The Honeymooners

The Honeymooners

I’m not sure if this is heaven or hell. One would think it’s heaven. Who wouldn’t want to be on a cruise? Just sit back for however long you’re booked. Let your hotel float with you. It’ll take you to what are supposed to be exotic places, but in reality, are overcrowded tourist traps. Not to mention that each port looks just like the one before. But that’s beside the point. My solution is to let all the newbies go ashore and I pretend to have the ship, and all the crew, to myself.

Queen for a day.

With that in mind, I book a week’s cruise every ten or twelve weeks, more often if my schedule allows. And I always book on the same ship. I know my way around, most of the crew know me and it feels a bit like coming home, without having to make my bed or eat my spinach.

Then why am I bellyaching? Why do I think this is hell? This morning, while I was lying in my bed, letting the ship’s gentle rocking keep me in that twilight stage, the cruise director, Donald, disturbed the peace with his morning briefing.

Good morning honeymooners! In honor of you, the breakfast buffet will be open till lunch. So, no need to rush, folks. Should you want to come out and join us, there will be a Newlywed Game in the lounge at eleven. Come and play with us. Later this afternoon, at two pm, we will have the New Newlywed Games poolside, followed by couples’ pool games. Tonight, the cast will perform a much-abridged version of the Taming of the Shrew.

The sea is calm, the sun is warm. We hope to see you around the ship.

Again, why am I thinking about jumping ship in the first port and losing myself among the thousands of tourists who buy t-shirts that will shrink in the first wash, and ‘hand carved’ objects they will put in their church’s white elephant sale before the year is out while they foolishly drink the water?

Where I live, where all my fellow passengers live, sex is banned. Talking about sex is banned, PDA of any kind is banned, procreation is stringently regulated. Couples have to have been married for at least five years before they may apply for the right to reproduce. And that process is very hush-hush.

Not that it stops everybody. Granted some couples remain chaste and have separate bedrooms, but there are plenty who enjoy some form of intimacy.

I know this because I’m an underground sex therapist. People contact me through back channels and invite me to their homes to teach them how to enjoy themselves and their partner. So, you would think that this cruise, since we are in international waters, would be heaven, a gold mine, the perfect place to ply my craft.

But my work is draining, no pun intended, exhausting. The need to remain incognito and well-known at the same time, listening to people’s problems, dealing with their hang-ups, all adds up. Which is why I slip out and take a cruise every chance I get. The other reason I believe I am in hell is that honeymoon fights are ugly and public. They have not yet learned the art of freezing each other out.

I am lazily weighing my options of which port to get lost in and I asking myself if I really want to pack up and leave the ship, when I sit up with a start because something substantial hits the wall between my cabin and my neighbor’s cabin. I’m up, wrapped in a robe as quickly as I can while the bride next door has a few words with her groom.

You pervert! --- Now honey --- Don’t you ‘now honey’ me. Why didn’t you tell me you’re a pervert? You’re disgusting --- Sweetheart. This is what people do --- Not where I come from --- Actually, yes. That’s exactly where you came from ---

I knock on their door before the argument escalates further.

“Hi.” I smile at the girl, for she couldn’t be more than nineteen, who answers the door.

“I have the cabin next door and overheard your discussion. I believe I can help.”

The girl’s mouth opens and closed several times, but no sound comes out.

“You see, I’m an expert in this kind of thing. And yes. I assure you there is no right or wrong way to do it, as long as all parties enjoy themselves.”

The groom, haphazardly dressed in the bedsheet has walked up behind his wife and is staring at me as well.

“Just make sure she enjoys it every time. And I mean every time. Never be selfish and you’ll have a happy marriage.”

Deciding I have interfered enough, I smile, congratulate them on their marriage and wish them a great day. Just before the door closes, I hear the girl say “She must be a whore or something. They are the only ones …” The door closes before I hear the rest, but I can fill in the blanks. Not the impression I wanted to make, but at least now I hear happy noises from next door.

I’ve decided to take my chances in Cozumel and hide among the ten thousand tourists that are disgorged from the four or five cruise ships each day and fill the half mile of shops along the waterfront. Why not spend the week hankering back to the good old days when only one modest sized cruise ship would pull into the harbor? And why not remember whe taco stands that sold hundreds of bottles of water with a healthy dose of Montezuma’s revenge.?

With that plan in mind, I go to the purser’s desk where I am greeted with a combination of warm and fake Colgate smiles. Before I have a chance to say anything, Donald spots me.

“Genie!” He enthuses. “I didn’t know the office had booked you. Let’s see how we can work you into the schedule. Would afternoon lectures work for you? No, let’s set up various times. Need to schedule around the shore excursions, of course.”

“Donald!” I thunder., but he’s off and running, manipulating his beloved schedule.

“How about we have an introductory question and answer session this evening before the show. And let’s see. Let’s do another one on Thursday on the way back. In the meantime, you can schedule as many couple sessions as you wish. What would be a fair fee structure, you think?”

Now he’s speaking my language. Do I want to give up my one free week in three months to make more money?

“I won’t do more than four one-hour sessions per day and an “Off-Shore Special” price of $75 would be fair.”

Donald grins broadly and we shake hands. When the dust settles, I'm scheduled to do three lectures and a minimum of six forty-five-minute sessions each day. With a special discount of $125 for a double session.

And here I am, on the main stage, lavalier snug at my cheek, telling four hundred couples and one throuple that the only way for sex to be wrong is if at least one participant is not enjoying him- or herself. I explain the value of partners showing each other what turns them on and gets them off. How to enjoy the handheld showerhead. Whether toys have place in the bedroom (yes, they do), and is there an age limit to enjoying intimacy (no there isn’t). That women need different foreplay from men. And most of all, watching your partner doing the dishes after you have made dinner is a turn on.

After one hour I leave the stage to thunderous applause and my schedule for the week is overbooked within twenty minutes. The few hours that I’m not on-stage lecturing, or teaching a couple about their anatomy, toys or bondage, I am the most popular person on board. If I so much as show my face on deck, or sit down to eat, I’m surrounded by at least a dozen men and women who want to learn more about sex, kink, and orgasms.

But why is it that we can discuss the merits, symbolism, drama and humor of any book, movie, so-called reality show or football match (whichever version you’re into), but the one thing that all genders should enjoy equally is never talked about, is performed in the dark under the covers. Why do we blush at the mere mention of body parts that are usually not on display in a boardroom? And why does our language have more words to describe intercourse in a derogatory manner than ones that celebrate this intimacy that should be at least as normal as breathing.