Beneath the surface 25 Gold diggers!

Gold diggers ahoy!

Up in the gallery I wrote my diary and glanced about. Something quite fascinating caught my eye: a pair of gold diggers. The reality of gold diggers had never crossed my mind until that evening when two implant-clad women in their mid-forties turned up with particularly elderly husbands. Both women dripped gold and diamonds as they supported their husbands who appeared to be in their late eighties. My first naïve belief was that maybe they were their fathers but jovial genital cupping dispersed that thought. Unless there was more to it…
As with all things I had to figure it out. How did it work? Did they share a bed? (Each couple - not all of them). They all seemed to be having a good time, but where was the love? Did they grow to love each other? Did gold diggers simply service the old chaps until they died? Did they increase the servicing to make them die? Was there such a thing as malicious death by sex? I have known of men having heart attacks whilst in the act of rumpus pumpus. I remembered on a previous ship one reached orgasm and died during release. His wife was left with a corpse collapsed on top of her. How awful! Death and the orgasm face. I wondered if doctors knew instantly because of the facial expression. I know that is a dark subject but questions like that should always be answered!
Anyway the body remained in the morgue for five days because we were making a trans-Atlantic crossing. The strangest things happened at sea.What's more it was always horrible to hear the buzz of the morgue, knowing there was a body inside.
I was consumed by the thought of gold diggers. If (and I am being very very naïve here) everyone had a soul mate - what happened to the gold digger and their partner? Were they a gold trader? How did love work with them? How could a person really offer themselves to some old chap for the sake of money? Humanity amazed me - there was always something new and bizarre to comprehend. I could never understand the choices people made. I guessed the thought of living in luxury and having all your needs taken care of was quite a motivation. At that moment there was an increased motivation for me. Maybe I should search for a rich husband. No. I couldn’t live with myself - or him. I couldn’t bear not being in love with the person and the thought of intimacy… I would have to knock myself out. Naïve, romantic or just stupid?
I looked around the gallery and lecture theatre; there seemed to be a common theme: the majority of men were old and not what I would class as attractive. Although most had an attractive, well kept wife. That then lead me to the question: did unattractive men aspire to have money to increase their mating rights? What’s more most motivation originated from sexual motivation. So to attract the best mate in our society did a male only establish his hierarchy /alpha-malism through wealth? My mind was consumed. The three wealthy men I dated were wealthy to compensate for their small appendage. If that was the case did having a small dick motivate a man to get rich? Was he over compensating for inadequacy? Did all rich men have relatively small penises? Was I working on a ship serving small dicked men? I wondered if a survey had ever been made of penis size in relation to wealth. Inch per pound or dollar ratio. You could put it on a pivot table and only image the graph. One of my friends once said, ‘if the world was ruled by men with big dicks it would be a much more relaxed place. There would be no war...’
‘That would suggest that women could not rule,’ I responded.
‘Ah, I had forgotten to bring women into the equation…’ he replied.

The dripping of diamonds and gold over the women was mesmerising. It seemed there was some kind of extreme diamond-bling competition going on. Obviously it was formal night and that enabled a display of wealth competition. Were they displaying for themselves or others? The irony was there was a gemstone and gold fest taking place yet I had overheard a penthouse guest say, ‘darling we can’t afford that,’ talking about a fifty dollar portrait. Maybe their wealth was just an act, but if that was the case how did they afford one thousand dollars per day for a cabin?


After the second sitting numerous drunk guests stumbled and rebounded off furniture and walls from the dinning room. The atrium was like a human crash test derby as everyone attempted to grab anything they could to stop themselves falling over. What I found wonderful was with all the diamonds, the tuxedos and evening dresses the blue sea sickness stood out. I can dress beautifully but I can not be sick! I have always wondered how the wrist bands worked. A pressure point on the wrist was depressed (meaning presed in and not emotionally upset) and that somehow distracted the inner ear. So what made no sense to me was how seasickness and vomit actually helped a person. It seemed quite pointless. Was it a distraction from the motion?


Anyway we finally packed up the studios. Of course another set of guests noticed the lights had come down. They had had potentially five hours to have a portrait.
‘Honey I want a picture!’ she said a white haired woman with a slur. She repeated her self, this time waving her arms. The arm motion was a big mistake!
Jose turned slowly and gazed deep into her eye. The look was dark and the sniper was back. ‘No,’ he said slowly, gauging whether she would remember.
She frowned and studied him, had anyone ever said no to her? She seemed puzzled and considered testing him. The silence spanned the atrium, Jose was not going to play nice. He wanted off the ship and if she so much as said anything she was going to get it. The old woman sensed something and shifted, ‘oh darling there will be other formal nights!’ she said. ‘And you missed out,’ she said.
Jose silently turned back to arranging the chairs and said nothing. He paused studying the chair. Did he want to pick it up and throw it at her?
Marrissa stood shaking her head, ‘these guests expect everything - no?’
Jose glanced at her, he had won a small battle and the look in his eyes revealed a hint of joy.
Marrissa returned to packing things up, ‘disaster. These people disaster!’
She caught me smirking and paused, her English entertained me. Her sweetness combined with interesting word combinations made her fascinating. After the first few days we were managing to communicate, I had adjusted my vocabulary to make my wording simplier. It was not something I was terribly excited about but her language was improving daily. Admittedly I wished I could speak Spanish, but I could not. I had a respect for her courage to work in an environment where she was not completely sure of the language. Brave and persevering.

For the evening’s finale there was an interesting moment to the sounds of a lone pianist. The nutty old dancer was back in full force. In the atrium, next a waterfall adorned with glass and lights, the elderly lady danced waving her scarf. It was no average dance either- she had pulled out all the stops for a drunken flamenco. It seemed she had reached the point in being inebriated where she had convinced her self that she was the best dancer in the whole world. The arm waving, finger clicking and side jumps were creative. The stamping, clapping, and the ‘olays’ were attention grabbing. Although there was one thing that was astounding: spinning whilst on a moving ship. A couple of times I almost covered my eyes - she was precariously close to going for a swim. Just when you thought she had had it another little jump took her back to safety. I was transfixed, half willing her to fall in, half willing her to stop. The song came to the end, the old dear was exhausted. Some of the other guests clapped and she took her leave. Eccentricity on the seas might be a title for a book one day.




goylegatr