She suddenly smelled the weed burning in my cockpit and stopped, turning to acknowledge me. Her deep bronze skin, all loose and wrinkled, covering a tiny body, had a certain charm to it. She settled into the cockpit with ease, obviously a life-long boater. She suddenly smelled the weed burning in my cockpit and stopped, turning to acknowledge me. “Want more weed?” I inquired. She had a very positive vibe and there was no need for conversation. Then I got rougher. People will be able to see us. Some would look my way and give a thumbs up; others would turn to their companion and scoff at my derelict behavior. “If you’re the police, no, it’s not weed. I emerged from below with two four-finger tumblers of bourbon, two ice cubes in each. “Want more weed?” I inquired. As she set her now empty glass down, she said “Sailor, that was some of the most satisfying head I’ve ever had. But what pleasures you? People will be able to see us. She was small, no taller than 5 feet, skinny, no more than 90 pounds, and her skin was all wrinkled. Whoa. It’s a sad, sorry state of affairs.”
What the fuck?
