A few hallway doors were decorated with hearts and ribbons, but most were covered with post-it graffiti, scatological cartoons and nude photos of gorgeous guys with huge, stiff members. Safely cruising, men who maybe had to hold back in their real life as doctors, lawyers, teachers, traders were intent on literally letting it all hang out for 17 days. Lois and I managed to walk every hall and enjoy every door, and the good times within, when invited. (What happens in cabins stays in cabins.)

We soon embraced our mis-identity, and I started to nod back at the approval at our supposed same-sex coupledom. But at dinner tables, or if I talked for awhile to a guy, I found a way to slip in the truth. Most seemed surprised and pleased. We could now relate in the perfect dynamic: gay men with straight women who liked dishing and Martha Stewart. And who hated George Bush. Everyone on that ship hated Bush.

The few lesbians on board seemed to think we were spies, and I felt more comfortable with the men. My closest new friend was a Brad-Pitt lookalike, a son of a baseball player who was supportive of his lifestyle. Brad considered himself a writer, so we hung out, much to the envy of the other singles, who kept trying to get between us. When I wasn't checking out the cabin doors with Lois, Brad and I were a duo, and I fantasized many of those nights onboard that I was younger and he was straight.

The ship’s officers and some of the crew seemed aloof and awkward whenever they saw Lois and me, and often looked down rather than stare at supposed lesbians. But most of the crew seemed happy—and many, I figure, came out themselves on this cruise. Once as I was served a chicken breast with mushrooms from the cafeteria hot table, the Filipino server whispered, “Love your chunky necklace dear.”

When the ship docked and we swarmed into the sunny ports, I noticed the straight cruisers from other ships staring at us and pointing at our openly affectionate fellas. I identified mightily with our shipmates. Gay Stockholm syndrome? And some of the stares came from some pretty weird looking folks.

One day at sea I attended a commitment ceremony at the top of the ship, surrounded by a glassed-in panorama of water and sky. About twenty couples of all ages held hands and vowed their love. I cried and toasted with champagne and everyone else did too. One couple had been together over fifty years.

Onboard entertainment was raunchy and hilarious. A D-list comedian named “Ant” bitched and moaned and ranted. But the hit of the cruise was a large singer/comedienne from Chicago named Amy Armstrong, accompanied by Freddy at the piano. She reminded me of Bette Midler in her early gay bathhouse days in the East Village. Amy’s most requested songs were “Scrotom” and “Pussy, Just a Friendly Little Cat.”

Her schtick between numbers was fueled by constant drinks bought by ardent fans. As the night wore on, lessie jokes about Home Depot, dildos and mullets were often directed to me and Lois, with thousands of eyes upon us. We smiled and took the hits and started to like the misguided attention.

Theme parties on deck ended early in the mornings. Leather night was filled with the raw smell of hide and men and the sound of cracking whips, with every appendage -- and then some -- strapped and bound. At gods and goddesses night, my diffident English tablemates became barefooted deities, wearing only thongs and fig leaves, with wreathes atop. I complimented them on their butts and they, true gentlemen, were genuinely flattered and politely returned the compliment, though mine was covered.

The true Victor/Victoria moment of the cruise was the masked ball. Some guys had purchased masks in Venice, some brought hand-made ones from home. Lois – tall, short-haired and wearing a black pantsuit, was a straight woman perceived as a lesbian disguised as a masked man.

I danced with her, in the spotlight by the pool, masked myself in a pink feathery thing, embracing the inadvertent confusion, and for the moment not sure of who she or I, or anyone else was. And I didn’t care at all. I felt free and me. It was one of those perfect moments, when sea and sky merge and the earth tilts just a bit, if you move it slightly. A little to the left. Ah yes, better.

My gender-bender cruise was the happiest vacation I ever experienced. Not for the sublime ports, but for the fun of deception and the bunch of new dirty jokes and new friends. Plus, I now get a free subscription to Out Magazine. It comes every month, and now the mailman happily thumbs through the beefcake before he places it in my mailbox.

I've decided that nothing could be better than being a straight woman at sea among thousands of gay men. Age is irrelevant if you have some wit and you can flaunt it. And  looks don’t count as long as you don’t wear polyester.