb enough, man enough and make no mistake they got more than their fair share of shit for it.

The Angel of Shrug and the Devil of Dare.

Balanced on the shoulders of me, the ship’s Duty Weirdo.

***

So what do you want me to say? Due to a horrendous faux-pas on my behalf, (one much too terrible and drawn out to sufficiently describe here), I got us kicked out of the swankest discotheque in all the North of South America. Somehow we lost Doug in our narrow escape and soon found ourselves lost in the streets of Cartagena. After an hour drift that got us even more turned around than before we had to admit we didn’t know where we were. Our best bet was to flag down a cabbie and rendezvous back at a bar not too far from the ship.

Instead we allowed ourselves to be convinced that going to a whorehouse just outside the city limits would be a much better idea.

We arrived at the best possible time; an hour after a massive raid by the shore patrol hit and rousted up all the squids therein. We had the place literally to ourselves. Well almost. There was one squid the shore patrol missed. Good old Doug, sitting there on a chair on the edge of the dance floor, sipping a cold cerveza with a scantily clad young woman sitting in his lap. It was the first time I had ever seen Jeremiah slack jaw stunned.

“Hey guys,” Doug bobbed his chin by way of greeting, as if we had run into him on the Mess Line.

Turns out Doug grabbed a cab and despite giving directions to our rendezvous, somehow wound up dropped off here. When the long arm of the law showed, Honey Pie there in his lap hid him in the supply closet. When the last squid was dragged kicking and screaming from the comforts of a bed paid by the hour, they let him out and made him the honorary life of the party.

Jeremiah bought the first round and I promptly made my way to the DJ to ask if he had any Depeche Mode.

***

Having properly commandeered the dance floor and eliciting more than my fair share of giggles from the ladies, I finally retired back to the table with the fellas. They were joined by three of the finest residents in the place. The place, though as wide as a hanger bay, was decorated with all the charm of an abandoned ghetto basement. With a disco ball, a bar and some tables thrown in for good measure.

There was one young lady who in particular caught my eye. She was the only woman daring enough to dance with me. Now, while Doug and Jeremiah were content with the ambience of the company and the story to tell, my ambitions ran a little more physical.

Yeah I know, but I was that guy back then. Desperate, studpid, young, dumb and full of cum. A twenty-Zero and unable to even drink legal.

I don’t know why but there’s always been something off about me. Some lack of charm or confidence or mental stability that the fairer sex could easily detect. My high school was spent in the role of a creep. Me dawdling pictures in my notebook that twenty years later would get me stitched up with a Trench Coat Mafia rap and an all you can eat prescription to mood inhibitors. Whatever it was it stuck to me. Clung to me through the Nav and the one night stands and the horrible relationships. So, when I was face to face with a beautiful woman after having spent the better part of two months showering with guys who’s idea of a good time is talking about engines, I kinda lost myself to the moment.

The only thing keeping me from a few minutes, if that long, in heaven was a few of the local Mickey Mouse dollars… of which I was about thirty short.

Haggling began. Through my charm and wit I managed to up the price to forty short.

I was then reduced to begging the guys for a loan. They easily agreed, scrounged up whatever was left in their wallets and pockets. I was now 28 short. Those cervezas weren’t cheap, let me tell you. Finally the drop dead beauty on Jeremiah’s lap stage whispered that she would gladly wave her fee. Jeremiah politely declined but did manage to sweet talk her into loaning me a twenty, pitched a whole sad story and such.

That brought us to 8 short and me openly fuming about being so close but far away.

I tried seeing if I couldn’t finagle a more cheaper service for the money I had.

She shook her head empathetically but insisted on the same price for a ticket – no matter how tame or wild the ride may be.

Finally I had a eureka moment. I had a shitload of change jangling in my pocket. I poured it out of my pockets, earning an embarrassed wince from Jeremiah and a sad, shake of the head from Doug.

I managed to scrape together 7 and a half worth of coinage.

“I’m fifty cents short.” I offered meekly.
She stared at me, then the pile of money on the table, back up at me and shook her head no.

Before I could protest Jeremiah took one look at his watch, adjusted the math, and announced that we had to get back to the ship. While the guys were both E-4’s, I was an E-2 and you had to at least be a petty officer to stay out overnight when not stateside. It didn’t matter if I had pissed more salt water than most of the zeros had sailed on by that point. All I needed was to give Command the excuse it was looking to bust my balls even further. Besides, as Doug informed us, we needed the money to take a cab back.

Frustrated I agreed. We stumbled out with our walking around money, flagged down the Pimp Cab and rode back to the ship, with time running out on me on a Cinderella clock. Arriving with five minutes before I turned back into a pumpkin, the guys tried to cheer me up best they could. I probably picked the wrong lady, it was just bad luck, it was nothing personal.

But I knew the truth.

I was indeed that guy – the one who couldn’t get laid at a whorehouse.