Here is a little drabble to let people know I am alive and still working on Tainted Blood, but I have been going through so many things I have become conflicted to my original purpose, but it will end.
The woman standing against the wooden walls of the bar had skin so fair she looked delicate. Light hair blowing in to the warm Caribbean breeze stuck to her lips after she licked them. She must be single. Taking a sip from her tankard, liquid ran down to her breasts as she playfully smothered them. She has to be single. Men gawked at her from every direction; she oozed sexuality and moaned in laughter. Definitely single with the possibility of no children. When was the last time I could be a woman? When was the last time I could bounce my breasts playfully and attract drunken dogs? Looking back in retrospect, I can recall the time I was able to be a woman. Before, my worries were whether my dress was perfect enough for my first husband to lift up and go-eating together, sleeping together, and few times, bathing together. Getting drunk without having issues of piloting a ship, or dealing with grown children.
My skin is no longer smooth, marred with scars and forever damaged by the sun. Reales are traded for defense and offense, instead of the latest skin creams made of bat shit to put on my face-unless blood counts which is free. It could be assumed I am jealous of those hedonistic women that money can buy. I recently had the pleasure of moaning by a no-nothing man plunging something deeply into me—I got stabbed by a dagger forcing me to stay in bed ill for a week. Interesting enough though, it worked out well, in fact- grateful. I had an excuse to be in bed for I had consistently been visited by first mate Tom the entire time.
Portraying as a man is not what I had expected after puberty-after marriage. As soon as my husband was murdered, I was forced into hiding, changing my name to James and living my life as a man resumed years later to now. Yelling at the top of my lungs, walking like I have a third leg, not at all what I expected to be in again. My life is consumed with taking care of my crew and my brotherhood, and the rare moments when I do get privacy, it is in the sanctity of a bush, but sadly, that too has a short life once an enemy nears and I cannot ignore the danger. When did my life become such a tragedy? Sleep, I can't even think about necessities, my men and my cause are my biscuits and grog. My purpose is to work in the darkness to serve the light; my creed.
Normal social interactions with women are as abundant as showering, maybe few times a year (not including flirtatious actions). I have more women flirting and throwing themselves on me than I prefer, followed with jealous old men because the young pirate man stole his woman. I do recall there was a sailor on one of my mate's ship that fancied me as I am, but quickly told him the truth of my sex to which he replied "deep down inside we're all lassies". One time a quartermaster of a different crew and ethnic tried to hold a conversation with me in an attempt to communicate in question as to why I am the way I am and I could not reply without sounding like his bitch captain, "nothin' is true, everythin' is permitted mate". Our chat became mute and once he spoke, he tried going a more masculine approach and the topic of how long had it been since I slept with a wench, it was my cue to leave five seconds after mentioned. This is the in depth reality of being a man, sweaty balls deep.
What exactly is it to be a woman? It has been so long I have almost forgotten what it is like to be feminine. To act playful and feel spoiled. To show my own breasts and giggle at dirty nonsense. I see men I find attractive and would love to ravage their body, but I can't afford to reveal my true self due to trust, the mission, and fear. A fear that I may not be accepted for who I really am. Fear that I will be denied by the man that currently has my heart unbeknownst to him. My emotions are consistently fighting, I have to always lie and find excuses for everything...
But, dressing as a man is not that bad. At the end of the day, when I go to my favorite tavern, beat from screaming, lying, and working on missions, I can always depend on enjoying a refreshing beverage of the Caribbean and seeing the stupid captain of the Jackdaw unenthusiastically (sometimes upset) walk up the stairs reciting "Ahoy Kidd" with a smile in my direction changing his entire attitude. Maybe I can lie a little longer and persevere through these endless thoughts because I know that smile is meant for me.
I wrote this based on what I would think and feel if I had to be someone I am not. As a female myself, I think I too would be jealous and feel bitter if I couldn't have a moment to be a girl. Even though I am tomboyish and do some masculine things, even I have my moments when I want to dress up, put makeup on, and put effort to do my hair. I imagine Kidd at moments felt this way, but had a personal justification making it alright.