The Problem with Sailors

The sailor’s life is a romantic one and I admit to enjoying the eye-candy aspect as well. Of course, I can hardly blame a man for dropping out of the American Dream in order to live on his boat.

Sailors tend to be tanned, with sun-kissed hair, and good with their hands. The fresh salt air environment, and diet heavy on seafood, also tend to result in a friendly and welcoming attitude. Those of us with some affinity or fetish for rope, hardware, and pirates tend to be positively “triggered” by the excitement of it all, to include receptive physiological phenomena.

The geography of the berth also lends itself to exciting sexual positions.

So, “Yo Ho Ho” how come I tend to steer myself away from career sailors and fishermen? What kind of an idiot am I?

It’s complicated.

When I met Axel he had just been relieved of his retirement dream of becoming a “floating handyman” thanks to the busting of the real estate bubble as well as some friends (and a “submissive” girlfriend) who turned out to be worse than enemies.

Back when I thought I had a prayer of retrieving some portion of my own retirement funds absconded with by my missing international con artist husband, I entertained the notion that somehow Axel and I could both have our dreams, that is, Axel could live on a boat and I could live on a nearby farm, with regular “conjugal” as well as “service” visits on both of our parts.

I would need my own “handyman” on my farm and he would need someone to keep the boat clean and fresh-smelling, i.e., free of mildew, to include laundry. The cross-commute might well have been daunting, particularly as we both got older. The notion of laundering sheets that smelled like other women was also going to be a bit difficult but I was prepared to take on the burden.

When Axel and I lived together, part of the arrangement with regard to our largely one-sided open relationship, was that he was not to bring anyone home with him but rather was forced to limit his extra-relationship interludes to women with roofs over their own heads (or commodious vehicles or motel budgets).

All that said, the notion of visiting Axel on his theoretical boat for a dose of floating “man cave” appealed enormously. The fact is that my own “feminine touches” to my domicile tend to be sparse. I much prefer the electrical spool as coffee table and discarded bar light illumination ambiance to the Sunset Magazine look. This is a function of my own association of American Dream “Domestic Bliss” with my abusive childhood. Moreover, I tend to prefer to sleep in an environment which constitutes a refuge from consumerism rather than a testament thereto, especially around Christmas time.

All that said, four years now living in U.S. society after Venezuela has resulted in a few material and domestic acquisitions such that my home is not too terribly frightening to my fellow citizens. Most of this stuff is inherited from Axel and his father but I have a few choice pieces myself thanks to my mother.

However, despite my problem with a home that is overly middle-classified, there is one problem that I have with boat living that so far precludes me from considering it. The problem is the mildew odor. I really hate it. If I were living aboard a boat myself I would be dedicating myself to the daily eradication thereof, which is not something I would eliminate as a possibility given a special man who would make such a vocation worthwhile.

In addition to cleaning, swabbing, and laundry, there would also be the dehumidification of closets and other places where fabric items may reside. However, for the right emotional and physical inducement, all things are possible.

Meanwhile, actually getting to such a point of intimacy with a sailor has obstacles. Once again, the only obstacle which concerns me is the mildew odor. I am a highly olfactorily-motivated individual, to include the heady and intoxicating fragrance of sweaty healthy man. Getting past the mildew smell of the clothing of the typical male sailor has so far been an impenetrable barrier to embarking on a relationship therewith. The paradox is that a man who is as diligent with his laundry and household fabric maintenance as required in order to keep the mildew odor under control would probably not have a need for me and I might even come to suspect the strength of his heterosexuality (my own weakness for sure). If such a man were to hire another person, a woman say, in order to perform this maintenance for him, I would probably feel threatened by her and otherwise desire to usurp her position to include dirty tricks.

However, in the interest of magnanimity toward a future theoretical romantic possibility by way of a sailor, I shall publish my requirements herewith.

  1. He will need to keep an adequate wardrobe at my place that I would maintain (laundry, mending, ironing, and storage).
  2. Upon arrival at my place he would need to shower and shampoo while meanwhile I would launder the clothes he was wearing.

Would he retain a Dominant sense of sexuality after acceding to these indignities? Or would he be tempted to push my limits by deliberately violating my olfactory sensibilities? Oh OK. That could work. But he had better be good.

One thought on “The Problem with Sailors

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