I met a bartender on a Holland America cruise to Canada several years ago. I was supposed to be going with my then bf, but his mother took sick, and I insisted that he go tend to his mother and Iâd make the trip so as not to waste the ticket, as the cruise line wouldnât refund us. One night at sea, I meandered over the shipâs martini bar. I was already a little tipsy from the vodka that I smuggled on board in a colostomy bag, but felt like some company. The ship was filled with old people who had long since retired to their cabins. I struck up a conversation with the bartender, who was from Poland. His name was Mladen, and I too thought he was very handsome. He was divorced, and sad that he was not able to see his children as often as he liked. He seemed rather angry, but I put it off to his long hours. I turned on the charm and said some funny things to make him laugh, and he finally did, exposing several missing and rotten teeth. I let it go, as he was being very kind serving me full strength drinks, and not the watered down stuff. By midnight, I was really drunk and struggled to get off the barstool to stagger back to my cabin. I remember the bar being empty; the only thing I could hear was the sound of the ships engines. Mladen offered to take me back to my cabin. I gratefully took his arm as he helped me from my barstool and we walked back to my cabin.
I thanked him for walking me back as I placed my key card in the door if my cabin. âWait, I will help you inâ¦â he said. Looking back, I guess there was a certain tension in his voice, but I ignored it. âWell, Mladen, arenât you sweet to tuck me Iâ¦â¦â¦â. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain on the side of my face; he had hit me! I fell to the ground, my toupee gone askew over my eyes, and before I could do anything, he had pounced upon me, pinning my arms back, forcing his tongue down my throat. âEETS you and ME, baby, NOW!â he grunted, his hot, foul breath making my eyes water. âL-l-let go of me, you b-b-bastard!â I yelled, trying to push him off of me. My dream cruise was turning into a nightmare! I felt his forearm up against my throat as I lost my breath. My partial plate fell out of my mouth, and he began to laugh. His other hand began to tear at my Old Navy sweat suit, exposing my body to his lusty assault. I wanted to scream, but was too frightened at the prospect of someone seeing me in such a compromising position. Besides, I was drunk â who would have believed me? Just as I was about to pass out, without warning, he turned me over. He was so strong, I couldnât believe it. I work out and am in shape, but I was drunk and too weak to fight his violent onslaught of my person. I turned around to watch him remove his shirt, and tried to use it as an opportunity to escape, but he slapped me, and then he stuffed the shirt in my mouth; I can still taste the acrid sweat and deodorant. âDO as I SAY OR I KEEEEL YOU!â he growled. I felt my sweat pants pulled down around my ankles, and cringed as he ripped my truss from around my waist, and listened to the sickening sound of him spitting in his hand. Suddenly, w-w-w-without warning, I felt his violent penetration of my anus â h-h-h-he RAPED ME!!! It went on and on, for at least ten minutes. As he climaxed, I tried to think of England, although I'm an American. He lay on top of me for a few minutes. Then he got up. I turned to look at him, my bartender and now, my rapist. He had a smug, satisfied look on his face, even in the dim light I could see it. He yanked my toupee off and used to to wipe the santorum off of his cock. He laughed, put his shirt on, then was gone.
I'll never sail with Holland-America again. He never calls, he never writes...
