Charlotte Amalie

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Men deprived of the presence of women for any length of time are capable of thinking of only one thing; the fragrant undetectable perfume of female pheromones.

Thus it was, one day many years ago, as we pulled into Charlotte Amalie harbor, St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. Our ship had been on an extended patrol, and we had not seen anything feminine in over a month. Now, the fragrance laden breezes that washed over the blue-green water carried the sweet smell of tropical flowers. And women. They were there. Many of them. Standing on the shore watching our bow drift slowly, carefully toward the dock.

We sailors tried mightily to keep our minds on the business of tying the ship up. But the obscure haze of the air of women dominated our awareness. We managed at our clumsy last to get the mooring lines out and get the ship soothed to a serene rest. And I did not have “The duty”. That meant that I could have forty-eight care-free hours ashore. That meant that I would, likely, get laid. That meant that I would also, no doubt, get a little drunk.

Understand that in those days the white belt that held my white uniform pants up was only twenty six inches long. Understand that I had no fat on me, and the white uniform fit me as well as Frank Sinatra’s and Gene Kelly’s had fit them in some movie about sailors in Paris.

I cocked my white hat over my left eye and swaggered ashore with the pride of one who knows that the ship’s arrival has squished more than one female pudenda into lusty anticipation.

But where the hell were they?

Most of my shipmates were heading toward Trader Dan’s, the thatch-covered bar along the main wharf that was the center of Charlotte Amalie’s commerce and social life. In an hour or so it would be too drunk in there to hear yourself think. I opted for the streets less traveled. I headed up the hill toward the shops where I could poke around among souvenir stores and little local restaurants. I would get a cup of the island’s rich black coffee and sit for a bit while I worked out my itinerary.

She found me there.

Her name was Helen, and she was a late thirty-ish, maybe even forty-ish schoolteacher from Michigan. She had a soft look about her; like one unaccustomed to the nuances of a one-night-stand. She had asked if she might join me and I had, of course, invited her to sit down. She was intrigued, she told me, by how young I was and my uniform and those ribbons on it and what were they for because she wanted to tell her fourth grade class that she had met a real sailor and could I tell her something about the life I led. Like why?

“Look around.” I answered. “I come here at least a couple of times a month most times. We’re based at San Juan. I’ve learned Spanish and how to navigate and the service taught me morse code so that I speak it like a second language and, well, I guess it’s just the adventure.”

“I can’t imagine such a life.” She said. “It took me three years just to save up for this trip.” She put her hand on mine. It was a delicate little schoolteacher’s hand. It had red lacquered nails and looked like it might be made out of the hollow bones of birds. “So you’re familiar with Charlotte Amalie?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“Maybe you could give me a tour. I’ve only just arrived myself.”

The steel band from Trader Dan’s was in full voice as we walked along the wharf. Vendors in boats held up huge fish and exotic fruits and vegetables and handbags and wicker hats likely made in Taiwan and on one a very pretty little island girl sold flowers. I bought a little bouquet and gave them to Helen. She looked at them almanbahis with a kind of whistful look on her face for a moment, then her face brightened and she put her arm in mine and we strolled. From time to time one of my shipmates would pass me with a “You sorry bastard, you’ve already scored” look on his face. It was an intoxicating afternoon of tropical sun, salt air, wild flowers and calypso music. By the time the sun had settled itself down to the horizon, Helen’s face was pressed against my shoulder.

“How long can you stay off the boat?” She asked.

“Ship. It’s a ship.” I said. I looked at my watch. “I have another forty-six hours.”

“I know that we’ll never see each other again after this, but do you suppose, just for this little while, you could be, like, my boyfriend or something?” She asked.

I stopped and put my hands on her shoulders. “And what does that entail?” I asked.

She leaned up and kissed me. “Everything, maybe, if you don’t mind an old broad like me.”

“You’re not an old broad.” I said. “Just older than me.”

“How old are you?” She asked between kisses.

“Twenty-one.” “And how long have you been here in this kind of world?”

“Two years.”

“My hotel room is right up there. Would you… Like… Maybe… Would you like to come up to it?”


“And spend the night?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“Maybe I should buy us something to have, like, to drink.” She said.

“Rum.” I said. “But just a little. I don’t want to get drunk and miss any of you.”

We picked up a pint of dark brown rum on our way to the hotel.

Upstairs she opened wooden jalousie doors that had a hundred weathered coats of pastel green paint on them and went into a room with a huge wooden bed in the middle of it and mosquito netting and a table with a water pitcher sitting in a big bowl.

“It’s just like something out of the last century.” She said. “And the back porch overlooks the ocean.”

We walked through the room and out the opposite door and there was the sea and the sunset and the palm trees and the flowers and the sound of the steel band which can be heard a dozen miles at sea some days. She pointed down toward the beach. “A man sells some kind of barbecued meat down there.” She said. “Are you hungry?”

I waited for her to change into her bathing suit, a daring two-piece that revealed a flat stomach and nice hips and a delicious looking bottom and two very round breasts beneath their bright day-glow blue. She threw on a terrycloth half-robe and we went down to investigate the meat. We sat on a large driftlog and ate and sipped the rum and I told her about the sea and we watched the final green flash of the sunset over the water and listened to “Yellow Bird” for the dozenth time as rendered on the bottoms of steel drums. Darkness swept in from the sea and fires popped up here and there on the beach. We could see a couple dash down to the water from one of them.

“They’re naked.” Helen said.

“They do that here.” I said. “Mostly folks from the states. They get drunk and get naked and swim.”

“Are you drunk enough?” She asked.

“I don’t need to be.” I said. “I’d do it anyway.” She took another long drink from the rum bottle and grinned, then quickly stripped off her bathing suit. “Hurry.” She said as I stripped off my uniform. When I, too, was naked she grabbed my hand and we dashed to the water.

She delighted in the way the phosphorous lit up our pubic hair, and she giggled as she felt the cold water reach into her hot privates, and she pressed herself against almanbahis yeni giriş me and mashed those wonderfully soft breasts against my chest. As we splashed about she grew more and more adventurous and soon she was tucking my cock in between her legs whenever we kissed and at last she said “Let’s go back to the room.”

We went to the log where we had left our clothes and she said “Just carry them. Let’s go naked.” And we balled our clothes up and dashed naked up the steps and into the bedroom and she started a shower in the rust-stained tile shower stall and we soaped and poked and prodded and played and rinsed and dried and fell into the bed in a laughing fit of flesh.

And she was “on the pill” and she was insatiable.

We fucked until we came and lay back to rest, but soon she was up on all fours masturbating with her bottom toward me and her ass looking completely delicious and I knelt up and put my cock in her as she brought herself to another orgasm and then we lay down again for a little while.

And it was only after her second come that we could lie still and pet and cuddle and explore. “I’ve never done anything like this with anyone.” She said.

“You don’t have a boyfriend back home?” I asked.

“No. I was married for awhile, but it wasn’t anything like this. He drank too much and sometimes hit me and I got tired of that.” She snuggled tighter into my arm. “This is how I always imagined a tropical island to be.”

Helen was one of those women that couldn’t come unless she got herself off; the first one I had ever met. She didn’t fake anything, she just told me to watch as she moved her fingertips delicately over the spots that would give her the best results. I tried to imitate her movement with my tongue, and almost got her there, but not quite. Finally she had me sit facing her and she crossed her legs over mine and guided my cock into her pussy and lay back against the head of the bed and masturbated, often feeling around where my cock was in her, and gently pinching her own nipples as she strove to reach her heights. This apparently didn’t work to her satisfaction. She pulled me out and asked “Do you mind if I try something entirely nasty?” I didn’t mind. She got up and brought a bottle of hand lotion from her purse, then got back in the same position and with her eyes sort of looking off in the distance she lubed my cock with the hand lotion, then her ass, then scooted her bottom forward and guided me into her anus. “My husband used to make me do this.” She said. “and after awhile I got to like it.” She held her breath and shoved her hips forward and I slid past the tight resistance of her sphincter. She yelped, but then lay back and I watched her fingers dance feverishly over her clitoris and along her labia. When she started to move her hips rhythmically to the music of “Jamaican Farewell” from the steel band I felt myself loading the breech for another come. The tightness of her sphincter muscle and the touch of her fingers and her sounds of impending orgasm got me off just in time, and we came together. She lay still, her leg quivering over mine for awhile and when my cock softened she let it fall out of her and went to the bathroom and returned with a warm damp cloth and wiped us both off. She looked shamefaced and embarrassed. “I’m sorry.” She apologized. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s nasty. It’s messy.”

“It’s not.” I said. “It was fantastic.”

“You really think so?”


“Are you staying the night with me?”


“Maybe we can do it again before almanbahis giriş you have to leave.”

We fell asleep with her holding my cock.

When I woke up the sun was high and she was sitting naked at the little round table with coffee and fruit and cheese for breakfast.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, after I had finished in the bathroom. “I got dressed and went and got it and came back and got naked again.” She said. “I’ve never eaten breakfast naked before.”

That day we toured Charlotte Amalie some more. She bought souvenirs for all of her friends and students and we ate everything tropical that was offered to us and we bought another bottle of bay rum and took it back to the room. This time there was no token bathing suit. We just got naked and went straight down to the beach for another after-dark phosphorescent lighted romp in the surf. We watched a couple by a fire fuck and it got us both turned on again and we went back up to the room.

Helen knelt on the bed and had me stand and fuck her from behind and stick my finger in her ass while she masturbated and we came together. She seemed to like to expose herself to me. At least she liked to have me look at her most private places and she would lay for long periods while I petted her pink parts and spread her open and kissed and licked her there. On my part I wanted to remember the deprivation I had felt for the past month at sea, and carry this woman’s smell and taste with me on the next voyage. I wanted to feel my cock in her pussy and feel the tight band of her anus gripping me and hear the whimpers and moans and mewling sounds she made as she reached her orgasmic zenith.

She liked to suck my cock, but only when it was soft and freshly washed. She would kneel on the floor and suck it, looking up at me with her pretty eyes sparkling. She did not want me to come in her mouth. Apparently her husband had made her do that, and it gagged her and made her throw up. She just liked to suck it soft, and since I had had so many orgasms I could barely get it up again, she got her wish as often as she liked. By Sunday morning we were fucked out, yet still we lay and fondled and petted each other’s body. I don’t think either of us could have come again. It was only with the greatest reluctance that I made myself dress in my uniform and get ready to head back to the ship. She stayed naked for me as we sat at the table for those last few minutes. “I’ve had a wonderful time.” She said. “If you’ll give me your address I’ll send you postcards sometimes.” I gave her the address.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I have two weeks here.” She said. “Would it make you feel bad if I found someone else to do this with?”

“No.” I said. “I won’t be back for many a day?” I imitated the song “Jamaican Farewell”.

“When I go back I have to be a prim and proper school teacher again.” she said sadly. “I have to be modest and demure and non-sexual. And every night when I masturbate I’m going to remember the feel of your twenty-one year old penis sticking in my parts. I’ll never forget you and what you’ve done for me, no matter how the rest of this vacation turns out.”

Well, Helen, I never got those postcards. But I never forgot you either, nor the feel of my twenty-one year old penis sticking in your “parts”. I remember your smells, and the flowers and the salt air and the beach and how your pubic hair lit up with phosphorous in the surf. I remember the way you sounded when you came and the way your legs trembled and the way your body felt during your orgasms. And to this day everytime I hear the song “Yellow Bird” or the song “Jamaican Farewell” or a steel band I am transported to Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands in the middle of the Caribbean where heaven was once an old fashioned room and a Michigan schoolteacher.

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