The taxi driver whistles as we pull up to the dock. “That’s one hell of a boat, kid.”

I stare through the window at the gleaming white vessel towering above the terminal. The Meridian Odyssey isn’t just a cruise ship—it’s a floating city, a palace on water, and for the next six months, my home.

“Thanks,” I mumble, handing over my fare plus a tip that’s probably too generous for my budget. But today feels like a day for generosity. For new beginnings.

I haul my two suitcases from the trunk—everything I own that matters packed inside them. Twenty-one years of life in Oakridge, Iowa, condensed to two bags and a backpack. Not that there was much to bring from a town where the annual corn festival is considered the cultural event of the season.

The terminal buzzes with activity. I follow the signs for crew check-in, my heart hammering against my ribs. The employment packet from Meridian Cruise Lines sits in my backpack, complete with my contract, orientation schedule, and the bright blue lanyard that marks me as entertainment staff.

“First cruise?” asks a voice behind me in line.

I turn to find a man about my height but with at least twenty more pounds of pure muscle. His dark hair is artfully tousled, and his smile reveals perfect white teeth. The crew uniform—a fitted white polo and tight navy shorts that leave nothing to the imagination—looks custom-made for his body.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

“You’ve got that deer-in-headlights look.” He extends his hand. “Miguel. Dance captain.”

His palm is warm and slightly calloused. “Ethan. New dancer.”

“Midwest?” he asks, eyeing me up and down.

“Iowa. That obvious too?”

Miguel laughs. “The politeness, the blush, and you’re still wearing clothes that look like they came from a mall in Middle America.”

I glance down at my jeans and button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing if you’re going to Sunday dinner with grandma.” His eyes twinkle. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix you up.”

The check-in process moves quickly. I receive my crew ID, a map of the ship, and a packet of information that I tuck into my backpack. Miguel disappears with a wink and a promise to “find me later.”

A crew member leads a group of us newcomers onto the ship. The moment I step aboard, the enormity of my decision hits me. I’ve never been farther from home than Chicago. Never lived anywhere but the same two-bedroom house where I grew up. Never had a boyfriend that lasted more than a few weeks—and even those were kept secret until I left for college.

The Odyssey is nothing like the community theater where I performed in college productions. The main atrium soars several decks high, all gleaming brass and polished marble. Glass elevators glide up and down central columns. Everywhere I look, crew members hurry about in their crisp uniforms.

“Entertainment staff quarters are on Deck 2,” our guide announces. “Follow me.”

As we descend into the belly of the ship, I notice something I hadn’t fully prepared for, despite knowing I was joining a gay men’s cruise. The men—both crew and the early-boarding passengers—are gorgeous. Every single one of them. Like they’ve been selected from a catalog of male perfection.

Two shirtless passengers stroll past, fingers intertwined, muscles gleaming with either oil or the world’s most perfect genetics. One catches me staring and winks. I nearly trip over my own suitcase. My eyes can’t help but trace the defined V-line disappearing into low-hanging swim shorts, the unmistakable bulge barely contained by the thin fabric. My mouth goes dry, and I feel a familiar stirring in my jeans that forces me to adjust my stance.

“Keep it together, Riley,” I mutter to myself.

In the crew area, the glamour dims slightly. Corridors narrow, ceilings lower. But it’s still nicer than my college dorm. Our guide stops at a door marked “Entertainment Staff.”

“You’ll find your cabin assignments posted inside. Orientation begins at 1600 hours in the Coral Lounge. Don’t be late.”

The crew lounge is a modest but comfortable space with couches, a TV, and a small kitchenette. A bulletin board displays our cabin assignments. I scan for my name.

“Riley, E. - Cabin 2074. Shared with Alvarez, D.”

A roommate. Of course. I’d known this was coming, but still, a flicker of anxiety runs through me. In college, I’d managed to get a single room my sophomore year onward. Privacy had been my shield.

I find my cabin easily enough. It’s small but efficiently designed—two twin beds, two narrow closets, a tiny bathroom with a shower stall. No sign of Alvarez yet.

I choose the bed that doesn’t have a bag on it and start unpacking. My few possessions look pathetic as I arrange them. Framed photo of my parents (who still think this is “just a regular cruise line”). My dance shoes. A small collection of books. The clothes that Miguel had already deemed hopeless.

A knock at the door interrupts my unpacking.

“Come in,” I call, expecting my mysterious roommate.

Instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and full beard enters. His crew uniform stretches across his chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

“You’re Riley?” he asks, his voice a deep rumble.

“Ethan,” I correct automatically, extending my hand.

“Jason. I’m leading orientation for the new entertainment staff.” His handshake is firm, his palm rough with calluses. “Just making sure everyone found their cabins.”

“All good here,” I manage, trying not to stare at the tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeve.

“Great. See you at orientation.” He pauses at the door. “First cruise?”

I nod, wondering if I have “novice” stamped on my forehead.

“You’ll have the time of your life.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “The things you’ll see on this ship will make Iowa seem like another planet.”

After he leaves, I sit on my bed, feeling slightly dazed. Back home, the gay community consisted of me, two guys I briefly dated in college, and a handful of others who congregated at the one “gay-friendly” coffee shop in town. Here, I’m surrounded by men who are openly, confidently themselves.

I finish unpacking and decide to explore before orientation. The crew areas are a maze, but I eventually find my way to a staff elevator. I ride it up to the passenger decks, trying to memorize the layout.

The ship is still boarding, but already the main pool deck thrums with energy. Music pumps from hidden speakers. Shirtless men lounge on deck chairs, sipping colourful cocktails. A group plays volleyball in the pool, their wet bodies glistening in the sun.

I lean against the railing, taking it all in. Two men kiss passionately near the hot tub, unabashed and unafraid. Another group laughs together at the bar, hands touching casually, intimately. This open display of affection, of desire, is foreign to me. In Oakridge, I’d learned to avert my eyes, to keep my longing hidden.

A server passes with a tray of drinks, and I notice his fitted uniform, the way it accentuates his narrow waist and broad shoulders. He catches me looking and smiles—not politely, but with interest, with heat.

My body responds instantly. Six months of this. Six months surrounded by beautiful men who won’t shy away from attraction. Who might actually want me back.

I check my watch and realize I need to get to orientation. As I make my way to the Coral Lounge, I pass more passengers boarding, more crew members hurrying about their duties. Every interaction seems charged, electric.

Orientation passes in a blur of information. Safety procedures. Chain of command. Performance schedules. I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting to the men I’ve seen, the possibilities that await.

After, there’s a crew mixer in the staff lounge. I nurse a soda, too nervous to add alcohol to my already jumbled emotions. Miguel finds me, introduces me around. The dance team is diverse, talented, and universally attractive. I smile, laugh at their jokes, try to remember names.

“Don’t look so terrified,” Miguel says as the party winds down. “We don’t bite.” He pauses. “Unless you ask nicely.”

By the time I make it back to my cabin, I’m exhausted but wired. My roommate still hasn’t appeared, and I’m grateful for the privacy. I strip down to my boxers and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

Images from the day flood my mind. The server’s knowing smile. Jason’s strong hands. Miguel’s playful wink. The passengers kissing by the hot tub. My body responds, hardening against the thin cotton of my underwear.

In Oakridge, desire was something to be managed, controlled, hidden away. Even in my own apartment at college, I’d been quiet, furtive, always worried about thin walls and judgmental neighbors.

But here, on this floating world away from everything I’ve known, desire feels different. Urgent. Undeniable.

I slip my hand beneath my waistband, wrapping fingers around myself. I’m already fully hard, sensitive, my cock throbbing against my palm. I close my eyes and let the day’s images wash over me.

The volleyball players, water sluicing down defined abs, shorts clinging to their obvious endowments. Jason’s tattooed arms, how they might feel pinning me down. Miguel’s perfect smile, those lips wrapped around my shaft. Unknown men who looked at me not with the veiled disgust I sometimes caught in Oakridge, but with appreciation, with hunger.

My hand moves faster, twisting slightly at the head the way I like it. The precum leaking from my cut tip already making my shaft slick, the wet sounds filling the quiet cabin. I imagine what it would be like to have one of those men—any of them—on their knees before me, looking up with desire as they take me into the wet heat of their mouth. Or better yet, me on my knees for them, finally tasting what I’ve only fantasized about in my small-town bedroom.

My breath comes in short gasps now. The tension that’s been building since I first stepped aboard coils tighter, hotter. I’m close, so close.

A knock at the door freezes me mid-stroke.

“Hello? Anyone in there?” A voice—presumably my roommate—calls through the door.

“Just—just a minute,” I call back, my voice strangled.

I frantically pull my hand from my boxers, wiping it on the sheet. I grab the first clothes I can find—a t-shirt and sweatpants—and pull them on, willing my erection to subside.

It doesn’t. If anything, the interruption and rush of adrenaline makes me more aware of how turned on I am. I grab a towel from my unpacked things and hold it casually in front of me as I open the door.

“Sorry about that,” I say to the man standing in the hallway. “I was changing.”

My new roommate is gorgeous, because of course he is. Everyone on this ship is gorgeous. Dark eyes, olive skin, a five o’clock shadow that looks deliberate rather than neglectful.

“No problem. I’m Diego Alvarez.” He wheels his suitcase into the room. “You must be Ethan.”

“That’s me.” I shift the towel, praying he doesn’t notice my predicament.

Diego begins unpacking, chatting easily about his previous contracts with the cruise line. I nod, make appropriate sounds of interest, all while desperately trying to think unsexy thoughts.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” I finally say when it becomes clear my body isn’t going to cooperate. “Long day.”

“Go for it,” Diego says. “I’m meeting some friends for drinks after I unpack.”

The bathroom is tiny, but the lock on the door feels like the greatest luxury in the world right now. I turn on the shower, strip, and step under the spray.

The water sluices over my body, and I waste no time wrapping my hand around myself again. This time, I don’t try to hold back. With the shower masking any sounds, I stroke fast and hard, chasing release.

It doesn’t take long. The day’s pent-up tension, the parade of beautiful men, the heady freedom of being somewhere no one knows my history—it all crashes over me. I come with a muffled groan, bracing myself against the shower wall as pleasure pulses through me. My cock jerks violently in my grip, thick ropes of pearly cum splashing against the shower walls in powerful jets. Each pulse sends shockwaves through my body, my legs trembling, toes curling against the wet floor. I milk every last drop, watching my release swirl down the drain, a physical manifestation of the constraints I’m leaving behind.

As I wash away the evidence, I feel a strange mix of relief and anticipation. This is just day one. Just the beginning of whatever awaits me on the Meridian Odyssey.

For the first time in my life, I’m exactly where I want to be.

I emerge from the shower feeling both relieved and refreshed. Diego’s already gone when I step back into our cabin, leaving behind a lingering scent of expensive cologne. After dressing in slim-fitting black jeans and a blue button-down that brings out my eyes, I check myself in the mirror. Not bad. The clothes fit well, highlighting my dancer’s physique—lean but defined from years of training.

My phone buzzes with a text from Miguel: “Crew dinner at Sunset Deck, 8PM. Don’t be late, new boy.”

The Sunset Deck is on level 9, according to the map on my phone. I navigate the labyrinth of corridors, getting lost twice before finding the right elevator bank. When the doors open onto the deck, I’m momentarily stunned by the view—the ocean stretches endlessly, painted in orange and pink as the sun melts into the horizon.