She holds the ship’s destiny firmly, restraining it with an inscrutable geometry. Only anticipation remains. Some call it desire.
But her wine-dark eyes obscure the forecast. She’s skillful to not show her cards. How long can she play this game? How long can she balance a sailor’s fate within her fingertips? Too long, I fear, yet, I can’t deny a certain arousal.
Straight lines, ropes secured, resistance gripped, muffled. The jib extending, extended. Ready.
The rumor of a wind brings hope of a release, of an unfurling, of a spreading. But sailors don’t use such language. And so I say plainly, hopefully, desperately, “fuck me, my darling whore.”