North Sea Crossing Pt.0 1

Simon George knew he was one of the luckiest 33-year-old Englishmen alive.

He knew it well, that day on ferry-cum-cruise liner, the SS Toksvig, as it ploughed the North Sea on its way back from Esbjerg to Harwich.

Simon, after a few false career starts, had found himself writing travel features for a regional newspaper group based in the east of England. This was why he was right now enjoying the free hospitality in the "elite" bar of the SS Toksvig, well away from the rampaging packs of college students who were on variants of the Scandinavian art history cruise.

Yes, he had done rather well for someone written off as a failure at 17. He had never made it as an athlete, a singer, nor as a photographer. All three had seemed like possible careers until his drug-addled early 20s, and all three proved to be way beyond his abilities, or his ability to push others out of his way.

But now, he was flying. He hardly even thought about the not so lucky aspects of his life. Like his almost complete lack of success with women.

In fact , that was his chief unlucky aspect: that he had never had any success with women. It puzzled him slightly, because, or so he felt, he had so much to offer.

In fact, he had even more to offer than he knew himself - but he was about to find this out in the most pleasurable of ways.

Yeah, it was true, Simon had a bit too much time for himself. He believed he was a loving person. Trouble was no girl seemed the slightest bit inclined to give him the chance to prove this. They definitely avoided him. Was it written on his forehead - this guy is bad news? No, it seemed to say something more off-putting: "Look at me, admire me, but don't get close to me".

Yes. Like Cain's birth-mark, Peter's lack of sexual confidence was there for all too see in his body language, in his propensity to blush and stammer whenever anyone he fancied came within a hundred yards. He was quite bright, could be funny, had a few male friends, but they all had "partners" now. And beneath the apparent insouciance and arrogance there was actually a frustrated little boy who hated himself profoundly.

He was over 6ft 2, lean and athletic looking (although it was over a decade since he'd run more than the length of a bar-room), good skin, dark hair, big wide-set dark brown eyes with long, quite girly lashes. Yes, he was a touch perhaps on the effeminate side. He also had hardly any body hair, and could not grow a beard.

Maybe that was the problem. He remembered that year when he stayed at his sister's whilst she was in hospital giving birth, and the neighbours really thought the brother in law was having a week of passion with his "bit on the side". Because back then, when he had his Charles II locks, and wore tight short t-shirts and crazy hippy pants, he could easily pass for a tall, skinny but rather strikingly pretty girl. He had a waist and slender hips, snake-hips he liked to think. Chick-hips, everyone else thought.

Yes, well, fuck the lot of them, he thought to himself, as the lovely Latvian waitress cleared the crockery from his singleton's table. Watching her, absorbing her wide smile, he felt a slight stirring of the soft little worm that nested uncomfortably in his too-brief briefs.

Simon sighed, inwardly. The waitress must have known he was writing an article about this voyage, and that she had to be extra-nice and extra efficient. He only had to say a few well-chosen words and who knows...but no, he couldn't. No point trying really. He'd already found out she had a hunk of a Swedish boyfriend back in - of all places - Ipswich.

His proposed article was the usual rubbish. The paper liked his proposal of a "cut-price away-three-days" hop over from the suffolk coast of England to what he liked to call the "sex capital of Europe", Copenhagen - and then on to Oslo, the "capital of gloom". He got no sex at all in wonderful Copenhagen. He could have but it would have cost more than his expenses ran to.

His brief from the features editor was "750 words, facts and figures, a list of famous Danes and famous Norwegians, a list of good places to eat and drink - smutty jokes and double entendres, bring them on, but no filth, pur-lease! "

The editor need not have worried, for Simon was a past master at delivering precisely what they wanted: the right mix of hinted sex, pickled herrings, and a few lousy jokes at the expense of all those funny old foreigners.

A drag to write, but it meant he had as much booze and food as he needed for three days, for nothing, and that mattered. And it got him out of his ludicrously expensive pad in a new-build block near the railway station, sold to yuppies because it was "only 45 minutes to King's Cross".

He thought he'd go back to his "luxury" cabin, have a shower, change and then try all the bars, one after the next, and drink himself to sleep. First he went back on deck. It was a lovely evening, the North Sea for once was almost smooth, golden. Small groups of teenagers were smoking and canoodling and larking around, plump middle aged couples were gawping at the sunset.

Simon turned his back on them and headed down to his deck, finding it hard to remember which corridor to take. The boat was like a floating shopping mall, but all the shops looked the same. When he hit the home straight, he realised that what - on the outward journey - had been his private domain was now choc-a-bloc. He had a four-berth cabin all to himself, but now all the other cabins on this corridor were full - full, it seemed to him, of very noisy, mainly female students, Danish he supposed, but pretty multi-cultural.

In fact he had to squeeze past many hot and sweaty young women and climb over their giant backpacks, as the new passengers compared each other's cabin facilities, chattering and laughing the length of the passageway.

He took refuge in his cabin, slammed the door, and began undressing for the long-awaited shower. He turned it on so that it would run good and hot before he got in. It was almost a point of honour that he should use up all the free shampoos and lotions provided. Just as he was about to apply the cocoa-butter skin-cream, there was a loud rapping on his door.

"Hang on, hang on, coming, coming," he sang. The fluffy white towel around his skinny midriff, he opened the door an inch: "Yes?"

"Oh sorry, you have towels? They no put towels in our cabin?" The short, plump dark-skinned girl pushed her cheerful face around the door, as if casing the joint. She took an eyeful of Simon's towel-clad, gothic statue of a body and added, giggling: "Wow, you are pretty damn emaciated!"

Then she added: "Hey really sorry, if I'd known you were a guy I'd've left ya in peace, just assumed it was all chicks on this floor!"

"No, really, I'm fine, and look, if you really need towels, there's a couple of extras here."

"Wow thanks, look I 'm Irma, we're all from Toronto Uni? Just loved the Scandi tour, now heading back to London for the best two weeks of the tour - we hope! - then back home and stuff and yeah, drop by for a chat later if you like."

It struck Simon that this Irma was completely stoned.

"Oh thanks, Irma, well I thought I'd go for a drink or two...the Bar Havana looked, well, OK. If any of you fancied a drink..."

Simon had astonished himself. He was getting flirty with a plump stoned Canadian girl of about 21 - but, if he were to be honest about it, it was not Irma he was after, but the taller, slimmer, shyer girl he noticed her talking with earlier in the corridor. He assumed she was also in the next cabin, and already his active imagination was racing ahead of itself.

It's fair to say Simon was a bit on the vain side - again, this paradoxical mixture of extreme self-loathing and narcissism was evident in his choice of body-hugging, almost camp outfits. His evening out fit for this trip comprised skin-tight black trousers, with a narrow, orange leather belt, an indigo silk shirt and a rather skimpy, body-contoured black leather bomber jacket. Slightly pointy black suede boots completed his soft-punk professor look.

As he strolled in Bar Havana - which looked very much like the other three bars on this floating car park - he immediately saw three of his neighbours a corner alcove, and they saw him and beckoned energetically.

"Hi!" said Irma. "Meet Francesca, meet Thalia, the two most beautiful art history majors in Toronto, you're real lucky to be with us I tell you, ain't he guys?"

Francesca certainly was very well put together, thought Simon as he introduced himself. And as for Thalia, another stunner: he was able to compare and contrast the relative merits of Italian and Greek female beauty right here, via Toronto and Denmark, in the middle of the North Sea.

However, Simon noticed sadly that "his" girl was not there.

His thought seemed to be the cue: "Where's Leila got to?"

"Said she was coming up for a coke, but you know what she's like", said Irma, adding waspishly, "she probably got to read some verses first."

The mischievous Irma confronted him: "So tell us all about yourself and especially your sex life," as she poured him a beer from the massive jug on the table.

"Don't mind her, she always does this with guys", said Francesca, laughing but also blushing slightly.

Luckily Simon did not have to answer as the fourth girl made her entrance at just the right moment. Her long, elegant legs, encased in tight faux-leather jeans were right in front of my eyes.

"Oh sorry", she said, tripping over his clumsy foot. A rather skimpy cream alpaca jumper did not reach the top of these low-cut jeans, and there was a very provocative segment of golden-brown lower abdomen on display. The jumper clung to the small, widely-spaced peaks of her breasts, and was deep cut at the neck, revealing again the most delightful collar bones you could hang a body from. Higher up, this fabulously sensual creature did not disappoint: her gorgeous face, the wide-set, sparkling eyes, the proudly aquiline nose, wide, generous mouth, shining teeth all set perfectly against the flawless café au lait of her skin.

Simon shuffled along the banquette to make space for her, she climbed over his knees, and sat herself down. As she sat, Simon could not help noticing a flash of her lower vertebrae, the delightful depression of the coccyx, and then a more surprising flash of the waistband of a shockingly bright red thong peeking out of the jeans.

"I'm Leila," she smiled, holding out her fragile hand, which he touched lightly, "Sorry am late. I had to text my brother. He's back in Beirut, I have to text him every day."

She looked hard at him with those eyes, those smiling eyes, and Simon felt himself bathed in warm Mediterranean sunshine. "I like your shirt," she said, "It's silk?" She touched the cuff lightly with one finger, and then nodded, "Oh yes, good silk, very good..."

"Er, yeah, it is" he mumbled. Noticing she was not drinking the beer, Simon took a risk: "Can I get you a drink?"

"Nah, I'll get her her diet Coke", said Irma. "You carry on telling us all about your wild sex life...!"

"Irma!" said Francesca with mock anger.

"Oh my god, I wanna hear all about it too!" said Leila. The damage, Simon thought, was done. That little minx Irma a had it in for him and wanted to wreck his chances even before he had any chances.

"He's a travel writer, he must have girls in every port" the wicked Irma continued as she dodged to the bar. "Don't spare the details!"

The three other girls did not seem at all phased by any of this: indeed they look attentive, as though they really expected Simon to launch into an account of a debauched life that in reality did not exist. He was going red in the cheeks.

"Oh, poor boy", said Thalia, "she's embarrassed you, she always does this. Don't worry, let's just drink lots and think about dinner!"

"Well actually", he stammered, squirming a bit as he heard his own voice, "you could all come for a meal on me in the so-called Royale, it'll be on the house, you can order whatever you want..."

"Wow, that'd be great, yeah? I mean, are you sure?"

Irma came back with Leila's diet coke and picked up on the talk of a free posh dinner and was very excited.

"See, I told you it was worth while me seducing him," she giggled.

"You didn't'.

"Oh yes I did and I've already seen him naked too," she laughed.

"And he was very nice but a bit skinny".

That was it, Simon thought, he had to fight back! "Er, look, Irma dear, all I did was lend you two towels and I was not naked, well not entirely...I mean..."

"Yeah, well, whatever, hey aren't you guys hungry?"

"Well Simon said he'd kindly take us to the blingy restaurant on the top deck" flashed Leila, and as she turned for confirmation he caught her eyes, she was looking at him with such a concentrated look of need, he was taken aback. He realised he was in the company of four extremely sexy girls, on a ship in the middle of the sea, away from all cares and inhibitions. He could be somebody else. Or - more to the point - he could at last, for the first time, be himself. His real self, or his fantasy self - which?

As they stood to leave the bar, a short guy with a baseball cap and half-grown moustache came up to them, put his hand on Leila's shoulder and whispered angrily into her ear. Her face clouded, she pushed him away and said something harsh in what Simon liked to think was Beirut street Arabic. The lad snapped one word back and stomped off.

"What the fuck's he up to now" chorused the other girls.

"Oh, just sticking his stupid little dick-head in where it's not wanted" Leila sniffed. "He'll never change. He thinks he's still back in west Beirut, and that he can boss all the girls around as much as he likes. I bet he's on the phone now to my bro telling him I've gone all haram and honky." .

They entered the restaurant, the lovely Latvian waitress took them to the best table, giving Simon a very satirical look indeed. "Would the ladies like an aperitif? Your usual martini, sir?"

"You see, I told you he had a wild sex-life", Irma stage-whispered, nudging Francesca in her lovely ribs. "He's had this one already".

"That's enough, Irma", Simon snarled, mock angry. "Bring us some champagne please, my dear, on ice, and some nibbles too, please" he said, happily losing his own plot, and following something he must've read in a tacky magazine article.

That's how the evening progressed. They drank a lot, ate little, talked ceaselessly, and the talk got wilder and dirtier. Irma would not let go and as the others got more drunk they joined in the spirit. Things were going just as SImon had hoped, if he were honest, and when Thalia suggested they all go up on deck for a smoke, he agreed almost too eagerly.

It was cold, now, and the wind was strong, so that it was difficult to roll the spliffs, let alone smoke them. They were crouched by the massive funnel of the ship, which was warm but stank of diesel. There were dozens of other kids up there too, all smoking and swigging at bottles. Art history majors, my arse they are a cultured lot, Simon thought snobbishly to himself.

"Is crazy, let's go back to the cabin" said Francesaca.

"Can't smoke in there though"

"Smoke it as we go back"

Thye each took exaggerated tokes on the big fat spliff Irma had rolled, and it hit Simon too fast.

What with the swell and the booze, he suddenly felt he was going to vomit hard. He crouched down, the girls saw and became all nursey and concerned. "It's ok, I just have to get something out" he muttered, stumbling towards the railing. He was copiously sick into the heaving sea, his vomit blowing back onto deck further along the boat, just msisng an entangled couple.

"Uh-oh, we'd better get scarce," laughed Irma, and they all traipsed down the steep steps, through the the steel doors, down, down, the shops and bars passing in a blur.

The next thing Simon knew he was on a lower bunk-bed, Leila was sitting on the pillow next to his head, helping him drink water. Someone had taken his jacket and boots off and loosened his belt.

He suddenly felt absolutely fine, as the weed kicked in again, this time in a very good way.

"Oh, you're so kind, thanks, I feel fine now, just got the horrid taste out of my..."

Before Simon could say any more, Leila planted a finger on his lips, said, "Shhhh!" - then gave him a smacking kiss on those same lips, with her full, remarkably articulate lips, lips that you could almost call muscular, there was power in that kiss even though she held back her tongue. For now.

"Hey Ley, steady on, don't hog on that joint gal! "

"Yeah we all want a taste"

They were sitting on the other bunk, and Irma was dealing a pack of cards into four piles. "Thought the old games are the best, we're gonna play poker."

"Nah that's boring shit, if you wanna get naked just get naked!" yawned Thalia.

"She always does get naked" Francesca laughed.

"So do you!" said Leila.

"Yeah we all do, except you" accused Francesca. "You never do - it's against your religion right?

Leila was silent for a bit, then she chuckled to herself and said something that shocked Simon to his core:

"It's not us who are going to get naked. It's Simon. He's gonna put on a show for us, aren't you Simon, sexy Simon?"

The four girls fell silent, and looked hard at soft, soppy Simon.

"Simon, brother, you're gonna have to do what Leila said. It will be good for us all."

"I...uh...I'm not sure I can do that...really. Not sure at all."

He looked down at his shirt , which he now realised had also been unbuttoned since his little drama with the vomit.

Before he could think any more, Irma and Leila jumped over to the bunk, rolled his long legs out, and began tugging at the tight black trouser. "You might need a little help it seems"

They had them down to his knees in no time and he did not resist. As a matter of good taste he insisted on taking off his bright red socks before the trousers were fully removed.

The dark blue silk of the shirt framed the front of his white underpants very nicely. The small bulge of his genitals seemed to be untroubled, there was no movement there. It was like just another nice set of curves, complementing his very smooth belly, and the curve of his almost hairless thighs.

The four girls sat almost primly, facing him, studying their subject as if they were about to draw him.

The reverential atmosphere was destroyed by Irma of course: "Show us your tits then love!"

Somehow - probably the weed - he was getting into this weirdness. He gave a saucy little shake of his shoulders, then slowly slipped the shirt down one arm to reveal one nipple. It was dark and as erect as a male nipple can be.

Now almost dancing he let the other sleeve slide down the arm , then shook the shirt right off his wrists and turned to give them a good full view of his torso, which, it had to be said, was rather lovely in its whiteness and its slim smoothness and its subtle curvaceousness, the thin arms were not un-muscular, the long elegant hands crooked in a camp way, one up, one down.

"More, more!" they chanted.

He sashayed around a bit, hooking his thumbs and and fingers in the waistband of the briefs, the very tight white briefs. He turned his back to them, stuck out his rump, and half-bared one cheek.

The applause made him repeat this for the other cheeks, then both cheeks.

"OMG what a lovely tight little set of buns!"

The pompous Simon returned for a minute. "And that sweet ladies is all you get from me tonight, good night, good night," he sang as he swayed toward the door.

"Oh no, you ain't going nowhere" four voices in unison sang.

They were up on him, he was forced onto the bunk, and four pairs of hands went for his little white knickers.

They started hungrily, pulling and pulling at them, until Leila said, "No, not yet, let's wait. Let's enjoy the rest of him first."