No one is immune to curiosity, least of all expectant devotees, skeptics, critics, naysayers, well-wishers, admirers, secret lovers, tender fanatics, radical zealots, reluctant believers, quiet empathizers, parishioners, and even the occasional Mammal of Paradise.
In this spirit, the BSD would like to use this juncture to present to you, proudly, teary-eyed and fully erect: The SS The George Takei.
More than just a comely bateau, The SS The George Takei fulfills many functions for the BSD: A secluded domicile, a monastery, a fortress, a maison en mer; a den of perversion, a spritely location for libidinous and voracious sexual and alcoholic appetites, a playing field in the game of seduction, an editorial location, the mirror from which the BSD snorts his Love Cocaine, a harbinger of sensual consummation and guaranteed gratification.
Take off your shoes and underpants before boarding the vessel. It's definitely slippery (see post from 10/13) and it may be a bumpy ride. No, it will not be over shortly, and yes, you may be injured. There is no height requirement per se, but the BSD only rides rides which are 5'3" and taller.
It's time for your three hour tour.
Ah, what a beautiful accouterment. I had TSSTGT painted dark navy, the decks stained lilly white, and left much of the wooden exterior untouched minus some small sealant. Packed in the tan bags seen here starboard is my traveling collection of illegal narcotics, used mostly as sedatives to unwitting visitors aboard the yacht. You can also see that the BSD has taken measures to ensure comfortable tanning abaft of the cabin by having some low-paid alien workers install the rolling canopy. Though the flag at the stern appears green, white, and red, in actuality it is green, white, and orange, the colors of the Motherland: Sweet, Dear, Slurring, Inebriated old Ireland. Pop some bonded jacky in my pipe, and we're sailing on.
Let's go inside, baby. The temperature is set at sexy.
The Stabbin Cabin. Located in the lower levels of TSSTGT, this is where the BSD commands his many Gins & Tonics, orchestrates his gluttonous cacophonies, and makes sweet, lewd, and vile Love. This is where DIQG and I are going to fuck death away.
This is the Bow. Home to nude sunbathing and raucous games of hide & go seek, the Bow serves multiple purposes aboard TSSTGT, but mostly it serves as the place where the BSD summons his inner Jack Dawson. Additionally, this is where the BSD mounts foreign invasions, encroaching most recently upon the Mediterranean nation of Monaco, declaring decisive victory upon my lascivious conquest of a certain lovely royal lady right here atop this deck.
Full subjugation came shortly after the BSD defiled her royal highness for the fourth time, leading her to exclaim, above deck, "Oh fuck! Holy shit! Fuck! oh ah ah ah- Holy shit, holy shit, baby, oh la la, c'est magnifique! Mon deiu! Mon deiu! Merde sainte! Vous etes un soldat dans la guerre de l'amour et un grand conquérant de mon vagin! Cette terre est à vous!"
I love it when she speaks French to me, made ever so much more charming aboard TSSTGT.
Stabbin Cabin.
Those lights usually give way, late at night, to the disco ball which descends ominously from the ceiling. Cue Cheree by Suicide, and passionate, playful lovemaking ensues. Unless, of course, you are DIQG, in which case it is going to be very unpredictable and unnaturally satisfying (see post from 10/13).
Here is the Bridge and the Galley, where you can see I've had my man-servant Hedley prepare a hearty breakfast of pancakes and champagne.
If you so dare as touch one of those pancakes, you will not be welcomed back aboard TSSTGT. There are few rules on TSSTGT, but one of them is "No Fat Chicks".
I pay him heartily and feel wasteful having him just lingering around.
Notice the subtle color interaction on her Bow. Tres chic, baby.
This picture was taken by men.style.com (now www.gq.com) while the BSD was sailing toward the Wall Street docks, on his way to accompany DIQG to the Marc Jacobs show during this past NY Fashion Week. TSSTGT was docked at the 79th Street Boat Basin eventually, where late nights never ended, mornings signaled reluctant sleep, TSSTGT buoyed, bounced, and made some sizable waves.
Now that yachting season is over, I wait with baited breath until I can take her out again, back to the open seas, where no one can hear DIQG scream.
With pleasure, obviously.
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