Valkyrie at Sea, 1999
By Diana the Valkyrie
Another cruise.

You probably remember how last year I got paired with the Cabinmate from 
Hell, but luckily it all turned out for the best. This year, however, 
things went differently. We sailed (diesel-engined, really) out of 
Southampton bound for the Mediterranean, and my cabinmates this year 
were ideal, two old biddies from Belfast whose idea of excitement was to 
play Mozart allegro rather than allegretto. I told them not to worry if 
they didn't see me much, and they twittered a bit about "young girls 
nowadays" but I gave them an innocent smile. 

The first thing I did was to check out the ship's schedule, and the 
first thing that caught my eye was something called "Adult cricket". 
Well, I hadn't heard of that before, but it seemed like it could be 
rather fun, a bit like strip tiddly-winks or the Adult version of 
Postman's Knock, where it isn't who's kissing you that you're guessing, 
or "Pin the Tail on the Donkey",  where you ... well anyway, Adult 
Cricket was a new thing to try. 

So I changed into something Adult, and strolled up to the nets, trying 
to look like someone keen on Adult Cricket. Imagine my dismay when I 
found out that Adult Cricket is only called that to contrast it from 
Children's Cricket. Still, there were some useful looking men around, 
and I stood around looking available until one of them realised that I 
might be more fun than thwacking his balls with a piece of wood. 

We got to talking, his name was Ernest, and I carefully refrained from 
making all the obvious Wilde jokes, on the grounds that he'd probably 
heard them all before. And he invited me to dinner at his table, which 
got me away from the two old dears I was cabinning with; doubtless very 
nice ladies, but not suitable company for a randy Valkyrie. Then he went 
in to bat, and I guess he was trying to show off because I was watching, 
and it's always impressive to hit a ball for six, but he missed, and the 
momentum of his swing carried him a bit too far for his feet to stay 
underneath his centre of gravity, and when that happens, it's only a 
short time before the rules of physics correct the problem by abruptly 
lowering his centre of gravity, the rules of physics being rather more 
compulsory than the rules of cricket. He got up again quite quickly, and 
limped back to the sidelines. 

"Oh, Ernest, I say, jolly bad luck, what?" I said. Well, that's what 
they say in the jolly cricket books, so why would I vary from the 
ritual? "Ow!" he replied, rubbing the area that had come into abrupt 
contact with the hard wooden deck. "Here, let me" I said. "I've got some 
cream". So I helped him off with his trousers and started rubbing suntan 
cream into his thigh. Not that I think that suntan cream helps with 
bruises, of course, but it seemed to cheer him up quite a lot, plus I 
didn't mention that it was suntan cream. 

As I went back to my cabin to change for dinner (Formal Frock) I thought 
that the cruise was going rather well already, having de-trousered one 
of the better-looking blokes already. It's always easier to get their 
trousers off the second time. 

Dinner was good too. It hadn't occurred to Ernest to try to get rid of 
any competition, and the other two on our table were likely lads 
themselves,  Julian and Robin. So we all swapped stories about previous 
cruises, except me, because if you read Valkyrie at Sea, you'll see that 
there's nothing there that I'd actually want a bloke to know about. 
Well, not at this stage in the game. And then Ernest made a major 
tactical blunder. 

"Tomorrow's Gibraltar, would you like me to show you around?" he asked. 
"Yes please" said Julian and "Great" said Robin, before I could accept 
the offer. Which meant that there would be a foursome going ashore, but 
the sort of foursome that Valkyries like, it's always better when 
there's less competition. 

Then we went up to the Atlantic Lounge, where Kenny Hall and his three-
piece band were playing Glenn Miller, and say what you like about his 
music, it's great for dancing to, and I had three keen dance-partners to 
rotate between, and it was 1am before we called it a night, and that was 
only because I couldn't persuade Kenny to do more than an extra hour of 
overtime. "See you in the morning" trilled Julian, "Nighty night" said 
Robin. "Goodnight, boys" I said to them, and then to Ernest "I'd invite 
you to see me to my cabin, but I'm sharing with two old ladies" and 
waited to see if he'd get the hint. "Oh, well I'll say goodnight now 
then" he said, pecked me on the cheek and legged it, leaving one 
somewhat frustrated Valkyrie thinking that I really have to stop trying 
to be subtle, and go more for the knock-him-down and leap on him 
approach. 

Next day, we rendezvoused at the dockside, and the four of us set off to 
see Gibraltar. It's like a bit of England, heated up and transported to 
Spain. We saw the caves, the museum, the apes, and the five-o'clock 
traffic jam. I wore a long skirt and a big floppy hat to keep the sun 
off, the boys wore football shorts that left very little to the 
imagination if you looked carefully at their crotch when they were 
sitting down, and Ernest wore a pair of disreputable-looking cricket 
trousers. After we'd spent half an hour in the traffic jam, I said "What 
time does the ship weigh anchor?" "Plenty of time," said Ernest. "It's 
only four thirty." "Did you put your watch forward?" I asked. 

Ernest blenched. It isn't often that you see someone actually blench. 
It's a bit like the opposite of blushing. Instead of his face going a 
rosy red colour, it went very pale, his mouth opened, and he said "Wa, 
wa, wa". Which I took to mean that he hadn't put his watch forward, we 
had only thirty minutes to get back to the quayside, and we'd better get 
a wiggle on. They don't wait for you if you're late, they sail on time. 

And they sail on time they did. I know that, because I checked the time 
as we watched the cruise ship leaving Gibraltar, short of one Valkyrie, 
one man who wasn't quite as useful as I'd thought, and Julian and Robin, 
who seemed to think that the whole thing was a bit of a giggle, and 
although indubitably male, weren't what I'd regard as useful. "Oh shit" 
said Ernest. Julian and Robin looked at him. "What'll we do now?" He 
shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry", he said, and looked rueful. "I haven't 
a clue." True, I thought. And Julian and Robin didn't look exactly 
clueful either. So I had to tell them. 

"Tomorrow, the ship calls at Rome. So, we have 24 hours to get there. 
Give or take." "How can we get there?" "Air, sea or land" I said. 
"Forget sea, the ship moves a lot faster than we can swim. And I doubt 
if we could find a fishing boat that would take us. Air will only work 
if there's a flight out of Gib to a place that gets you to Rome, which 
probably means changing planes a couple of times, and the chances of it 
working are slim and none, and Slim just walked out the door. So, we go 
by road." Julian and Robin looked eager, Ernest looked gobsmacked (a 
word derived from the cockney, gob=mouth, smacked=punched). "It's 
*miles* Diana. No way can we go it in 24 hours. Besides, how do we go, 
hitch-hike?" "Cheerio, Ernest. Come on, lads" I said to the boys. "Where 
to?" said Julian. "We're hiring a car." 

We got the bus to the airport, and Ernest tagged along after all. 
"Robin, go buy a map of Europe. Julian, go buy food and water. Ernest, 
stop looking so depressed, this is going to be fun." "What about 
passports? We left them on the ship." He had a point. We're all one big 
happy Europe now, but they still ask to see your passport. But I was 
pretty sure that this was a violation of the Treaty of Rome; in fact all 
they're entitled to see is something that shows that you're a citizen of 
an EEC country. 

Ernest and I went to the car rental desk, and I produced my trump card. 
It's smaller than a playing card, and more colourful, made of plastic 
and says "Visa" on the front. "This is the only visa anyone needs" I 
said to Ernest, as we hired a small car. "Diana, do you have any idea 
where Rome is?" "Yes, Italy, about halfway up the calf. No, I don't know 
the road to get there, that's why I sent the boys off to buy a map. But 
all roads lead to Rome" He scratched his chin. "It's in Italy." Well, I 
knew that. I just didn't know exactly where. 

Gibraltar isn't a good place to hire a car. The choices aren't what 
you'd call ample. Gibraltar isn't very big, you see, most people use 
bicycles or scooters, and they reckon that a Citroen 2CV is more than 
anyone could possibly want. Well, since the alternative was rather a lot 
of pedalling, that was what I hired. There was one major drawback. You 
know what the "2CV" stands for? Deux Cheveaux. Two horses. The engine in 
a 2CV isn't anyone's dream of power, although these days, they don't 
make the two horsepower model any more. I'd guess the top speed is about 
100. But that's kilometers, and that translates to 62 mph, which isn't 
exactly zooming. Still, beggars can't be choosers, and if wishes were 
horses, I'd be in a Lotus, with Julian and Robin sharing the single 
passenger seat, they'd probably find that rather fun. 

Speaking of which, the ineffable pair joined us at the car rental desk, 
laden down with plastic carrier bags having stoked up at the airport 
shop, and we all trolled out to the car park to admire our conveyance. 
We dumped the goodies in the boot of the car, such as it was, I turned 
the ignition key, and we were off. It was 7pm, and I was guessing that 
we had about 24 hours to get to the ship's next port of call. We got to 
the border crossing point, told them that we weren't chocolate 
smugglers, and headed east for Barcelona, about 900 kilometers away. 

Along the route, Ernest opened up the map, and started studying it. 
After about half an hour, he sighed. "We won't make it" he announced. 
"Why not?" I asked. "It's about 2000 kilometers, Diana, and in 24 hours, 
this thing will do about 2400. That's assuming no stops, no traffic, 
full speed all the way and straight roads." Put like that it did sound a 
bit tricky. But then I pointed out that right now, the speedometer was 
telling me that we were clipping along at 120, which means that we could 
cover maybe 2800 klicks in the time we had, which left us with a narrow 
margin for stopping for filling up with petrol and, er, well, you know. 
Comfort. Ernest admitted that the speedo was looking good, but wondered 
if maybe it wasn't a bit optimistic. So I told him to watch the signs 
giving the distance to Barcelona, and work it out from that. It's a bit 
like having children in the car, you have to give them something to keep 
them occupied. 

Meanwhile, I was getting peckish. "Julian, Robin, time to eat and 
drink." "Ooh, lovely, lets find a good spot to picnic." Honestly, 
sometimes you have to wonder if some people are actually aware of what's 
going on. "No, lads, we have to eat on the move, we're a bit tight on 
time here." So the lads brought out what they'd bought to eat at the 
airport shop, and it was worse than I'd feared. 

You know how if you send some people out shopping, they'll come back 
with stuff that's healthy but not much fun to eat. Other people will 
come back with food that's tasty but junk. I'd guessed that Robin and 
Julian would be in the second category and we'd be eating cold pizza and 
cold meat pasties and suchlike. What I hadn't anticipated was that 
there's a third kind of food shopper. Imagine what an eight year old 
would buy if left to make a choice? Well, that's what the lads had 
brought. About half of the "food" was what the industry misleadingly 
calls "food bars" where the main ingredient is sugar and most of the 
rest is chocolate, and the other half was unashamedly sweets, which 
Americans for some reason call "candy". And for drink, we had cans of 
fizzy sugar-saccharine water flavoured with synthetic chemicals like E-
106, E-236 and the ever-popular E-138. 

I sighed. 24 hours without real food wouldn't give me scurvy, and there 
were enough calories there to keep us all going. I drove on, and the sun 
began to set, with a spectacular display of reds and oranges that, had I 
been leaning on the ships rail with some bloke by my side, would have 
given me a good excuse to sidle up to him and lean my head on his 
shoulder. In this case, all it did was blind me in my rear view mirror 
as I drove the 2CV eastwards. Romantic sunsets depend on context. 

It was getting on for midnight and we were still a few hundred klicks 
from Barcelona when I decided that I'd done enough driving. I pulled la 
voiture into a service station, and I woke up Ernest and the lads. "Rise 
and shine" I said, heartily. Ernie rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, I 
visited the comfort area to deal with some discomfort that had arisen, 
and the two lads filled the tank up with the petrol we needed for the 
next stage of the journey. While I was in the shop, I bought some water 
(sugar water just makes me thirsty) and a couple of loaves of bread, 
which would be a welcome change from all that sugar. By the time I got 
back to la voiture (it's difficult to call a 2CV a "car") they were 
ready to set off, so I got into the back with the two boys. 

You might wonder how you can get one reasonably wide Valkyrie plus two 
blokes into the back of une voiture. The answer is, you put the two 
blokes side by side, and you lay the Valkyrie across their laps. I 
reckoned that this would be a lot more comfortable than trying to sleep 
in the front seat next to Ernest. More fun too; the boy were wearing 
sort of thin football shorts, which I find immensely sexy on a man, 
because it hints strongly about the goodies within. Sometimes more than 
a hint, especially if you lay a Valkyrie across two of them. I curled up 
slightly because a 2CV isn't quite as wide as a Valkyrie is long, and 
moved around until I felt comfortable, and then, ignoring the soft moans 
from Julian and Robin, I fell asleep. 

I won't say I got a great night's sleep, but I got enough to keep me 
going. I think Julian and Robin got enough to keep them going too, they 
looked quite happy and relaxed when I woke up. So I woke them up too, 
and got them to start seeing to breakfast, while I climbed over the 
handbrake into the front seat next to Ernie. "How's it going, Ern?" 

He grunted. "Marseilles just coming up in a hundred klicks or so." 
Pretty good. It was nine am, so fourteen hours driving had covered 1300 
klicks, only 800 to go, and I was guessing we had until 6pm to get to 
the dockside. We needed to average 90 kph, and that looked doable. "You 
must be shattered, driving through the night. How did you stay awake?" 
"No problem, Diana. The noises from the back seat would have woken 
Lazarus." I blushed, that being what you're supposed to do in such a 
situation. "OK, Robin, your turn to drive." "I can't drive." Uh. I 
thought everyone could drive. "Julian?" I said, fearing the worst. 
Julian shook his head, "Me neither." "Good grief. What are you two 
useful for?" Robin blushed, Julian grinned, and I took over the wheel. 

Out the other side of Marseilles, we soon found ourselves trundling down 
the Appian Way, and it was all looking very feasible until we were about 
100 klicks from Rome with a couple of hours to cover it in. Suddenly la 
voiture decided that it wanted to pull in to the side of the road.  It 
heaved the steering wheel over to the right, and I let it, because there 
was obviously something badly wrong. Sure enough, when I'd stopped and 
we all got out and looked, the front right hand tyre was distinctly 
flat. 

I ran round to the back and unloaded the bags of "food" that the boys 
had stowed there, and I was very pleased to see that there was a spare 
wheel, and it did seem to be inflated. Plus a small roll of tools for 
doing the job. The good news was that all the tools seemed to be there. 
The bad news was that the screw jack was so badly rusted, it didn't look 
like it would work. When Ernest tried it, sure enough it wouldn't screw. 
And then when I tried it, it went "spung" and stripped its threads. 

"Diana, you go stop a car, someone will have a jack." How do I stop a 
car with my bare hands? Answer - not with my bare hands, with my bare 
legs, this being Italy. So I stood by the roadside with my skirt hiked 
up trying to look inviting but not quite Irma-la-Douce, and watched the 
cars shooting past without stopping for some minutes, until I realised 
that Italians aren't actually that different from people anywhere else. 
So I walked back to the 2CV and said "Looks like we go for Plan B, 
fellows." And I explained Plan B. If you haven't got a jack, you use a 
Jill. 

Actually, it isn't nearly as impressive as it looks. The 2CV isn't a 
heavy car, being made of what feels like tinfoil. Plus, I wasn't lifting 
the whole car, just one side of it, which means only half the weight. 
The worst part was watching the blokes fumbling with the nuts, and 
knowing that I couldn't just push them out of the way and do it myself, 
because I needed both hands to keep the thing in the air. 

Eventually they got it finished, and we all piled back in for the race 
to the dockside in Rome. We still had 90 minutes to cover 100 klicks. 
And, if it hadn't been for the traffic jam that seemed to fill Rome 
totally, I think we would have made it. As it was, we got to the 
dockside in time to watch the anchors lift, and the liner cruising 
majestically out to sea, bound for Tirane in Albania, about 1500 
kilometers away. 

We had three choices. We could give up and go home, we could get a plane 
out of Rome airport to Tirane, or we could continue to play chase the 
cruiser. We took a vote. Ernest wanted to give up and go home, Julian 
and Robin wanted to fly, and I was in favour of continuing our drive 
round Europe. "It'll mean another night in the 2CV" I pointed out, and 
Julian nudged Robin, and they changed their vote to the road option. 
Which made it 3-1, isn't democracy great when you can rig the votes? 

"1500 klicks in 24 hours is a piece of cake" I said, optimistically, and 
tried to forget the fact that another puncture would doom us. So - 
refuelled, revictualed and re-watered we set off Northbound, following 
the river Tiber. Round about midnight we crossed the Rubicon (but in the 
opposite direction to Julius) and a few hours after that, we found out 
the fatal flaw in the plan. To get to Albania, you have to go via 
Trieste in Italy across the border to Slovenia (to name just one), 
Slovenia isn't part of the EEC, and they really insisted on seeing 
passports. Which were, of course, on the ship. 

So we stopped, pulled off the road, and had a powwow. And this time I 
had a major mutiny on my hands. All three of them just wanted to go home 
with their tails between their legs, just hop on a plane for Heathrow. 
But I wasn't ready to give up so easily, because the next stop after 
Tirane was Venice. And Venice is in Italy, and even better, it's only 
200 klicks from Trieste. "Come on, chaps! After all the miles we've 
done, that's nothing. Buck up and stop whining." But Ernest was adamant, 
he wanted to go home, he'd had enough of chasing this ship around the 
Med. And even making eyes at Robin wouldn't budge him. 

So I agreed that we'd head for the nearest major airport. "Where's 
that?" asked Ernest, suspiciously. We checked the map. Venice. I tried 
not to grin too broadly. 

As the ship sailed in to Venice two days later, we were standing on the 
dockside, cheering. As soon as they let down the gangways, we stormed 
aboard, waving the passes that we'd been given in Gibraltar. My primary 
objective was a long hot bath, my secondary objective was to convert as 
much steak and potatoes into Valkyrie as I possibly could, and my third 
objective was to make up for lost time with the men on board. 

At dinner that evening, I avoided Ernest, who had turned out to be a 
total wimpoid, and the dishwater Robin/Julian combo. But! During the 
three days that I'd spent chasing around Europe after the ship, a 
considerable amount of pairing-off had happened, and by the time I was 
back in the game, all the useful men had at least one set of claws 
firmly embedded. It's the early bird that catches the worm, the late 
Valkyrie couldn't even find a decent caterpillar to nibble. So I sat 
rather forlornly in the ship's lounge, trying to find a port-and-lemon 
interesting and practising my available-and-harmless look. 

I was joined by another wallflower. "Hi," she said. "I'm Linda, Linda 
Daventry." I turned and looked at her. "My name's Diana, don't call me 
'Di'". "I don't think I've seen you on the ship before?" "No." And I 
gave her a brief summary of my journey overland from Gibraltar to 
Venice. "Sounds like fun" she said. Well, yes, I suppose it was really, 
although it didn't feel like fun at the time. "But while I was out of 
action, all the useful men seem to have been grabbed." "Don't worry, 
Diana, you're not missing much" she laughed. 

We talked. "What do you do?" she asked. "Um, I run a big web site, and 
you?" "I'm a fluffer." "What's that?" "Er, I fluff." "What's fluffing?" 
"Well, when they make a porno video, you have a man and a woman, and 
sometimes the man needs a bit of ... help. What's a web site?" 

So I explained about what a web site is, and mine in particular, and 
Linda explained about some of the techniques that a fluffer uses to 
fluff a butterstick "A what?" "You know," said Linda, making a gesture. 
Ah. Those. Yes. So I explained what a Valkyrie was, and the evening flew 
by much more pleasantly than I'd have expected a blokeless evening to 
go. 

The next day, I got up nice and early, and did a search of the ship, 
from the sharp end to the blunt end, carefully avoiding technical terms 
like bow and stern. Those three lost days were a killer; couples 
everywhere I looked. Well, not everywhere. There were biddies and 
geezers in abundance, many of them looking available, but it isn't 
mutton I'm looking for, it's lamb. Eventually, I fetched up by the 
swimming pool, and plonked myself down next to Linda, who was roasting 
herself in the Mediterranean sun, and didn't seem to mind me 
interrupting her reading a book, which I noticed was "Elizabethan 
England". I'm partial to a bit of history myself, when the main prey 
isn't available. 

I lay down on a lounger next to Linda, and displayed the wares a bit, 
albeit slightly paler than the average. Then, as I was smearing on the 
sun-blocker (sunburn isn't much fun) I asked her to tell me more about 
her job. It turned out to be a bit more complicated than straight 
fluffing. Sure, she'd started off as a plain fluffer (I say plain 
advisably, with that chin no-one would call her pretty, although I 
shouldn't be calling the kettle black) but these days, her job was more 
of a general Mrs Fix-it and Dogrobber. The folks who make porno videos 
aren't exactly the cream of the crop brainwise. I mean, how much nous 
does it take to assemble 1 camera, 1 male, 1 female and 1 bed? The 
trouble with that idea, though, is that it is actually a bit more 
complex logistically that that. 

Then Linda explained about yoghurt and the yoghurt-squirter, and people 
stared across the pool as I shrieked with laughter. "You mean they're 
actually licking up yoghurt?" "Yes, what did you think they used?" Well, 
I suppose I'd never really thought about it. "So Linda, that's why you 
aren't man-chasing on this cruise?" "Right. I see enough sausage the 
rest of the year to fill a refrigerator." 

I thought about this. "Linda, suppose, just suppose I wanted a job as a 
fluffer. How would I go about applying?" She looked at me. "Diana, most 
fluffers are just bimbos, chosen for their looks. To be perfectly 
honest, I don't think you'd get into the first interview." "Well if 
we're being perfectly honest, Linda - how did you get into this field?" 
She grinned. "I saw an opportunity, and I grabbed it with both hands." I 
think I know what she meant. "And ...?" "And it was an hour before I let 
go what I'd grabbed, by which time he knew I'd make a pretty good 
fluffer." I nodded. Hmmm. 

"Would you teach me some of the techniques?" I could see how this could 
come in handy. "I'm not too keen on creating competition for myself." 
Well yes, I could understand that. "But I wouldn't be competition, I'm 
not looking to get into porno videos. I'd just use it for myself. Well, 
not for myself, you know what I mean." She still looked no-ish, and I 
realised that I was asking for a free lunch. So I offered a trade. 
"Linda, you show me the finer arts of fluffing, and I'll show you how to 
tear telephone books in half." She blinked. "Why would that be useful to 
me?" "Intimidation, Linda. It's an extremely good way to intimidate 
men." 

She thought about that, and I could see her constructing scenarios where 
a bit of phone-book intimidation would be useful. "And then, right after 
I rip up a phone book, I put my hands on their most vulnerable place? 
They'd be terrified!" I grinned. "They wouldn't let me!" "They wouldn't 
be able to stop you, Linda. They turn into soft squidgy submissive yes-
men." She nodded. "Yes, I suppose they might, at that. But can you 
actually show me how to do that?" "Sure!" I looked at her forearms. She 
was no Popeye the Sailorman, but years of exercise using her fluffers 
hands had given her powerful muscles, you could see them. Oh, did you 
think that hand muscles are in the hands? No, they're in the forearms, 
and the end of the muscle is attached to a cable (called a ligament) 
that passes through the wrist into the hand. The hand includes the 
muscles for easy things like wiggling your fingers, but the important 
function, the grip, is powered by the muscles in the forearm. And I 
could see that Linda's were a good size. 

I explained all this to her; her knowledge of anatomy was a bit 
specialised, and didn't extend above the waist. Or much below it, for 
that matter. And then I explained about paper, and how it's strong in 
compression, but weak in tension, like concrete. And about the different 
kinds of paper, and how some kinds are a lot stronger than others, and 
how to tell the difference. You think you just grab the nearest phone 
book and tear it up? No - there's a certain amount of technique 
involved. 

The ship called at Calabria, and Linda and I disembarked together, to 
have a look round the town, and to get a few souvenirs, some of which we 
light-fingered from telephone kiosks. I bought a hat (I have a weakness 
for hats) and Linda bought some of the local yoghurt. She's very partial 
to yoghurt, which she told me is available in large quantities where she 
works, as one of the perks of the job. 

When you get back on the ship, the air conditioning really hits you 
after the heat of Southern Italy. It's like walking into a refrigerator. 
So then I had a shower, and trotted down to Linda's cabin with a big 
bag. 

Linda was down in the bowels of the ship, in one of those cabins they 
charmingly call "shared no porthole", meaning it's a bit like the Black 
Hole of Calcutta, only air conditioned. Mine wasn't much better, but at 
least I had one of those small glass circles in the wall, so I could 
tell when it was night. Neither place was anywhere you'd want to spend 
much time, but there's loads of places on the ship to go. So we went to 
the Frog and Ferret, a sort of pub thing on deck eight. We sat round a 
table, Linda poured us both a glass of yoghurt, and I pulled a phone 
book out of my bag. 

I riffled it, and thumped it on the table a couple of times. "You do 
that to show how thick it is, and that the pages are all intact. You 
make a big play about how big and solid it is." "But it isn't solid" she 
pointed out. No, but you hold it by the open edge when you bang it on 
the table, that stops it flapping, and then it sounds as solid as a 
chunk of wood." She nodded. "The point of the exercise, Linda, is to 
demonstrate the impossibility of tearing it apart. You're trying to make 
it look as difficult as possible." I banged it on the table again. 
Thump! A few people turned at the noise, but then turned back. I gave 
the book to Linda, she gripped the open side, and tapped the table. "No, 
Linda, hit it a good whack". THUMP!!! "Yes, that's better." More heads 
turned. I took it back from her, and punched it a few times. "This also 
shows how thick and solid it is. Make a lot of noise when you do this." 

I opened it up. "There's three sorts of paper. There's the glossy 
coloured paper that they use for the adverts, there's the heavy paper 
that they use for the info pages at the start. And then there's the 
cheap pulp paper they use for the bulk of the pages. See the 
difference?" She nodded. "Next, look at the spine. It's "perfect bound", 
basically it's just glue soaked into the edge of the pages, and a strip 
of heavy paper down the back to protect that." She looked. "It's a very 
cheap form of construction, but very suitable for this purpose, when you 
need to make a lot of copies very cheaply. And it doesn't need to last 
for long, because you'll issue a new book each year or so." 

She riffled the book. "How does all this help?" I looked at her, 
surprised. "The more you know, the more you can do." She smiled. "Yes, 
that's always true." She looked round the room. "I could get any of 
these guys off in under 60 seconds." I looked at her, puzzled. "Surely 
the fluffer's job is the exact opposite?" "Yes, usually, but sometimes 
it's useful to know how to step on the accelerator." I grinned, 
ruefully. "But really, Diana, to drive a car, you need to know how and 
when to use the accelerator *and* the brake. Plus, it's a good idea to 
know what destination you're aiming for." I licked my lips, thinking 
about all the things Linda was going to teach me. 

"So, the first thing you do, is prepare the book. If you remove the 
glossy pages, that makes it a lot easier. If you're a beginner, you 
might remove the info pages too. You'll lose hardly any thickness, you 
still have a big impressive book to thump." I carefully removed the 
glossy pages. "Because it's perfect bound, you can't even see that they 
used to be there." She took it from me, and examined it. "Try to rip it 
up, Linda." She tried. She didn't make the slightest impression on it. 
The book just twisted slightly in her hands. "It's no good, Diana. I 
can't do it." I grinned. "That's because I haven't shown you how yet." 

Obviously, this stuff is secret. So why am I writing it all down here? 
Simple - no-one will believe it! People can be *very* sceptical; even 
when they've watched me do it, they still don't believe it's possible. 
So, since there's no danger that anyone will place any credence in this, 
it's safe to tell. 

"Linda, you have to understand a bit about paper." I took one of the 
glossy pages, and handed another one to her. "Try tearing this, but try 
gently." She tore the page. OK, now try gripping it with your hands, and 
pull your hands apart, also gently." She did. "Oh! That's a lot easier!" 
"Yes. That's because paper has torsional strength, but not tensional 
strength. Or, to put it more simply, it resists the twist-action of 
tearing much better than it resists being pulled apart. Because most of 
the stresses that paper has to resist, are tearing-type stresses, so 
it's made to resist those. But that's just a single sheet. Let me show 
you how you deal with a book." 

I gripped the open side in both hands. "You grip it as hard as you can, 
Linda." She nodded. "I've got a good grip. Sometimes you need to grip 
very hard to stop a runaway from spurting, until they can get things 
into position." I thought about all the runaways I'd known; learning how 
to delay them spurting until things are in position, was going to be 
very handy. "And then you don't try to tear it. You pull your hands 
apart." And I did, and the book made a great ripping noise, "And then 
you break the spine like a stick" and the spine snapped "and then you 
bang both halves down with a big thump." THUMP!!!!! 

The whole room went quiet, and fourteen pairs of eyes stared at our 
table. And I heard a low moan "Unhhh". "Linda, did you see who made that 
sound?" She nodded. "Beckon him over, he's going to be useful." She did. 
He didn't move. She stood up, and led him back by the hand. He followed 
her, not resisting. "Hello!" I said, brightly, smiling at him. "Do sit 
down". I took his hand, and pulled him down, so he sat, looking like a 
cross between a lost sheep and a sacrificial goat, just after the goat 
realises its job function. 

Linda looked at me, curiously. "What's the deal here?" "He's a schmoo, 
Linda." "What's a schmoo?" "Someone who gets very turned on by strong 
women." Linda glanced down at his lap. "Yes, he did rather, didn't he?" 
"That's why I'm keen to hear about techniques for putting on the 
brakes." "That's elementary fluffing, no problem." he moaned again, very 
quietly. "Unhhh..." We ignored him. "You can use him for demonstrating 
control, he'll be a good sacrificial goat. Now you just sit there 
quietly, sweetie" I told him. He shivered slightly, and suppressed 
another moan. 

The rest of the room went back to whatever they'd been doing before, 
except for one frustrated-looking woman who had just lost her companion. 
I finished off my yoghurt, looked at Linda, and said "It's getting a bit 
stuffy in here. Let's go somewhere else and practice." We stood up, and 
followed by my little lost sheep, left the Frog and Ferret. 

We clambered up the endless flights of stairs (a sea cruise is very good 
for the thigh muscles) till we got to the Crows Nest. Did I mention that 
a cruise ship is really just a collection of bars with cute names, 
floating on the water? Some guy was tinkling on the piano when we got 
there, trying to sound like a Yorkshire version of Frank Sinatra. We sat 
down, and I beckoned over a waiter. "Port for me, and yoghurt for my 
friend." He shook his head. "We don't serve yoghurt here, only in the 
cafeteria." "But I want it here." "Sorry, ma'am, I'm not allowed to 
leave the Crows Nest, it's more than my job's worth." Jobsworth indeed.  
"OK, just the port then". I turned to my lost sheep. "Pop down to the 
caff and fetch back a pint of yoghurt, there's a lamb" and I patted him 
on the knee. He shot off yoghurtwards, and I pulled another phone book 
out of my bag. "OK, it's time to put what you've learned into practice. 
Um - don't bother with the thumping, we'll take that as read." 

Linda took the book from me, and opened it. "Preparation", she said, and 
pulled the glossy advertising pages out of the volume. "Pull out the 
thick paper pages, too" I suggested. She did. If you looked closely, you 
could see that there was something missing, but so what? "OK, I take the 
open edge" "Grip it hard, Linda" "I am gripping it hard" "As hard as you 
can. It's the grip that does most of the job. Think about something you 
want to crush on your hands."  "Horse", she said, and I wondered what 
sort of videos she was into. "He's isn't called Horse because he's hung 
like one" she amplified. "So why is he called Horse?" "Because he has 
the intelligence of one." I grinned. " ... and a face like one .... " I 
laughed. "... and he's hung like one." I sobered up. "Really?" Linda 
held up her hands, and there was quite a lot of distance between them. 
"He competes in the GW contests." 

There was a silence. I've heard of those, of course - who hasn't! And 
I've heard that there's moves to get Genital Weightlifting accepted as 
an Olympic sport. Yum - fancy being able to watch it on mainstream TV, 
instead of some obscure Satellite channel. "Is it true they all take 
..." "We don't talk about that." she interrupted, and got a good grip on 
the phone book. I could see her knuckles turning white, and felt sorry 
for Horse next time she gets his hands on his weightlifting tackle. "OK, 
Linda, now PULL!". She pulled her arms apart, and a split appeared in 
the edge of the book. "Oh!" 

I grinned. "Don't be surprised, I told you it would. Now grip the sides 
of the tear you made, and pull again." She changed her grip, and gave it 
a good yank. The book was halfway done now, and my lost sheep returned, 
carefully carrying a quart of yoghurt. Then Linda made a final effort, 
and with a loud grunt, she got the book torn apart. And Sheepie lost it 
completely at that point; watching Linda, he didn't look where he was 
going, tripped on a chair and a quart of yoghurt went flying liberally 
in all directions. Oops! Wet sheep. Plus lots on Linda and on me. 

Linda licked a spash of yoghurt off her arm, I wondered how you get 
yoghurt stains out of a cotton skirt, but my lost sheep was saturated. 
"Come on", I said, "Lets get cleaned up." "My cabin or yours?" Linda 
asked. I looked at a sheepish-looking yoghurt-soaked bloke, and said "I 
think we need a bit of a preliminary clean-up first. Down one deck, 
folks." 

I kept a good distance from the yoghurt-dripping man. As did everyone 
else. Odd that. Yoghurt smells quite attractive in small pots; spread 
out all over a human body, it was an unpleasant pong. People made way 
for us as we proceeded along the deck, and I could see why Linda didn't 
want him in the cabin like this. "I guess you've had a lot of experience 
with yoghurt, then?" "Oh yes, they use gallons of it in porn vids", she 
said. I didn't ask what for, it seemed pretty obvious. "So how are we 
going to get him cleaned up before we take him down to my cabin?" I 
pointed to the swimming pool. "In there." He turned, looking horrified. 
"I can't ..." 

I don't know what he was going to say next, because I'd grabbed his 
ankles and lifted. He wasn't very heavy. By the time I had his ankles up 
to waist level, he'd built up a good speed, and arced gracefully into 
the water, shedding yoghurt as he flew. Once in the water, he thrashed 
about for a while, getting everyone else wet, then he started swimming 
underwater. 

"Diana", Linda said, pensively. "Mmmh?" "I wonder if he was trying to 
say that he can't swim?" "Oh. Well, could be. I can't swim either." 
"Well, I'm not going in after him, it's bad enough getting yoghurt on my 
t-shirt, I don't want to ruin it by getting it soaked. It's an Armani, 
you know." "Is it?" I said. "I always wondered why people buy designer 
t-shirts. Dresses, I can understand, but t-shirts?" "It's pure snob 
value, Diana, besides, they don't cost that much more than ordinary 
ones." "Where did you get it?" "M and S" "No, really?" "Yes, they were 
doing a special, it was only fifteen pounds." "Ooh, I missed that. I 
wonder if they'll do it again?" "Probably, they seemed to be a big 
success". I flagged a waiter. "Excuse me. There's a bloke in the pool 
there, I think he's drowning." 

They fished him out of the water, and I squeezed him a bit to recover 
the several gallons of chlorinated swimming pool that he'd tried to 
swallow. He coughed and spluttered, and quite a lot of water came out, 
so I popped him over my shoulder and carried him down to Linda's cabin. 
At least he didn't smell of yoghurt any more. 

Linda put a couple of towels on her bed to soak up the moisture, and I 
dumped him on top of those. "Watch this" she said, and she had him 
peeled like a grape in half a minute. I mean, it was like magic. One 
minute he was dressed albeit sopping wet, the next minute he was stark 
naked, and in between, there was just Linda's hands moving faster than 
the eye could follow. "It's a bit like peeling a prawn", she said. 
"Sometimes the talent is a bit shy at first, and I have to help them get 
stripped, and warm them up a bit." She demonstrated the warming up, 
using one finger. 

For the next hour, Linda showed me some elementary fluffing moves, such 
as the Eagle Claw, the Twister and the Magic Finger. I learned stuff 
about the human nervous system that I hadn't known before, and tried to 
remember it all. Then I looked at her clock, and said "Hey -we'd better 
get a wiggle on, it's a Formal Night tonight, and neither of us are 
dressed yet." 

On a cruise, the Formal Nights are an excuse to get all glammed up. Posh 
frock and warpaint, high heels and sparklers. But it does take a long 
time to get it all assembled. Not for men, of course. Five minutes to 
dress, and another ten for putting on the bow-tie. Lucky them. It takes 
me over an hour to do all the necessary. "What about him?" Linda asked. 
"I don't really have room for him. But it would be a shame to lose him." 
I looked down. Linda had been fluffing him for a solid hour, and he was 
still firm and useful. 

"I'll take him", I said. He was definitely in no condition to walk now, 
so I slung my bag over one shoulder, tucked him under the other arm, and 
skedaddled back to my cabin to change for the evening. I dumped him on 
my bed, told him not to move, and started getting my Evening Face on, 
followed by my best fake diamonds, and the posh frock. Then I teetered 
into my heels (thank heaven the ship has stabilisers, or I'd be all over 
the place) and tottered off to eat. 

Linda was already in the dining room when I arrived. She made me feel a 
bit overdressed, but I looked round, and saw that the other women were 
similarly dolled up, it was Linda who was the odd one out. "Why the 
plain togs, Linda?" I asked, as I swished my skirt a bit and sat down, 
while checking the nearby area for talent, all of which was already 
paired off. Well, it's always worth a glance round. 

She looked at me. "How much do you think a fluffer makes?" I thought 
about that. I had no idea. "How much does a fluffer make, then?" "Two 
hundred a day, when I'm working, nothing when I'm not. Plus tips." She 
said that with a straight face, and I cracked up, spluttering crumbs 
from my bread roll all over the table. "And all the yoghurt I can eat." 
"That's not much." She made a face. "Don't I know it. That's why I 
branch out a bit, like the blokelifting, and the Genital Development 
contests." "Yes, I've been meaning to ask you about those. 

So Linda told me about Horse, and Batman "Batman???" "Yes, as in 
baseball bat" "Oh, I see." and "Jake the Peg". "Sounds great. Could you 
fix me up, you know, with a few of them?" She shook her head. "I could, 
but unless you want to enter a contest, they won't be much use to you. 
They're strictly for looking at, not for using. That's why they need a 
fluffer." Oh. I knew it was all too good to be true. "It's all the 
testosterone they take to get big. They have to balance it out with 
oestrogen, and you get the size all right, but you also get, well, the 
technical term is 'limp'." 

"So how can they lift those huge weights? I mean, those guys lift dozens 
of ounces, they can't be entirely limp!" She laid her hands on the 
table. "That's where these come in. I help them get it up." She rubbed 
her fingers together. "And I'm very, very good at it. I'm the number one 
fluffer in the whole country. When the lights are on, the camera crew is 
waiting, the yoghurt pump is primed, the leading lady is ready but the 
butterstick isn't, they call me in." "Yoghurt pump?" She smiled. "Oh, I 
see" I said. "It's very expensive to keep all those people hanging 
around and not shooting. Plus, if the yoghurt curdles in the pump and 
you get a blockage in the nozzle ..." "Golly", I said. "How do you clear 
that?"  "Diana, I'm a fluffer. A top flight fluffer. I can suck a golf 
ball through a garden hose." Hmmm. That's a skill that must often come 
in handy. 

I called the waiter over. "Could I have a doggy-bag? I'd like to take 
some food up to my cabin." "That's very thoughtful of you Diana, he's 
sure to be hungry." Oh. Yes. "Could you make that two doggy bags 
please?" 

We moseyed back to my cabin, Linda was going to teach me a few things 
that fluffers know, and I was going to give her more practice with phone 
books. As we entered, he looked up, guiltily. "What have you been up 
to?" Linda demanded. He blushed. Linda grabbed the blankets and threw 
them back. "As I thought!" "I thought I told you to wait?" I said, with 
my best stern look on. He quailed. "We're going to have to punish him, 
Diana" said Linda, gruffly. I licked my lips, and he quailed some more. 
"OK, Diana, tie him to the bed." 

Have you ever tried to tie a terrified man to a bed? It isn't easy. They 
wriggle, and while you're dealing with one hand, they're flailing around 
with everything else. In the end, I just dumped a heavy Valkyrie on top 
of him, which more or less squashed the fight out of him, while Linda 
tied his arms and legs to the bed legs. Then Linda sat on his chest, I 
sat on his knees (with me on his chest, he'd have had more trouble 
breathing) and she gave me a guided tour. 

"This place is good if you just touch it lightly, this you just stroke 
with the ball of your thumb. See this vein here? If you nip it between 
your fingers, it stops the blood from withdrawing. As long as you're 
holding that, he can't go limp." "He's limp now." "Yes, I haven't 
fluffed him up yet. I want to show you around while he's limp, it's a 
bit different when we get a pump on. I'll do that later." There was a 
moan from underneath Linda. "Pass me my bag, Diana. Time for an 
important lesson." 

Linda had brought this rather capacious shoulder bag, she called it her 
bag of tricks. She stood up, and he and I watched as she groped around 
inside. She emerged with a sheepskin glove. I've got a lovely pair 
myself, but mine have the fur on the inside. These were softly furry on 
the outside. "See this, sweetie?" He nodded. She smiled, and stroked the 
glove onto her right hand. "See how soft and furry it is?" He gulped. 
She stroked her cheek with it, and said "Mmmm", closing her eyes. 

Then she sat on his stomach, blocking his view of the playground, and 
pointed to his butterstick. "You see, Diana, I haven't even touched him 
yet. Sex is 99% in the mind. Get the mind, and the butterstick follows." 
I think I heard that before, but it was the other way round. "No," Linda 
said firmly. "You can make them scream as loud as you like by squeezing 
here ... or here ..." - and I heard a whimper - "but my way gets better 
results." I nodded; Linda was clearly at home in this area. "See how I 
have his full attention now?" I nodded. "I think there's a close 
correlation between attention span and time to orgasm" Linda said. 

She spent a couple of hours showing me useful things. Of course, a lot 
of what she did was very specialised - I'm not likely to want help some 
guy to lift multi-ounce weights attached to his genitals, or fluff 
someone who's competing in a distance event (it's important to be clear 
of the jetstream). But the general principles were good to know, I mean 
I already knew some of the practicalities before, but it was good to 
have the theoretical foundations. And I learned some practical stuff. 
And then it was late, and we were both getting tired. And the guy was 
all used up. 

"I'm turning in", said Linda, "see you tomorrow." "What about him?" I 
asked. She looked at him. "He'll be pretty useless for the next few 
weeks, we've drained him somewhat. Don't even try, Diana" Actually, we'd 
milked him dry, but that wasn't what I meant. "I want my bed back. He's 
in the way." "Then get rid of him", said Linda as she walked out, 
closing the door behind her. 

Great. Half past midnight, there's a used man in my bed, and I want to 
go to sleep. Well, I guess there's nothing for it. I'll have to dump him 
someplace. Plus, he was naked, and a bit ... tacky. So I rolled him up 
in a blanket, killing two birds with one stone, checked the corridor, 
and seeing that it was empty, I slung him over my shoulder and headed 
for the blunt end of the ship. He was still asleep. 

Right down to the stern, then up to the eighth deck. I left him lying in 
Peter Pan's; they had a nurse to look after the kiddies, and she'd find 
him in the morning, and deal with him. One way or another. 

I got a decent night's sleep, and was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed next 
morning when I met Linda for breakfast. "That was so educational, Linda. 
Could you should me some more of the rude rudiments?" She laughed. 
"Sure, but I'll need another man to use." I looked round. The 
conservatory was filled with men, but most of them were already claimed. 
Those that weren't, were either geriatric or not voice-broken. You 
really do have to move fast on these cruises, or all the useful trouser 
is bagged. "There's nothing available, Linda" I said, ruefully. "We've 
missed the tram. Bought the farm. Struck out for a duck. They're all 
collared." Linda grinned at me. "Don't worry, Diana. I know a good 
source." 

I looked at her with new respect. I knew her talents as a fluffer, now 
she was going to show me how to find water in the desert! So, I had my 
third cup of coffee (I'm not really active until at least the second) 
and followed her out of the foodery. But instead of going down to the 
eighth deck where most of the bars and suchlike were, she headed 
upwards. 

We got to the top deck of the ship, and Linda headed towards the Adult 
Cricket, which I'd found so disappointing earlier. "Er, Linda ... this 
Adult Cricket thing, it's just the middle-aged sports freaks. Ball games 
is all they're interested in." She grinned at me. "I know. But all we 
need to do, is cut one of them out, distract the others, and then whisk 
him off while the others aren't looking." 

The trouble was, those guys really were keen on cricket. They completely 
ignored us, preferring to whack their balls around. Linda did the fluff-
your-hair thing, and the wriggle-your-bum thing, and she even did the run-
your-hands-over-your-hips thing, but they weren't even looking her 
way. So I stepped in. "Anyone want to fuck?" Sometimes, there's no point 
in being subtle. 

Well, it got their attention. Silence fell. The cricket game stopped 
dead. All heads turned towards Linda and me. Linda picked a likely lad, 
and pointed to him. "You. Follow." He looked startled, and we walked 
back to our cabin. 

We were halfway there when I realised that we weren't being followed. 

"Linda" I called; she was several yards in front. She turned round, saw 
me, saw no-one else, and yelled "Oh shit!" in a very frustrated tone of 
voice. 

The next day, the ship got back to Southampton. Linda and I were the 
first off the ship; I slung our bags in the back of the Morgan, and we 
burned rubber all the way back to London. After all, there's six million 
trousers in London, they can't all be playing cricket.