
Doing my 3rd Transatlantic Cruise forfor 15 nights ofof fun!
Spain to Miami.
Fifteen nights of sea, sun and sex.
A boat full of singletons.
You can’t get any better.
I board the cruise at Barcelona smelling of freshly applied sun cream and Christian Dior perfume. Already, I feel the sun browning my skin, and as I step onto the boat, my jaw drops at all the beautiful faces around me. When you’re new out of a relationship, Cosmopolitan tells you to take a weekend trip to Paris and make out with some Parisian guy, to get wine drunk and go out with your friends until you feel better. Trust me, I’ve tried it all. Nothing restores the heart (and your sex drive) more than a transatlantic cruise. This is my third breakup, also my third transatlantic cruise, so as I step aboard, I know the maritime miracle has already begun its work on sewing my shattered heart back together.
Grand chandeliers welcome me inside when I enter the lobby, alongside staff suited in their refinery. They hand out welcome shots – limoncello – and the liquid sliding down my throat marks the official start of the holiday.
I make my way to the bow of the ship for departure and stick my head over the rail to feel the spray of water against my face. Barcelona recedes into the distance, blue waves soon erasing the palm trees and skyscrapers as we make for the sunset horizon. I become friendly with a group of women and after food, arrange to meet them in the main entertainment room for drinks.
A little black dress is what I opt for, open at the back and fully covered at the front (you don’t want to give away the farm). Sipping aperol spritz with a bunch of women you’ve just that day met, Mediterranean wind curling the ends of your hair to give you a killer blowout, ranks first on my list of best life experiences. There’s simply nothing better. One day you’re in England penned inside the four walls of your boyfriend’s bedroom walls watching him play Fifa, and the next you’re cruising to your first destination – Palma, Majorca.
And meeting what could quite possibly be the most stunning man you’ve ever met.
His name is Emilia. He’s Finnish, here with his mates and his eyes look photoshopped. They’re husky blue. Too blue, in my opinion, but I haven’t been able, for the past half an hour, to tear my eyes from him, so now he’s at my side asking what I do for a living.
“There’s more interesting questions to ask than what someone does for work.”
A good way to divert the conversation for an unemployed gal like myself.
“OK.” He folds his arms across his chest. Inspects my face. “What sort of question should I ask, then?”
I shrug. “Dunno. What do I want most in the world?”
His linen shirt, half unbuttoned to expose a tanned chest underneath, blows in the breeze. “Go on then. What do you want most in the world?”
I flick my empty glass. “For you to buy me another drink.”
Guys, I’ve come to realise in my twenty-five years of living, are quite simple creatures when it comes down to it. There’s three things you need to know about them (proven to work on all nationalities).
One: they value the natural look – easy. Wear a foundation shade most closest to your skin tone, choose length over volume when it comes to mascara, and dab your under eyes with concealer. Done.
Two: personality. You’re not just a pretty face. Keep them on their toes at all times. Make fun of them, stay in your femininity and avoid niceness – they’re bored when it’s too easy.
Three: Heels. Throw on a pair and watch them crash their cars just to watch you walk down the street.
Knowing these things gets you what you want – free drinks and sex. It’s why I’m walking away from the bar now, overpriced drink in hand, with Emilia at my side. He shoves his wallet back into his linen trouser pocket and we head inside to get out of the wind. We take a seat on two plush seats pulled up around a circular table and set down our drinks. He rakes his pearl-coloured hair through his hands, exposing – and potentially flexing – his still-intact hairline, and reclines back in his seat to watch me with curious eyes as I take another sip of my drink.
“What are you doing on the cruise? Recently out of a relationship?”
I nod. “It’s why everyone’s here.”
“Yes,” he says. “How many years for you?”
I stick up two fingers.
“Mild,” he says, and sticks up twelve.
I almost spit out my drink. Place a hand over my mouth to swallow, not trusting my mouth to keep itself closed at the shocking news he’s just dropped. Twelve fucking years. He only looks about –
“Twenty-eight. High school sweethearts. We were both sixteen.”
I hesitate taking another sip because tonight, for the first time, I’ve chosen poorly.
Emilia leans forward in his chair, long legs spread around the table, to look into my eyes again with an expression more curious than before. Jealousy surprise-attacks me and the alcohol sliding down my throat turns sour – his nose is so perfect. Lips too. They’re naturally pink, plump too. Twelve years is a whole lot of trauma. Research shows that through the act of sex, trauma can be transferred to the other person… but my body craves him too much to care.
So I lean forward too.
Tilt my head.
The tension in his eyes disappears. Must look odd from afar, just me and him leaned forward opposite one another staring into one another’s eyes – maybe looks like we’re falling in love – but fifteen day transatlantic cruises aren’t made for love. They’re made for orgasms and experimentations.
For one night stands.
His hand lands on my knee cap and journeys up my thigh. It disappears under my black dress and turns inward, stopping just short of my panties – black lace.
“You look flustered.”
“It’s hot in here.”
He makes a point of turning to the door. It’s wide open and wind lifts the curtains into the air. A couple, seated two over from us, both sit rubbing away the goosebumps on their arms, and I’m here overheating with desire… .him too apparently. White linen trousers leaves very little to the imagination.
Sex, in my opinion, is always better had when you’re single. It’s the thrill of never seeing the other person again. You’re both clean. Nothing smells because you’re afraid of deterring the other person. People are always on top form, on a mission to impress because they wanna go down in the books as the best sex you’ve ever had. Sex during a relationship is sloppy, careless and tiring. Sure, in the honeymoon stage it’s fun, but once you surpass the one year mark, it becomes half arsed. They don’t bother shaving and wearing deodorant. Locked in, there’s no need to impress anymore. All you’re doing is scratching an itch, and it’s an itch that becomes less pressing the more you progress through the years together. Sexual desire, I’ve come to learn from my transatlantic cruise getaways, comes hand-in-hand with curiosity. Curiosity excites, and when you know another person so well, down to the amount of sugar grains they take in their coffee, no stone in their character has been left unturned.
It’s boring.
All hail the singles cruise.
Emilia and I finish our drinks and head back to his room. He shares it with his three friends so hooks the do not disturb sign on the door handle and locks the door behind him. He’s tall and lean, and when he lifts the shirt over his head, panels of muscles contract.
I want to smooth my hands over them all.
His kiss is better than anticipated. The general consensus is that fuck boys perform the best in the bedroom compared to one-girl-at-a-time kind of guys, like Emilia. Wrong. The way he folds his tongue around mind is an experience not for the faint hearted. One kiss, and already my pussy’s throbbing for him to get inside. At this point, wet through my panties, I’d gladly spread my legs and beg him to pump all of his trauma into me. It’d be worth it.
We progress onto the bed. His hand slides under my dress again and hooking his pinkie around the strap of my panties, he slowly removes them, dragging them down my thighs, knees, shins and feet until they’re on the floor mixed with his pile of clothes.
The look on his face when he presses a finger to my pussy to feel my wetness is an image I’d photograph and keep as favourited on my camera roll. The sparkling, blue eyes in the dimly-lit room, the fair features and dark, brooding brows… Emilia could quite possible be the most attractive man I’ve ever gotten with.
He takes out his dick and the tip is the same, pink colour as his lips. Staring deep into my eyes, he spreads apart my legs – my dress still on – and fucks me slow.
Desire immediately triples. It’s not just my centre that’s oozing with arousal, but every cell in my body. Emilia lowers himself down onto me and trails long, drawn out kisses down my neck that releases, not only more desire, but waves of relaxation through me.
“Good girl,” he whispers into the nape of my neck in response to my whimper. “You’re doing a good job.” He rides the skirt of my dress up higher so it settles at my waist. Draws my legs up to his chest. “Good.”
Spanish and Italian accents are supposed to be the most lusted after, but being fucked by Emilia, his long dick sliding practised in and out of me, has proven me otherwise.
Emilia alters his angle. Thrusts his hips in a way that has his balls bouncing against me each time he hits. After some manoeuvring from me, the base of his dick, upon withdrawal, brushes against my clit and suddenly my hands clutch his body like I’m holding onto a buoy in a storm, because it’s life or death. If I don’t have this orgasm, life from this day forward is gonna be impossible to live through.
I scream his name.
He pounds into me.
My clit overwhelmed with sensitivity, I come around his dick, continuing to enjoy the sensation of his thrusts as waves of pleasure consume me like high tides do coastal rocks.
He follows several seconds after me, drilling into my pussy until he’s pulling out and coming into my mouth, breath aspirated and body covered in a layer of sweat. I catch most of it – some drizzles onto my dress – but I’m pleasantly surprised when I swallow it, that it doesn’t taste like week-old fish (unlike my ex’s cum) but sweet and citrusy. Like the welcome shot of limoncello.