I'm On A Boat

I’m going to Montauk, bitches.

I’m going to Montauk, bitches.

Earlier this year I was lucky enough to spend my summer working on my dream show in the greatest city in the world - New York. I didn’t realize just how ready I was for a change until I settled in and discovered I was happier than I’d been in a long time. The frenetic energy and endless temptation just outside my doorstep left me inspired in new ways. Because I was deeply satisfied with my work and social life I had little time to think about men. 

Then the thick heat of July hit, and suddenly my vagina realized she’s been ignored since January. The rest of me was fulfilled, but what about her? (In this story my vagina is sentient.) The higher the temperature, the more agitated she became. You know those phases when you are so erotically charged (the Rachel Green way of saying horny) that you are worried you might accidentally start humping an attractive stranger? No, just me? Okay, well moving on.

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My trip to Montauk came at the perfect time when even I was ready to GTFO of the city.

The city was one thousand degrees and every time I stepped outside it felt as if I was climbing into an oven - but a Louisiana oven, not one in Southern California. My makeup would combine with my sweat to form giant goops of stickiness all over my face. Beads of sweat would slowly drip down my legs as I roasted in the subway, covered in dirt that would find its way to my clothes during that 15 minute commute by foot from my apartment. My pores were black, my clothes smelled like B.O., and you could mistake my hair for pizza rat’s home. Basically, I’ve never felt more beautiful. I aspired to be Rosie Huntington-Whiteley but my reflection said eh, you’re more of a Fran Lebowitz.

My trip to Montauk came at the perfect time when even I was ready to GTFO of the city. 

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Just like my souvenir t-shirt claimed…

everyone was there to party, look for sex, and eat lobster rolls.

On a late July Friday I met my New York friends at Penn Station, where we boarded the 4:30pm train for Long Island with thousands of other privileged New Yorkers knocking each other over with their designer weekend bags. We packed rosé for the 3 hour haul to the tip of the peninsula, and eight of us crammed into two tiny hotel rooms that somehow still costed us $450 a person. But this town truly was as exquisite as they say so it was TOTALLY WORTH IT. The group was the perfect balance of male and female, one couple, the rest single. Just like my souvenir t-shirt claimed, everyone was there to party, look for sex, and eat lobster rolls. 

Gurney’s Montauk Resort

Gurney’s Montauk Resort

We spent Saturday at Gurney’s Beach Club like every other finance bro, fashion chick, and socialite. I don’t know if it was the novelty of the destination, the diverse mix of friends, or the crowd of New Yorkers but I loved every minute of it. The last time I was at a day club was Vegas and I vowed to never return to such a place, but this I could handle once a year. After a day of partying and sunning ourselves we changed into evening attire more appropriate for the city than for the place we ended up - a dive bar in the harbor called Liars.

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Upon entering Liars, we were surrounded by a group of seamen. I’m  specifically referring to fishermen here, we’re not to that part of the story yet. As my friend Brooklyn stood in her canary yellow dress entertaining them with her charming personality, I spotted the hot fisherman (there had to be a hot one) in a backwards cap, shorts, and sandals. I excused his wardrobe because, boats, and started chatting him up. After spending the day yelling over oceanfront bottle service with 25 year old finance guys, I found him surprisingly refreshing.

We talked about who the fuck knows what for 30 minutes. He bought me a vodka soda the size of my forearm. He introduced me to his dad, who happened to be there for their annual fishing trip. He started casually brushing his arm against my arm, and at one point I think he put his hand around my waist. Suddenly, I felt a tingle - it was my vagina, at full attention now. “This is my chance!” She screamed. “Do NOT fuck this up for me!” Alright, alright but how can we pull this off? He’s with his DAD, I wondered.

As if he heard my vagina’s plea he turned to me and asked if I wanted to go for a walk. “A walk where?” I asked, coyly. 

“You said this is your first time to Montauk, right? There’s a dock just around the corner with a great view,” the fisherman replied.

I tried to fight it, but my vagina’s gravitational pull was just too strong to ignore. Without saying goodbye to my friends or his dad (I clearly made a great first impression), we slipped out of the bar. As we approached the dock he discovered the gate was locked.

“Oh well, I guess we should head back to the bar,” I said, hoping he’d offer some sort of solution to this gate-lock cock block. 

“My boat’s actually not too far from here. Do you want to keep walking?” 

I looked down at my crotch and sighed. “Yeah, let’s go check out your boat. You aren’t going to murder me, are you?” 

He laughed. I was serious. Many true crime stories start out just like this.

We finally arrived at his boat to find one of his ship mates passed out near the bow. My hot fisherman was unfazed by this unconscious audience of one and proceeded to turn on some Billy Joel and offer me a drink as we sat at the stern underneath the stars. I mean, I appreciated the moves but if he only knew how desperate I was. Our make-out escalated quickly and before long I was asking him to grab a condom. I was seated in the captain’s seat and he was standing in front of me, somehow squeezed in between me and the helm. Please don’t wake up, creepy passed out stranger, I thought. Please have a nice penis, my vagina prayed.

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Hooray for her, the penis was a good one! But the position was weird so she didn’t get off, then he came, and about two seconds later I heard, “Uh, oh.” I can’t think of two words I’d like to hear less after sex. Afraid of what I might find, I slowly opened my eyes and took in my surroundings, wondering what could have possibly gone awry. The passed out dude was still passed out, Billy Joel was still singing about the piano, and somehow the condom had disappeared. Son of a gun, why can I not have casual sex without something going wrong?

The fisherman set out on an expedition unlike any he’d ever attempted previously - he conducted a search and rescue mission inside of my vagina on the open sea. As I stared up at the stars, legs spread on invisible stirrups, I wondered if my vagina was satisfied now that she had a fist inside of her. Were you so concerned you wouldn’t see another penis for a while that you decided to eat the condom?

After ten minutes of being poked, prodded, flung and fisted (is fisting something people actually enjoy?) his hand emerged empty.  Fisherman was now on his hands and knees using the light from his iPhone to search for this elusive condom on the boat deck because maybe it jumped off his penis like a pelican that spotted a herring? He searched the bow, the stern, starboard side, and the poop deck. Nothing. I felt kelp-less (uh oh, we’ve entered pun territory).

My friends were now calling me incessantly, worried understandably so that I may have been killed. I told the fisherman that we should throw in the beach towel, I’ll concern myself with it later. What’s one more trip to the pharmacy for Plan B; if I had a punch card, I’d earn my free one by now. Side note, they should absolutely make punch cards for those. We give those pharmaceutical titans enough money. Give me a free baby preventer, dammit! 

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Oh buoy, where was I in this epic nautical novela? Oh yes, I was a land lubber anxious to go ashore and share the scuttlebutt with my friends. The fisherman walked me back toward the bar, my dignity and private parts not in tact, and in the process asked for my phone number. I was shore he was knot gonna call, but we will sea, I thought. (I’m sorry, I started and now I shrimply can’t stop). 

Two notable things occurred in the ensuing days: I never recovered the condom, and the fisherman asked me out on a date. I couldn’t decide which of these was more shocking. My girlfriend told me she was in this predicament once and it turned out the condom was stuck to her cervix. I was in denial because I had tried and failed several times to find it with my finger hook, plus I felt 100% normal down there. I started to wonder if we even used a condom at all. I scheduled a doctor appointment just to be safe.

On Tuesday, three whole days after a seaman shipwrecked his schooner into my port, I met him in the city for dinner. He cleaned up well, but it was a struggle to be a real person on a proper date with the man who used his iPhone light to give me a vaginal exam. I learned he lived in Connecticut with roommates, worked in the city but had no desire to live there, and was obsessed with his boat. I certainly wasn’t the right first mate for this captain, but I did let him come back to my apartment under one condition — absolutely no cuddling. It might sound shellfish but it was a weekday after all, and I took my job and my sleep ferry seriously. (I’m sorry I shipped, I mean slipped. Agh! This is getting out of sand!)

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It was a struggle to be a real person on a proper date with the man who used his iPhone light to give me a vaginal exam.

We started hooking up and before I knew what was happening he swooped in like Poseidon and retrieved the 3-day-old used condom from inside of me. If he was as grossed out as I was he did an outstanding job of concealing it.

“How did you do that??” I screamed. 

“I had a feeling it was still in there."
“But why did you have a feeling?” I asked. 

“I Googled it. I was positive that I had one on and it never turned up on the boat. I didn’t know how to text that to you…” 

“So you came back to fish it out yourself? That’s… actually kind of sweet.” 

“That’s what I do. I’m… the Fisherman.” 

Okay, he didn’t say that last part but the rest of the dialogue is an accurate account. 

This is pretty much how it went down.

This is pretty much how it went down.

What did we do after finally retrieving the evidence? Put on a new one and had more sex of course. This time around there were no mishaps, the sex was good, and he let me sleep in peace. I drew a line in the covers just to be sure, and in the morning I crossed it for one more hookup with my water deity. It feels good to be back in control of my vagina. Henceforth in this tale I shall be known as Nymph of the Lower East Side. 

Poseidon and Nymph of the LES exchanged texts for another week or so, but it fizzled because what was the point. However, she will always remember the mysterious man who left behind a buried treasure, returned to retrieve it, and sent this video afterwards with a text that read:

“I hope it’s not too soon.”