Sex and Gender

I Can Finally Tell My Truth

It’s taken me months to fully admit it… But I can now say I was sexually harassed on a boat in Alaska.

Don’t worry my little harasser, I’m not calling the cops or a lawyer.  Your secret is safe with me.  Safe from you too — I’m sure you have no clue how creepy this is (or I am — take your pick).

The Bear and I were on an Alaskan cruise.  One night we checked out the “dance” show.  Six twenty somethings dancing to a bunch of songs that were hits 20 years before they were born. It amused the elderly who can remember the songs, but can’t remember how to move like that.

The next day, we go to the crappy little boat gym. It’s covered in mirrors to make it look bigger and give the vain a chance to watch their own muscles grow.

In walks two 20-somethings. One male, one female: two of the dancers from last night’s show.

The Bear is behind me on a spin bike looking at the aft wall of mirrors.  There’s an open space with mats between her and the mirror. She can easily see me.  But I have to turn all the way around to see her.

On the Port Side

I’m on a stationary bike looking at the port wall.  The gym is in the bow.  The port wall is curved so the mirrors review every inch in front of me at many different angles.  To make it worse, 4 feet away there’s a little 2-foot nook in the wall that has mirrors pointing  forward, aft and starboard. I have mutliple views of every inch of that nook.

The female dancer — the blonde — slides into the nook. There’s a rail in front of a mirror. She begins to stretch.  If we put out our arms toward each other we could touch fingers like Michalango’s Creation of Adam.

dance stretch

Not my harasser.  We were closer than this.

She rolls her head side to side, looks up at me and smiles.

Don’t smile at me in front of my wife.  You know what kind of shit I’m going to hear for the next year?

I try to look away, but I’m trapped.  Unless I spin my head all the way around, like the girl in The Exorcist, the dancer is in full view in multiple mirrors.

I’m in full view of the Bear.   The little hairs on the back of my neck come to attention. I had set the bike timer for 20 minutes… I’m only 2 minutes into the ride.  I can’t leave now — rides must be finished or you are just a complete pussy.  I didn’t make the rules, but those are the rules.

The blonde shifts from her neck to her shoulders.  She rotates her right shoulder in a smooth circle toward me, while her left shoulder is circling away from me. Then switches.   Try it — you will lose your fucking mind.

There’s so much going on it’s hard to watch. Her boobs are going in opposite directions and bouncing every so slightly.  My lazy eye drifts off because it just can’t keep up.

She’s in a tight long-sleeve top that might as well be a skin suit.  I can count the ripples in her six-pack.  (Ripples, I wrote ripples with an “R”…) She’s in long, loose sweat pants.

She begins to glisten and removes the sweat pants. She’s wearing red runner’s shorts.  Just long enough to cover her ass when she is standing still. But short enough to show the smooth and powerfully rounded quads — all the way up until there are no thighs any more.

I’m suddenly craving chicken wings…


It’s a sickness… I know.

Forget food — focus.

She moves to the midrif, and the middle of her body is spinning in circles while the rest doesn’t move.

Opposite Spin

Then the hips. Now the hips and shoulders are spinning in opposite directions. Her neck joins the hips’ rhythm and everything from her thighs up is moving in different directions to some internal rhythm that she emits, but I can’t catch.

Now one butt cheek, then the other in opposite patterns —  each cheek is stretching and lifting independently.

Then the thighs, one at a time. Then the calves, the feet.

Is it over? That’s everything, right?  Quick shoulder check on The Bear — is that a stare in my direction?  Hard to tell, she’s sweating and spinning.

Now the dancer bends to put her hands on the floor.  The shorts that were covering her ass no longer do. The shorts slip into the crevasses shared with her matching red thong, and the fibers from the two layers join and stretch each other in various directions.


Not the actual harasser — but you get the idea.

Wow, there’s a really good-sized vein that rims the ball joint of her hip. I can see all the patterns and strings in the muscles that lift each gluteus maximus and attach them to the  pelvis. I don’t care who you are, that’s impressive from every angle.

Fiscal Responsibility

I can feel The Bear’s presence.  I realize this “woman” is probably too young to date my son.  There are big parts of me that really don’t want to look…

But do you know how many singles I would have to carry to get this show at the Uranus Lounge? It would be fiscally irresponsible of me to look away now.

Shit.  She’s not done.  Now she’s grabbing her ankles and pulling each leg over her head, while doing quarter and half-turns on her opposite toe.

It’s obvious she has had a Brazillian recently.  It is fresh, and it is thorough. Not a single razor bump or blemish.  I wonder if she gets them free at the spa on the boat?

Should I protest?  Should I try to leave. Should I stiff arm her and scream “NO.”

Fight the Power

I feel powerless.  If I walk away now, I destroy my own workout goals, and probably make an awkward moment of stepping past this girl with her stuff hanging out.  I don’t think I could get off this damn machine without bumping into her…  that would get ugly fast.

Who’s going to take my side in that little debate. Certainly not the ship captain or the police… She has all the power in this “relationship.”

If I quit early, there will be questions from The Bear.

How much longer can it take?  My mind wanders to other places as that girl continues her “work.” I catch myself in the mirror, and there’s this shit-eating grin on my face that I don’t recognize…

Could that be happiness?

I catch the dancer’s eyes in the mirror.  She smiles again.

Bitch, are you trying to get me killed?

Now she has her hands on the floor and her feet in the air.  Sometimes her feet touch the bar, sometimes just waving aimlessly. Circling closer and closer to me.  If she falls now, she’s going to have to wrap her legs around my left thigh.

Shoulder check for the Bear…

The girl spins on her hands, cartwheels over, lands on the other side of me and walks away.  The view was spectacular.  The feeling was a mix of excitement, shame and fear for my impending death.

Timer goes off — 20-minutes over.  Ohh My God.  Where’s my towel?

Designated Survivor

Get off the bike, head for The Bear. Ready to do damage control.  On the mat in front of her, the male dancer is balancing on one hand with his feet directly over his head.  His shirt has fallen over the top of his face showing his bronze, solid abs. His shorts are almost as short as the blonde’s.  No Brazillian for that boy’s balls.

The Bear and I make eye contact.  We smile.  We silently agree to never speak of this again.

But after 3 months of reflection, I can be silent no more.   Don’t pity me.  I’m not a victim; I’m a survivor.


PS:  This little satire is not a reflection on people who experience actual sexual harassment.  It’s a little story reflecting the “gender” and generation differences — especially over clothes and those stupid short, shorts the young wear.  Using the language of surviviors just makes it a little funnier to me — it’s not to shame or degrade actual survivors.  Don’t get mad.  It’s just more of my Bullshit.  You should be used to it by now.


11 replies »

  1. A retired minister recently told me he’s finally hit an age where he no longer “looks”…. except on Mondays… and Tuesdays… and Wednesdays, Thursday, Fridays and Saturdays…. and Sunday afternoons. Sunday mornings he goes to church with his wife.

    Liked by 1 person

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