The “translator” is here. Lican isn’t. The translator’s name is Angelica. She speaks good English and I invited her up into my room. She’s tiny compared to Lican, but but she wiggles. She does a lot of looking at me sideways, turning her eyes but not her face. She must have practiced it in a mirror. It does look good, and it’s interesting that she wants to look hot.

What she’s wearing could be hot, or it could be “hot day in a small town and I don’t give a fuck how I look”: a little torn denim skirt and a Chilli Peppers tee-shirt.

Her thighs are too thick for her to be a girl in a magazine, but I can’t help thinking how they’d feel around me. And little fuck me sandals. None of that’s uniform, but no matter how sexy she may be, I’m sure she’s government.

She’s using my bathroom. She’s been far too long so she’s probably searching, and texting someone. News as it comes.

An officer and not a gentle woman

I’m in Porvenir, in the Strait of Magellan. It’s in Chilean Tierra del Fuego. 

It’s not much of a town. The Rollit docked here because it’s smaller than the township of Punta Arenas, whose lights I could see across the strait, late last night. I was standing on the wharf with Lican, a junior officer in the Chilean navy.

She speaks as much English as I speak Spanish. But she seems to like to fuck new-comers. Which isn’t so surprising, since there are only about 5,000 people here. She’s young, and she’s stuck here for another eight months. 

Since I had no other way to flirt I walked her to a shady part of the wharf, where she looked over the strait with a half-smile while I got her blue-grey uniform shirt out of her pants and my hand on her left tit, which was cold and needed warmth and attention. We took occasional breaks for kissing, which she did in a bitey way. 

I got us a room in the Hostel Colon, and I had her on the bed with that shirt off. And she bit me again. So I said, “Basta, basta”. It means, “stop that” in Italian. 

I still don’t know if it means anything in Spanish, because she just grinned like a wolf and bit me twice more, giggling. I smacked her thigh. She still had her shorts on. The first smack was just a wild swipe, to show that I didn’t like being bitten. For the second smack, I pushed her down and subdued her, with her ribcage panting and breasts energetically bobbing. She abandoned the struggle then, and watched while I smacked her the second time, on the inside of her left thigh, very slowly to show that it wasn’t an accident, or momentary annoyance.

And then she got her legs round me and we rolled about some more, half fighting and half dry-fucking, until she took my belt out and got my pants undone and I got her pants completely off and we settled to wet-fucking, in a more cooperative way. She’s a vanilla girl, and not really submissive. But she did like the smack, and the additional set of hard smacks I gave her arse when she was bobbing up and down on my cock, about two in the morning.

She might not be submissive, but she does like your traditional sex roles. A man should be firm, and in charge. We’d have had a political argument, if we could talk to each other. Instead I smacked her legs and arse and she accepted that I was a man. So that will have to do. 

In the morning, though, getting dressed, she said something about the Rollit, and “leones marines:” sea lions. So I should be paranoid. She’s seeing me again tonight; she said she’d bring a translator.”Traductor”: I know that one.

I don’t think I’m in enough trouble to make it worth making a run for it. I hope the translator’s a friend, not a soldier. 

Sea lion penises

I’ve spent some time with one of the maintenance staff from the Chinese research base. I won’t say anything about that person, though they’re interesting.

Anyway, it turns out that the Rollit is selling sea lion penises to some of the bosses on the base. This is evil. It seems that sea lion penis is a prized aphrodisiac among the stupid and powerful, in China and some other Asian countries.

What you want aphrodisiacs for in Antarctica isn’t clear to me, as I’d have thought that sexual frustration would be all the penile pick-me-up you need down here. I suppose that the senior staff want to wake up with erections even though there aren’t many people here you  can put an erection into. Power and the feeling of power is all.

I don’t think anyone within a few hundred kilometres knows this blog exists. Just the same, there are a few things I shouldn’t write just now.

Chinese Antarctica

We’re sailing near the Chinese “research” station in Antarctica. The crew is being very quiet. We’re sailing, no engines, and no lights. No power.

My feeling is that something dodgy is going on. Others in the crew claim not to know, though. I believe most of them. I don’t think it’s any sort of espionage. Crime is a safer bet. I’ve scheduled this post to appear in eight hour’s time so it doesn’t interfere with whatever’s going on.


I’m still in the frozen south. We’re sailing off the coast of Antarctica, though we’ve rowed in to a few places and walked about. I’d like to go to the hot water beach at Deception Island, but it may not be possible.

For technological reasons I can’t post pictures at the moment, and for personal reasons (I don’t fancy anyone on the crew) there seems to be nothing very sexual about the Antarctic environment.

This isn’t disenchantment. This is one of the wildest places on earth, and the most beautiful, in an unearthly way. The white cliffs, twisted out of frozen water, against greyer skies and grey-white water, are eldritch, weird. I love it here.

I should be telling you ghost stories, with banshees, sirens and other such dangerous mythical women. But those myths aren’t from here, and there are no people here to create their own myths. So those personages don’t belong.

Sexy women in Antarctica are waiting to date you!

I’m in Antarctica, on the yacht Rollit, which used to belong to the son of a corrupt South Pacific politician. (His father was his country’s Minister of Education.) Years ago I helped the son load it with sacks of Buddha sticks, under the watchful bribed eyes of Customs officials. Then it sailed to South Africa. Where it competed with Durban Poison, the local product. 

Now I’m on the same yacht, which is under new ownership and management, and has no particular unlawful purpose. Or none I’m aware of. 

Anyway, there’s more to be said about Antarctica, but when I finally managed to get a connection for my Internet dongle thing, I started getting messages telling me that hot women in Antarctica are dying to meet me. “Hi,” says Sarah, who sends a naked pic of herself though I never asked for one, and who lives a few miles from me (which means she’s in the mid-Southern Ocean), “wanna chat?”

I don’t think I do. I suspect that guys who’ve been here for longer than I have, though, would would not only want to chat to a female bot program, they’d be prepared to dig up a dead penguin and bum it.