The Gimp

Unnamed Island, South Pacific – June 23, 2008

Unnamed Island, South Pacific – June 23, 2008

The euphoria of life has slowly eroded. Reality can oddly ebb ebullience. Captain Cocoa has come to realize that any search for her missing craft... for her... should by now have brought airplanes to even this most distant vicinity. Instead she has neither seen nor heard anything.

Between periodic intervals of searching the skies, mirror in hand and at the ready, plus scanning the horizon for ships, she has explored her home.

She has estimated it requires 20 minutes to circumnavigate the beaches. A brisk almost circular walk in the sand returns her to the shady segment of beach where the deflated raft and the tarp have been used to form a makeshift shelter. Exploring the body of the island is cumbersome. The density of the vegetation, unrestrained by man nor beast, grows to create natural barriers. Captain Cocoa has labored to cut a path to a relatively high point. But she limits her efforts to dawn and dusk, lest she forgo an opportunity to spy and signal a passing ship or plane. Plus she does not want to too quickly dull her knife.

Meanwhile she has found that coconuts are abundant along with some tropical fruit, migratory birds apparently blessing the island for hundreds of years with seed filled manure. Thus as the supply of biscuits depletes, adequate sustenance can be harvested.

There is no water. And Cocoa uses the desalinization pump sparingly. She understands that the delicate membranes, which filter out the large ocean salt molecules, are fragile. Thus her lifeline for attaining the elixir of life is limited. Cocoa has acclimated herself to ingest fruit for hydration and, though the sun is pleasantly warming, she keeps her well bronzed near nakedness out of the dehydrating heat.

Surviving is just another challenge that she will meet. Yet hope begins to fade. The loneliness is broken by walks and unbridled m**********n, a habit augmented by a fertile imagination and perfected during long contests of solo sailing.

Yes, fantasy becomes a crutch as the days of isolation limp by. Never seeking vaginal penetration, a youthful s****l dalliance with a persistent boy brought near rape. Memories still bring a shudder and spurred the need for physical superiority. So the fingers of Captain Cocoa physically gratify while the mind envisions sultry escapades to bring emotional gratification as well. Day after day Captain Cocoa brings herself to vocal and spasmodic eruption, the white sand serving as a repository for evidence of self inflamed lust.

Her fantasies are vivid. In disdaining normal heterosexual intercourse the mental images that bring climax are perverse. Of that she has convinced herself and is sanguine. Never to be shared, never to be actualized, Captain Cocoa has trained her psyche to enter a world of feminine perversity and ride her fingers to mind boggling ecstasy. Thus the loneliness becomes momentarily tolerable.

Still there is need... for the emotional transference brought by human touch.

Physically she has learned to adapt. How long can she mentally endure?

Whenever she inquires this of herself, her fingers lower to bring diversion.