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"Yes Ma'am," he replied.After he had gone, I entered the small bathroom and stripped off my jungle rags and they were indeed rags at that point. I wasn't kidding when I told Jerrod that I smelled. It wasn't body odor though. It was the smell of the olive oil I used as lubricant, and the smell of the very highly refined hydraulic fluid which still stained my jeans. I was no longer leaking, but it still smelled on my clothes and possibly on my fake skin. I absolutely did not exude a pleasant odor at all.Before I climbed into the fiberglass shower stall, I examined my body in the large vanity mirrors. They were the cruise line's idea of glitz. I could see my body reflected in every possible angle in the mirrors. By cranking up the zoom feature, I was able to see it in great detail as well.I could see everything, from the bad hair on my head, to the poorly stitched up rips and holes in the fake skin. It was a good thing I didn't plan on a gig with project runway. I would be the first one. They both are sun kissed. He’s in dark denim, his stubble dark too, like the bruised asphalt of a battered desert highway. Like road movie outlaws, the two of them; fuckable, like models. And just as arrogant and needy. They speak lightly to each other, little chortles of fun. I make out nothing. Nothing is said to me directly, and of course I have nothing to say. The girl gets out her camera. She turns to the opposite wall and takes a picture, as if she were artfully composing a snap of some sophisticated urban interior. The man just comes over to me. He unzips his jeans and rummages his cock out. It’s beginning to swell, angular and purposive, not fully erect. “Lick,” he says. I cross over towards it, resting my weight on my elbow, opening my mouth, hovering open around the dome, wetting my bottom lip with my tongue, but it’s almost too dry. I swallow, anxiety like a heave of dusty wind inside me, blowing down from my mouth into the pit of my stomach, a dead well. I swoop my tongue.
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