Sly and I were having a quiet dinner together at a nice restaurant near my new apartment. These days he usually takes me out for dinner once a week or so. That was originally my idea: a good time to relax and get to know each other better, and a nicer place to discuss business than his apartment, where I'm often distracted because we're waiting for a client or cleaning up after one. Yes, as you might have inferred, we sell sex. Well, at least I provide the sex, while Sly screens and provides the clients and generally looks after me. We're an odd pair, him a street tough and me a suburban 'princess', as he used to disparagingly call me, but we've developed a pretty good relationship built on mutual respect despite the enormous difference in our backgrounds.
When I broached the idea to him, I was astonished to find that for all his worldliness and knowledge of women, Sly had never before in his life gone out on a "date"! Seems that in his world you just agreed to fuck and then did it and forgot it. None of this "romance shit", as he so delicately put it. Then I had to convince him that every date didn't end up in bed; some were just social occasions, a chance to dress up a little and get to know the person better. He had a hard time imagining anything like that, but I have to say, he's adapted pretty well. He's always had trouble understanding my desire to keep our relationship professional (with only an occasional slip on my part), but out of respect for me he grudgingly accepts it, and I really do appreciate that.
Sorry about the digression.
Anyway, over coffee Sly casually asked if I knew anything about boats.
"Boats? What are you talking about? You mean, like cruise ships? Rowboats? What kind of boats?"
"No, Princess. Sailboats. Yachts, they're called."
"Oh. Yeah, my family had a couple of friends who had yachts. Used to race them, and sometimes go on cruises. I got to sail with them once in a while. Even crewed a race a few times."
"Figures," he said, his voice dripping with disdain at anyone so hopelessly idly rich as to race, for God's sake,
sailboats
. Motorboats, maybe. Street drag racing or NASCAR was more his style. Lots of noise and high speed and sexy girls.
"Anyhow, that's good. I got a client has a yacht, races it on weekends."
I couldn't imagine how Sly would have gotten involved with such a client, but I've learned that he moves in very mysterious circles, and it's better I don't know. But I was definitely intrigued.
"Sly, what's this got to do with me?"
"Well, this guy, he's kind of a nerd. Shy, y'know? Anyway, all these other rich bastards he goes racing with on weekends bring along these beauties to decorate their yachts. He wants to one-up them, show them up. Problem is, he don't know any suitable women. On the other hand, he's got dough."
"You mean, he wants a figurehead for his yacht? And that's all?"
"Princess, I don't know what a 'figurehead' is, but if it's a gorgeous and sexy girl, you'll do fine. As far as that being 'all', that's up to you. He's payin' enough, but it's not part of the agreement."
I appreciated the compliment even though I knew Sly meant it objectively rather than personally. Still, this was beginning to sound like fun. And I kind of liked having a choice as to what might develop.
The next Sunday morning around eleven I showed up at the client's yacht club. I had dressed for the occasion in skin-tight little white short shorts that showed off my long legs and clung to my butt. I had on cute little white Sperry Topsider boat moccasins, and a red tie-front halter that exposed my flat midriff while nicely accentuating my bosom. I wore my long blonde hair tied in a ponytail with a matching red ribbon and set my makeup dial to "moderate but sexy enough".
I walked up to a table by the waterfront where four guys were sitting drinking beer (imported, of course).
"Excuse me, I'm looking for Carter Williams. Is he around?"
That stopped the conversation cold. Eight eyes swiveled toward me and swept up and down, eagerly taking in the sights.
"Um, Carter? Are you sure that's who you're looking for?"
"Yes. He told me to meet him here. I'm going to crew for him this afternoon."
"Carter?? Carter Williams??"
"Yes," I said, a little brusquely. The initial amusement was wearing a bit thin by then.
They looked at each other. Their expressions spoke volumes.
"Sorry, miss. Carter is over on the A dock. His boat is called
Mistral
."
I thanked them and headed for the A dock. I could feel their eyes following my every step. I figured that as long as I was being paid to be eye candy, I'd give them something to talk about, so I laid it on pretty thick; it wasn't hard to do in those tight shorts! I could hear the low murmur of their conversation.
I ask you, what woman doesn't love making a grand entrance?
Mistral
was a beauty, though I couldn't quite say the same for Carter.
She
