Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

They had been out about an hour and had lost sight of all signs of civilization when Jimi cut the engine. The boat, aside from a slight drift, hung motionless in the middle of the vast lake.

“What is it? Why are we stopping?” she asked.

“This is the deepest point in the lake,” he said, catching and holding her eye as the boat rocked in its own wake.

“Here?” she said.

“Here,” he nodded.

They dug into the gear and pulled out the huge duffle bag, dragging it to the edge of the deck.

“He’s heavy,” Star said, as she helped pull the deadweight toward the water.

“He wasn’t really,” Jimi laughed as they dropped the bag. “I put weights in it so it would sink to the bottom. Okay, together on three.”

“One, two,” they chanted together. “Three.”

They rolled the bag into the lake and watched it sink, leaving only a few bubbles on the surface in memory.

“Okay, now for the best part.” He stood up, pulled his shirt over his head, and shucked his pants. “Freedom,” he said with a contented sigh.

“You mean…” Star’s eyes lit up.

“We won’t see anyone and no one will see us,” he said with a wink and a nod. “If someone’s coming, you’ll be able to tell.” He gestured at the wide expanse of water on all sides of them.

“Woo, hoo,” Star howled, leaping from her seat on the prow and twirling her shirt over her head as she danced a little dance of freedom.

And for the most part, that’s how they spent the next ten days. At one point three menacing black helicopters flew silently overhead like huge metal dragonflies as they lay naked on the deck of the boat below. Again, the fear that they had been seen swept over Star like a chill. But the helicopters took no heed of the tourists below, leaving Star and Jimi on their own. No one heard from them and they didn’t hear from anyone. No press, no photographers, no agents, no nothing. In fact, if they hadn’t brought the camera, there would have been no proof that they were ever there. They were on their own. It was a cherished vacation. By day, they swam and sunned and made love on every flat surface in the boat—and some of the slanted ones too. By night, they pulled the boat into private coves, cooked over fires Jimi built, and slept under the stars.

It was the happiest they would ever be.

Jimi, the gadget fiend, was once again possessed by Star’s little video camera and began obsessively documenting their every move. From Star—who’d smoked only one joint ever in her entire life—awkwardly learning to roll joints, to their opus sex cookbook featuring the BreakFuck sandwiches with extra wiener, Ten Inch T-Bones, and Don’t-Forget-Where-You-Came-From Mac and Cheese, Jimi got it all on tape. And of course, he captured a scene or two of their lovemaking, including one particularly adventurous session at the ship’s helm.

Jimi had been lazily guiding the boat south toward the dam. Star had blended up some fresh strawberry-daiquiri antidote for the afternoon heat. “I have a surprise for you,” she called as she climbed up the ladder from the lower deck.

“It’s the miracle cure,” Jimi said, letting go of the wheel with one hand and taking up the camera to capture her rising from the lower deck, like a blond Venus. He honked the horn with his dick in appreciation of her efforts. He was paying more attention to Star than to steering, the boat lurched, and Star’s naked body was covered with strawberry daiquiris.

Never one to be wasteful, Jimi began licking the sweet, sticky nectar off her, following the ruby rivulets of melting ice down her body. Lower and lower, he followed the strawberry trails until they converged in the valley created by her thighs. The daiquiris forgotten and the camera nearly slipping from his hands, Jimi drove his tongue into her hungrily. Star caught the camera and then nearly dropped it again as his tongue hit home and she was hit with her own ecstatic waves. The camera, still running, wound up wedged on a console in front of the throttle, capturing all as Jimi drove Star mad with his attentions.

She cast her head back and held on to Jimi’s head as much to support herself as to encourage him as she grew dizzy and light-headed from the heat of the afternoon and Jimi’s fevered attentions.

“Yes, oh, damn it, yeah,” Star screamed as she wound her fingers into his hair.

At last, able to stand it no longer, she grasped his shoulders, drawing him up to her and pleading with him for release. He was lost in his passion and drove himself mercilessly into her again and again with such force that Star had to hold on to the throttle to avoid being knocked off the console and falling to the deck below.

The throttle thus engaged, the boat’s wheel got kicked, steering the boat hard to port so that they began making left turns at full speed. The boat made crazy circles around and around as the wails of its occupants rose and crescendoed. It was like a very adult theme-park thrill ride, spinning around and around as the passion of the moment took them both. The only thing missing was costumed characters.

Spent, they lay in each other’s arms on the floor as their world continued to spin around them.

Eventually the camera and boat were switched off, and the two continued to feast on their daiquiris and each other as they lay in the warm spring sun.

“You know what?” he said coyly, flicking at one of her nipples idly with his thumb.

“Not yet,” she pleaded, too blissed out in the moment to want to stir herself for another round.

“No, not yet,” he agreed, taking a nibble. “I was just going to say that it was these that I first fell in love with.”

“What?” She half-laughed.

“Your nipples.” He tweaked one between a thumb and a forefinger. “When I saw a magazine photo of them poking holes through your sweater.”

She laughed at the idea. The photos were just work for her, so she never thought about them as sexy.

“A, E, I, O, U,” she said, laughing.

“What the fuck?” Jimi asked, amused but confused.

“It’s what they had me say when they were taking the gatefold shots of me for Mann magazine. Supposed to make your mouth look sexy.” She laughed harder. “They said, ‘Say the vowels,’ and I said, ‘A, E, I, O, U, and sometimes Y.’”

He was laughing with her.

“But that’s not the funniest,” she went on. “Mars has this thing about pussy hair. It’s his little kink—I guess he misses the seventies—and since he’s the publisher, what he likes is what he gets. And he likes girls with a little hair down there. Well, I don’t really have any.”

“Thank you.” Jimi chuckled.

“Just naturally, and I don’t encourage what’s there.” She shrugged. “So Mars saw the test shots and ordered a two-week halt so that I’d have time to grow some. But he could wait the rest of my life and he’d never get what he was looking for from me. Anyway, we waited, and when it came time to go back into the studio, what do you know, I still didn’t have any,” she said, laughing harder.

“As if having a roomful of strangers talking about the hair on my twat wasn’t humiliating enough, they decided they’d get me some. So, they brought in this little old man who specialized in making fake beards and mustaches, and I had to lie on a table like I was at the doctor’s office while this poor little man crawled between my legs and glued crepe hair onto me so I’d look like I had something I don’t and Mars would get whatever it was that he was looking for.”

Jimi couldn’t stop laughing.

“So I’m lying there, wrenching my spine, dislocating a shoulder, with a beard glued to my coochie, going, ‘A, E, I, O, U, and sometimes Y.’”

They lay in each others arms until their laughter became a quiet periodic rumble.