I am a cruise aficionado. A cruise expert. I know my way around a cruise ship like some So-Hos know their way around a penis. I know how to get to the Windjammer (cruise-speak for cafeteria/buffet) in minutes – no matter the ship. I know the different teen hangouts and the curfews that apply to each age group as I am a Fuel Alumna. I know what underwear should not be worn on formal night (See-through anything – you’ll take the elevator due to heels and be wearing a dress. Obviously pervy 12 year olds will camp out below the glass elevators for a glimpse of anything). I know how to spot a cruise newbie from down the promenade (They can be seen rocking a lobster-red burn and cornrows. Often this combination is seen on formal nights).
Yeah, I grew up on cruises. From the ages of 15-18 I took five cruises (Yes, in the year 2006 I took 3 cruises. This is even absurd to me). However it was on my first “adult” cruise (as in the year I could not longer hang out in Fuel) I was introduced to the art of the bar pickup.I adjusted to this bar pick-up (as a sober high school kid) as many alcoholics adapt to their first whiskey. I have the smile, the hair flip, the eye twinkle, the wiggle and perhaps most important of all – the energy.
That cruise I flirted and teased many an older man (I was the youngest person in the club most of the time because I was... well barely legal). I was able to dance and get a crowd on the dance floor. So I was christened “bar star”. Now the nickname didn’t stick (obviously) but the idea behind it did. In a room full of strangers I have some charisma that most of my friends will never know.
First Night Out
So immediately after a woefully cruise-ish (campy) performance of “Chicago” I go to the 18-20 year old meet and greet. In the past this has been the surefire way to meet people. Boy, am I wrong.
There is one – as my brother dubs “Edward” who will surely be both fucked and fucked up in minutes. There is a creepy engineer (evidently I can’t get rid of them even on vacation) and a girl.
No luck.
The girl and I end up talking to some dudes from Jersey. These guys are my normal type. Hipster-ish guys who play guitar, in skinny jeans who study bullshit things like communication and are really pretentious. These are the guys who eat the story about me being a burnt out musician right up. They, however, have been traveling all day and are a bit tired to mingle.
Although I have been traveling since ten at night (the previous night) the girl and I go to the bar/club yet again. I am armed only in a white mini that has been retired since my junior year of high school and a very oversized top. I brave the constant stream (I wish I was joking) of men who attempt to hit on me. As soon as one guy hit on me the next guy would come up to only be rejected. Whenever I hit the dance floor with my trusty Wing Woman another man would accost me and interrupt my dance (to Duck Sauce, no less). WW and I gleefully giggle at all of these old drunks and crazies who have neither shame nor pride. However all flows must be dammed and the night ends after a final wave of guys hit and leave me with a drink spilled on my white mini after continually offering shots. That is the way to woo a Spring Break dame, my friend.
Oh well, at least I know I still have a groove… or something.
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