For Geena Davis…
You are a lesbian pirate. You are very “naughty.” Your reputation is worse than any male pirate on the open water. Currently, you are captain of a seven man crew. All are gay and brawny, including the only man you’ve ever trusted: Sven, a Nordic mutt with a considerable amount of Viking in his blood. He is the bastard product of a tryst between a Swedish prostitute and an Icelandic fisherman. Sven is ferociously loyal and he’s saved your life several times. He is the only one you can count on when you get into trouble—which happens often.
Sven’s sex drive is almost as high as yours. In fact, your entire crew has the reputation of being “sluts.” In Tortuga, a place you frequent, an army of lovers awaits the ship at port.
The ship, as it were, is called “The Mantis.” Formerly, it belonged to a wealthy Texan, who thought a stint on an Ivy League rowing team meant he had water in his veins. His third wife, Aimee was a French model and a Gold Digger. Their January to September marriage and their pathetic lives came to an abrupt end when you quietly climbed and crept your way onto their ship one evening.
You slit the Texan’s throat and your clit fluttered when you saw his blood drip onto the dark varnished wood of your new boat. He didn’t even have time to drop the mesh bag of shells he had collected while snorkeling.
You made your way to the kitchenette and found Aimee, fixing a vodka tonic for herself. She was already topless. You walked over and knocked the heavy glass out of her hand and then she put her lips on yours quickly. Her kisses were akin to worship.
Aimee was bent over and taken hard from behind. You let her come before killing her. You walked over both bodies and went to the side of the boat to help with the boarding party. This was how you became Captain.
Your crew of fags (who you and Sven call “the bears”) neatly painted over the former name of the ship with “The Mantis.” Your name is actually unknown—like Sven, you too are an orphan breed.
The only person who knows what you call yourself is Sven. To others, enemies and lovers (often the same person), you will always tell a fake name. Also in common with Sven, you have no desire to become intimate. Every woman you’ve ever fucked you have also killed. Aimee wasn't the first and she won't be the last.
Amongst the harems of lesbians littering the docks of places like your dear, Tortuga, you are as desired as you are feared.
Your skin is dark and lovely. The sun is obsessed with your body. Ruttish gazes are a commonplace expression for you and the smoky eye is a look you pull off very well. The youngest and smallest Bear, who everyone just calls “Cub,” created a kohl mixture, which he applies to your lids daily. Cub is also good with hair and makes sure that your hair is flawless. You look exquisite, always. A vest, bra, torn denim and boots—all black—is your standard outfit.
Lastly: your harness. In lieu of a standard belt, you wear a leather harness on your hips. Interlaced within the loops and hooks is a scarf of motley, matched in brilliance only by a red Macaw parrot. The harness holds your weapons: a katana sword, a pistol, a dagger and a leather whip, coiled (with a flogger on the handle) and tucked into the back of your harness-belt.