Fleet Fucking Week is here!
What's not to love about Fleet Week? Tight white uniforms stretched across broad backs and taut butts; high and tights under cocked caps; big white teeth; dimples, dimples, everywhere; earnest, eager-to-please faces; and that whole "Yes, Sir!" thing.
And this year is my year. I refuse to go another Fleet Week (this my 10th) without finding a sailor, in uniform, to personally thank for his patriotic service. Unbelievably, I've never been to pull this off. I got soooo close in 2002, but was halfway home with my pirate's booty when I discovered that the sailor lolling all over me in the back of the cab was that of the drunk, lesbian variety. And, unfortunately for her, I'd stopped fishing from that side of the boat years ago.
And this year is my year. I refuse to go another Fleet Week (this my 10th) without finding a sailor, in uniform, to personally thank for his patriotic service. Unbelievably, I've never been to pull this off. I got soooo close in 2002, but was halfway home with my pirate's booty when I discovered that the sailor lolling all over me in the back of the cab was that of the drunk, lesbian variety. And, unfortunately for her, I'd stopped fishing from that side of the boat years ago.
As determined as I am to land a sailor, I refuse, however, to troll for them with the over 25 others desperately-seeking-seamen queens already listed in the "Men Seeking Men" section of craigslist. I, instead, am going to try a more subtle approach: target the drunk ones who stumble into Chelsea acting like they have no idea it's the gayest place on Earth. Those guys are the best; you can spot them up and down 8th Avenue, acting drunker than they are and loudly pointing out the "two dudes kissing" to their buddies.
My favorite Fleet Week memory to date, however, is from 2005. The Ex and I were walking to the flea market, when it was still in Chelsea. It was very early Sunday morning [read: walk-of-shame-you-ain't-been-home-to-your-own-bed-early], and there was the most stellar specimen of Navy pushed and prodded into dress blues, fabric struggling at all the right places, walking towards us. We were holding hands and we both, unrehearsed, said "Good Morning, Officer." He didn't miss a beat, cracked a big I-just-got-busted-but-who-cares-I-got-laid grin and said "Morning Gentlemen." As I write this, my memory tells me someone squealed at that point, but I'm not sure if it was me, the Ex, or even the Sailor. [We should also mark this moment as the first time I've mentioned the Ex without a snide tone and with a smile of my face. Apparently time heals, dammit.]
I would appreciate any nautical leads: I won't ask, won't tell, and would be grateful as hell!
My favorite Fleet Week memory to date, however, is from 2005. The Ex and I were walking to the flea market, when it was still in Chelsea. It was very early Sunday morning [read: walk-of-shame-you-ain't-been-home-to-your-own-bed-early], and there was the most stellar specimen of Navy pushed and prodded into dress blues, fabric struggling at all the right places, walking towards us. We were holding hands and we both, unrehearsed, said "Good Morning, Officer." He didn't miss a beat, cracked a big I-just-got-busted-but-who-cares-I-got-laid grin and said "Morning Gentlemen." As I write this, my memory tells me someone squealed at that point, but I'm not sure if it was me, the Ex, or even the Sailor. [We should also mark this moment as the first time I've mentioned the Ex without a snide tone and with a smile of my face. Apparently time heals, dammit.]
I would appreciate any nautical leads: I won't ask, won't tell, and would be grateful as hell!
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