Ship of Remorse

Chapter One I remember the advertisement word for word. Expecting? No where to turn? Thinking of terminating your pregnancy? Have a free consultation with Dr. Helga. The noted European Ob/Gyn is visiting New York from October 8 through 15. Pier 66 at West 26th Street. In hindsight, it was a vague ad. Nowhere did it mention the actual aborting of a child. But I was 18 years old and desperate. And referring to the doctor by her first name seemed soothing to this scared and lonely girl. I knew that in most European countries abortions did not have the stigma nor stir up the controversy that such procedures did in the U.S. Thus, my conclusion concerning the result of a consultation with Dr. Helga was not unreasonable. So I visited. I had left my small town in Iowa some three months before. I was not certain I was pregnant when planning my escape, but suspected it during the trip when my period was late. Initially, I attributed the delay to the stress of the journey. Sneaking out of my parent’s house before dawn and catching a bus to Chicago with the eerie glow of the morning sun lighting the cloud covered sky, was a strain. My stepfather had been known to strike me with little cause. In deserting the farm and Mom, he would seemingly have much more justification to strike again. Therefore, I was apprehensive. From Chicago I took Amtrak to New York. The train was cheap, did not overly prolong my travels, and offered freedom of movement as opposed to a bus. In New York I found a rundown residence hotel and work at a swanky ‘men’s club’. Actually a polite moniker for an upscale topless bar, I worked there as a waitress with the promise that I could eventually dance. Since being an ecdysiast was where the money was, I was eager to display for the horny wealthy patrons my overly ripe, nubile breasts, and pick like grapes the generous offerings of dollar bills from the vines of drunken, libidinous males. In applying for the job, I auditioned for the manager. Stripped to panties and naked from the waist up, I pranced about the malodorous office of the fat, balding, middle-aged pervert, biting my lip and hoping for his approval. It was decadently exciting for a farm girl from Iowa and I found his diabolical smile to be oddly pleasing. After many minutes, probably more time than necessary to make a decision, he suggested the waitressing job as a first step. “We’ll see how you do. Nice t**s, but for a while you need to watch the regular girls move. You know, learn how to jiggle a little and keep the customers happy. You been on the farm too long.” So I waitressed for three months greatly anticipating an opportunity to audition again. And then I once again stripped down, this time completely and danced for the boss. “Better stay away from the milk shakes, little lady,” he advised with a puff of a cheap cigar, again after a long survey. “They’re moving better, but...” He finished his point by leaning forward and pinching the flesh thickening about my waist. Since I was eating the simple meals of a pauper, I knew diet was not the cause of his concern. I still had not menstruated, and when his lecherous fingers moved upwards and pinched protruding pinkness, my left n****e gave up a small amount of liquid, which he thankfully seemed not to notice. It was then that I could only conclude my growing waistline was due to a factor other than food. I spotted Dr. Helga’s ad in the Village Voice on the following day. As most girls who find themselves in trouble, I cursed the odds and set of events that coerced me to take a cab to Pier 66. Yes, the late night romp in my stepfather’s barn months before really was my first time... of going all the way that is. Condoms aren’t readily available when the nearest drug store is 8 miles away. But I thought I was in control and could get the boy to withdraw at the last minute. Instead, in his ecstasy, he thrust even harder, and although the explosion of hot sperm deep in my v****a felt good, it brought concern. It was stupid. I didn’t even like him. A farm boy who let his p***s do his thinking, I thought it would be fun, having for years watched all the farm animals mating... As the cab pulled up to the dock, I remember expecting to see Humphrey Bogart in a trench coat, waiting to save the cute but spreading ass of this woeful farm girl. Young and so often called pretty, I thought I could make it in the big leagues. Instead I found I couldn’t get up to bat and I was optimistically seeking someone to step in, yell ‘time out’ and take control. A cool, gray October day on the New York waterfront, the scene had Hollywood potential. Only Bogie didn’t appear. There was no one there, not a soul, just this huge ship, old but amazingly imposing. Having seen pictures and movies featuring cruise ships I knew they were big, but the perception of size is lost until you stand next to one and realize how much light it blocks out. It seemed to make the gray day even darker, but the perceived gloom may have resulted from a degree of pending depression on my part, perhaps a foreboding vision. A gangway led from the dock to a squarish opening in the vast hull. Above this hatchway door was a temporary sign printed with forgettable words of welcome to Dr. Helga’s floating clinic. A nurse, apparently hearing my footsteps on the wooden dock, poked her head out the open door at the top of the ramp. She beckoned me with a smile. She appeared warm and friendly but I still hesitated half way up the gangway. There I paused to look straight up and I could see imprinted in scripted lettering on the white hull near the bow ‘The Scarlet Letter’. A curious name for a European ship, I recall thinking. The Hawthorne novel was an American classic, which I always thought was deemed puritanical and thus mostly unread in Europe. The thought was lost when the nurse beckoned again. “You must be Alexi,” the blond nurse stated with pleasant authority, more or less prompting me to renew embarking. The advertisement had listed a phone number, which I had called earlier in the day. In a strange way, it felt nice to be expected, like being wanted. After all, I was pregnant, alone, and living in a city which takes as much as, if not more than, it gives, and with a growing belly I had little to offer and would be needing much. Since the day was October 15, I wanted to make sure Dr. Helga had time to see me and the woman who answered the phone graciously suggested the ship was not leaving until late that evening. An interesting concept, I thought at the time. A ship sailing from port to port to help unmarried girls such as me ‘confront their pregnant status’. Yes, that was how the woman on the phone described Dr. Helga’s mission and the purpose of her sailing clinic, and I remember thinking the phrase to be an interesting euphemism for abortion. What I knew about the expected procedure was very little. When I asked how much and how long I would have to take off from work, the woman on the telephone seemed to stifle a sardonic chortle. “Dr. Helga’s clinic is free. How much time will be required of you cannot be determined until you are thoroughly examined.” Well, when the women said ‘free’, the decision was made. The little savings I had earmarked for Dr. Helga’s fees I could instead use for food until I was once again able to strip for the club manager, shake my growing breasts and convince him it would be best that I perform for dollar laden horny men rather than slinging food and drink. With my condition my young globes had grown but their impressive size was camouflaged by my equally expanding waistline. Dropping the child would instantly slim me and serve to highlight my abundant mammary glands, a feature of which I was most proud and for which I was sure to be noticed by the fat, the bald and the perverted. Maybe that fateful romp was worth enduring after all...