Sultry

Part One

It was a dripping summer afternoon like most others in the mid-tropics where I was stationed. Melting over my kitchen counter after a mammoth bike ride and posting obnoxiously online, I discerned a Pink Sofa private message notification appear in my email. Intrigued, I logged in immediately to retrieve a curious message. I checked out the sender’s profile and learned she was an athlete obtainable 2500km inconveniently north of my keyboard.

Picture a setting where mountains gracefully enter the ocean via vast carpeted beaches. My mind puzzled merrily about the brochures I had seen showing the mystical way vapours collected around mountains, resembling puffs of disorganised fumes waiting to be inhaled.

Special Note:

These days I question the historical chemical imbalance of my personality composition such that when I received an interesting Pink Sofa message from a sultry athlete type, my mind instantly commenced accessing geographical coordinates and conducting feasibility studies and probability ratios of a successful partnership opportunity. Cringe.

So this breathtaking place where woman-eating reptiles and poisonous floaty jelly creatures roamed the waterways also produced lesbians? It made sense.

I kept my response concise and fairly abrupt to illustrate my lack of interest. She was subconsciously looking for someone wild, free and hard to hold down. She needed a challenge, I needed a holiday.

To Be Continued..

Hot Stuff Day Two

By day 2 I could no longer resist from noticing a particular female human. The initial spotting of Hot Stuff was during my shift in the dish pit. The dish pit was an elevated trough where, during the course of the festival, thousands of lentil-caked apparatus were individually soaked, scrubbed, sanitised and swabbed. It was noteworthy that the dish pit was tactically positioned along the outdoor showers trail. Us poor dish pigs were regularly exposed to the never-ending meanderings of naked women as they made their way to and from the open-air bathing district. It was just implausible.

Working a double shift ensured I was given a daily dose of breasts, which was soothing in a remedial way.

On this particular second morning in the dish pit, I became quite lucid. Just as I was finishing off the final buff on a rather outsized soup ladle, a mortal of a most pleasing divinity happened to saunter down the path toward the breakfast pavilion. I tried to smother a Ren and Stimpy goggle-eyed tongue plunge, as I was concerned that my drooling might carve a new unnecessary watercourse. But it was useless. She was goddess-like. And I was ruined for eternity. The most suitable cliché would be that I was ‘struck by lightning’. And from that moment on every cell in my body was on a constant ‘high-alert’ in case she was nearby.

To Be Continued..

First Date Pt 3

I arrived at the local pub with more than a pocket full of pre-first-date nerves. (This was not because internet dating was entirely new, but perhaps because I had elevated expectations of my surfer girl. There were several previous affairs - one with an American police officer whom I had met on the internet and flew 15, 000 miles (according to Google) to meet  – but more about her and my infatuation with females in uniform some other time). My usual routine is to arrive at least 15 minutes early, this is to guage the mood, acquaint myself with exits and find something to read/do/or break. I refuse to arrive second, mostly because I am certain to slip on a banana peel or step on a dwarf during my grande entry.

I picked her immediately. She looked as rehearsed as my latest pickup line. My excitement slumped as the reality that she was SO not a surfer girl consumed me. She looked like an artist. Nothing against artsy types, I just don’t dig that, and I was too young and too shallow to give her an opportunity to be interesting. Engrossed was I, in disappointment.

She didn’t even have a shell necklace on...