You don't want to be like the others. Not another swooning, painted doxy hanging off the arm of the bold Captain. Not you. Not ever. Instead you hide under pained grimaces, furrowed brows, flared nostrils. That way, he will think your burning glances are alight with only anger. It has saved your life time and time again, anger and hate and a man's battered old hat. You won't end up gang-fucked in an alley behind the bar, no sir, not in trousers with hair bound tight under a bandana. Who cares if men's eyes pass over you if it means you'll live another day? Who cares if Jack thought you were boy the first time you met? Who cares what Jack thinks at all? Not you. Not ever.
You remember that first meeting clearly. A bar hand in Tortuga you were back then, with ragged chopped hair in your face and a glare that could curdle milk. You roomed above the bar with a pretty upstairs girl called Annette, who was still young and sweet enough to pick and choose her customers. The other tavern wenches think you're one of those women who fancy other girls over the company of men, and you don't say yes or no. Word spreads round and men, for the most part, leave you alone. It is better that way, you tell yourself.
Jack swaggers in one day, looking more or less the same as he will in 5 years. He spots you, hollers, Boy, get me a drink! You scowl, toss down your rag, and pull him an ale. Froth overflows onto his shirtfront as he takes the mug from you but he doesn't seem to notice. The man you will one day call captain is busy ogling the warm curves of Annette's breasts from across the room and you already know, instantly, by his smug, gold-glittering grin that he won't pay. Not this man, who is obviously a pirate, this man would want her to pay him. So you make sure to accidently stomp on his toes on the way back to the bar and hide a smile as he curses and knocks over beer with his flailing.
Later that night, which is really early that morning, you wearily trudge up the stairs to bed. You're dead on your feet and you hope that Annette's customer is gone; they usually are, once the sun comes up. But this time you're unlucky, and there's a tousled dark head where Annette's fair one should be, and you realize, with an outraged jolt, that the smug oggler from before has conned a free bed as well as a free night with a whore. Annette is nowhere to be seen, most ikely in the privy, so you yank the pirate out of bed. He falls to the hardwood, naked, with an undignified yelp and a flurry of hairy man limbs.
"Bloody hell, mate," he says rubbing his head, unabashed, "If you don't want your girl sleeping with other people, put a bloody leash on her, eh?" His piratical accent blurs the words into Ivyadont wan'yer girl sleepin wif ovvereeople put a bloody leash oner, eh? You stare, angry, taking in the kohl smudged around his eyes, hair knotted and frayed by God-knows-how-many years in the wind and sun. His chest is smooth and tattooed, browned by the sun, but his hairy legs are milky white. Roused by the all the fuss, Annette comes sweeping into the room trailing linens and fair hair like a prostitute angel.
"Anne Marie!" she exclaims, her French accent trilling your name into two separate words, "Dear Jack's done nothing wrong. He's a perfect darling, and I'm very fond of him."
Jack gives you a perfectly childish display of cross-eyed, tongue wagging smugness before interjecting, "Captain Jack, actually. Captain Jack Sparrow."
You've heard the name before, in some of the seedier dives. Jack is infamous for his trickery, glib wit, and dubious charm. He sticks out his filthy hand, obviously expecting you to shake it. You take his fingers gingerly, but he clasps your hand firmly, pulling you towards him until you are almost pressed against his chest. Fetid breath wafts over you as Jack at under the brim of your hat. You take childish pride in the fact that the two of you are almost of height.
"You're a woman!" He blurts out suddenly, swaying incredulously on his feet. Yer'a woman!
"Anamaria," You say icily, attempting to pull away from him, but his grip only tightens. Gold glints as he smiles wildly, displaying false teeth and absolutely horrendous gums. His freehand creeps down your back.
"A woman," Jack affirms, "and pretty, to be sure." You slap him, then, so hard that he goes spinning. You won't be pawed by a degenerate pirate, even if his brown eyes are warm and friendly. Not you, not ever.