A FISH-EYED VIEW OF HUMANS AND SEX

A few months after their wedding, two good friends of mine went fishing. They anchored in a shady spot for lunch and, being young and in love, one thing led to another. I've no idea about the fishing that day, but nine months later there was indisputable proof something was caught. The location for this amorous activity was Fool's Bayou. And no, I'm not making that up.

After hearing that story, I wondered how the bayou's various native life forms might have reacted to what was going on in the fishing rig. Here's one, not so likely, possibility.

Bayou Bill

==

A FISH-EYED VIEW OF HUMANS & SEX
by Bill Fullerton

Bronson the Big Mouth Bass stuck his head above the bayou surface and looked around. What the hell was going on? It was mid-day and too damn hot for any respectable fish to be feeding. Even the dumbest human must realize that. So why had those two in that fancy fishing rig slipped past the screen of willow branches and tied up against the trunk?

The event was so surprising, even Freddie the Frog and Pasquale the Possum had stopped bitching about how humans were the only animals not required to have alliterative names. From their usual spot on the limb of a nearby cypress, they silently studied this phenomenon.

No one ever said humans were smart. But Bronson hadn’t gotten where he was by taking them for granted. Maybe the humans were going to fish for crappie. But that didn’t seem likely. Even the dumb, if passionate, Paula the Perch, wouldn’t be nibbling in this heat, at least not on food.

Bronson was certain there could be no greater calling in life than to be a bass, especially a big bull bass. However, except for an occasional brief, and exhausting, leap out of water, being a bass meant your air-world viewing angles were limited. So he decided to slip over to the cypress and let Freddie and Pasquale fill in any action he might miss.

From his new vantage point among the cypress roots, he looked up at his two friends and asked for a report. “They’re like, you know, feeding,” said Pasquale. He’d spent time on a hippie commune and found the subject of human food very interesting.

“And drinking something in cans,” added Freddie. “It looks like beer. The big guy’s on his third. The little one with the floppy hat is still on number two.”

Even from his low angle, Bronson had seen all that and was not impressed. In his opinion, watching mold grow would have been more exciting. “Is that all? You two long-winded, worthless excuses for friends are supposed to--.”

His diatribe was interrupted by new activity on the boat. The smaller of the two humans had just removed the big floppy hat. With a shake of the head, a whole bunch of long dark hair came tumbling down. The longhaired human then turned and gave the big one a smile that, to Bronson, seemed to make the water even hotter.

There was no doubt, the one with longhair was most definitely a female-type human. And what a female. Even Bronson, who looked upon all air-breathers with a certain disdain, was impressed.

The female’s smile got even bigger when the big male moved up and sat beside her in the middle of the boat. No one at the cypress could believe what happened next. The humans began making like sucker fish, going mouth-to-mouth while the male messed with her top.

When their mouths finally parted, the female gave the male a look that made Bronson’s tail curl, and removed the top. The male seemed to like what came into view, especially two odd-looking bumps. At first he had his hands all over them. Then he leaned down and did something like the mouth-to-mouth thing, but on first one of them and then the other. Judging by the look on her face, the female seemed to enjoy all this.

“Psst. Hey, Bronson.” It was Pasquale.

“Yeah, what is it?” Not wanting to miss any of this odd behavior by humans, he hated to look away.

“You won’t believe what else that dude’s up to.”

“Wadda you mean?” This time Bronson’s curiosity got the better of him and he looked up. Pasquale was hanging by his tail. That wasn’t so unusual considering his specie. But on his face was a grin unlike any ever seen on a possum. His forepaws were busy doing something Bronson felt certain he didn’t want to know about.

“Pasquale, what in the name of Moby Dick are you talking about?”

The possum continued watching for a moment, then he glanced down. “Man, that dude is like some kid unwrapping a birthday present. Check it out.”

Bronson looked back. The female was standing while the male shucked off her pants. The boat rocked a bit. But she put her hands on his shoulders and they did more of that mouth-to-mouth action until things settled down.

There wasn’t a whole lot of the female, but what there was seemed to please the male. And Bronson had to admit, she did have a certain slender, symmetrical appeal.

It came as another surprise when she lowered herself in front of the male. After some more mouth-to-mouth, her head vanished from Bronson’s view. “What’s going on, you two? I can’t see a damn thing but that shit-eating grin on his face.”

“Well,” Freddie paused to clear his throat, a nervous habit endemic to his species, then started again. “Well, not much, really, she’s just doing something with her hands. No, wait. Now she’s holding this thing. I swear, it looks like an albino snake.”

Bronson sensed he was being given the business. “Bullshit.”

“No shit,” insisted Freddie. “She’s doing something to it with her hands and it’s gotten bigger. What the…? Okay, I’m not making this up, I promise. But she bent over just now, and that snake-looking thing, it seemed to slid right into her head.”

He looked down at Bronson. “You think this is like some Praying Mantis deal? You know, the female eating the male? Damn, I hope not. That’s one bug that creeps me out.”

“How the hell should I know? One less fisherman is fine by me—cuts pollution and the number of hooks. But what’s happening now?”

“Well, it doesn’t look like she’s having him for lunch, after all. I mean, she’s bobbing, her head up-and-down. And when she’s up, you can still see whatever it is, only now it looks all wet and shiny.”

None of this made any sense to Bronson, who prided himself on his knowledge of human behavior. In the bayou, it could make the difference between living another day and becoming a fillet. “Pasquale, is Freddie making this shit up?”

There was no answer. Bronson steeled himself and looked upward once more. Freddie was sprawled across the limb with his eyes bulging and his tongue hanging out. It would have been a pitiful sight under any circumstance, but it was especially so when the tongue in question belonged to a frog.

Bronson felt a bit embarrassed and looked over at Pasquale. The possum’s paws were moving even faster and his grin was, if possible, even bigger. “Pasquale, you pervert! What’s going on in the boat? I can’t see a thing except the male, and I’m tired of looking at his stupid grin.”

“Easy there, Brother Bass. It’s just like old Freddie told you. Mellow out and go with stroke, so to speak. Oh, yes.”

“Hey, you guys,” Freddie croaked. “Look, now.”

There was no question where they should look. Bronson turned toward the boat. The female was standing with her hands on the male’s shoulders. With slow, careful movements, she straddled him and then eased down over the snake, which by now was more pink than white. It soon vanished from sight and they were sitting face-to-face.

At first, all the humans did was more of the mouth-to-mouth stuff. When the boat became still, the female began making small, up-and-down movements. The boat again started rocking, but soon the female’s motions and those of the boat were in a sort of harmony.

“I don’t know what they’re doing,” said Freddie, “but I do like the show.”

Pasquale groaned his agreement.

Bronson had to admit the two in the boat looked like the happiest humans he’d ever seen out fishing. The female was leaning back and seemed to be looking for something up in the limbs of the willow tree. Her long hair swayed in rhythm with the other movements. Meanwhile, the male was doing a mouth-to-mouth type thing on one of her bumps.

“Hey there, you big bass. What’s happening?” The unexpected greeting startled Bronson. It was Paula the Perch, and she was looking great.

“Uh, hi, Paula, just trying to figure out what those humans on the boat are doing. Thought it might be important. I mean, you can’t learn too much about them.” Why did he feel like a fingerling watching all the action during spawning season?

A loud groan and a louder screech came from the boat. The male and female were holding each other close and shaking. But they didn’t seem to be in pain. In fact, they looked very happy.

Paula brushed up against him. “Oh, I know all about that. I was spawned in a lake near a college campus, remember? It’s the way humans, you know, do it.”

“Do, it?”

“Sure,” she languidly stroked his side with a pliant fin, “you know…it.”

“Oh, IT. Of course. So, what do you say about a little demonstration?”

“Since we’re not air-breathers, that’d be a real challenge, silly. But come with me and I’ll try to give you the idea.”

As they began to swim away, Freddie managed to ask, “Where you two going?”

“Off to do a little research on how humans do it,” said Bronson, before slipping beneath the surface and following Paula toward an especially cool, secluded nook.

“Fin-tastic,” said Pasquale. His paws now hung limply at his side. The grin on his face bore a surprising resemblance to that of the male on the boat. “That’s fin-tastic.”

THE SEDUCERS

This is adapted from the opening section of a chapter in my novel, We Danced to Ray Charles, a 92,000 word, coming-of-age, mainstream love story. The central plot is a love triangle, set against a background of growing racial tension and social change in a small southern town in the summer of 1968.

Anyone wishing to read the novel on-line should e-mail me for the secret codewords to gain admittance into the mystic, password protected blog wherein it resides.

All comments and suggestions are welcome.

Bayou Bill

==

The Seducers
by Bill Fullerton

Velma Meeks sat enthroned at one end of the worn couch in her messy, haphazardly furnished living room. She lit a fresh cigarette with her old one, made a token attempt at crushing the butt, then left the still smoldering stub in the overflowing ashtray. Taking a deep drag, she leaned back and let the smoke come out in a long, thin stream. With her smoking chores completed, she propped her bare feet on a Sears catalog spread open on the crowded coffee table and prepared to wait for Bebe's return.

Waiting in patient silence was not her style, however. She turned her head toward the empty doorway to the kitchen. "You know it's hard for me to believe you're this screwed-up. You've always been so self-confident. Now, it's like you don't know whether to shit or go blind."

Bebe came back from the tiny kitchen carrying a Tab and a package of peanut butter crackers. "It's not that bad, really. I've just got this feeling, call it a hunch, that something's not right and I don't know why or what to do about it."

She reclaimed her spot at the other end of the sofa and found a place on the coffee table for the bottle. "The thing is, Mark and I went out a couple of times last weekend. One was a real date. On the other we just went swimming. Both times he seemed, well, sort of distracted. Like, it was nice to be with me, but it was no big deal, either."

"You think maybe he's just jealous and pouting because you went out with Darrell Ray?"

Bebe shrugged and reached for her own cigarettes. "Could be. That's what I'd hoped for. But now I'm not sure. He's never even asked about what I did while he was gone. At first, I figured it was because somebody told him about my dating Darrell Ray and, like you say, he was pouting. But now, I'm beginning to think he just doesn't care."

"I doubt it," said Velma, leaning forward to see if the new coat of bright red polish on her toenails was dry. "Maybe he's just trying to act cool. But judging from what you've told me, I doubt that, too."

Bebe squirmed in her seat. "Oh, did you hear about the crap he pulled this morning?”

Velma shook her head. “Not a word. What happened?”

“Seems he and Amy Marshall showed up at the courthouse with Willie, that nigger friend of theirs, and some nigger gal no one recognized. They talked about being old friends and wanting to register to vote together. Well, the nigger girl didn't, but the rest of 'em did."

"What happened? Was there any trouble?"

"Not a bit." Bebe sounded disgusted. "Sissy Bullock phoned right after they left and told me all about it. According to her, Mac Stringer, she called him an old fart, vanished and nobody could find the Sheriff. Seems like everybody knew what was going to happen, everybody except Sissy and me. What's more, that creepy D.C. Wright was there taking pictures. I guess for next week's paper."

"Mark didn't say anything to you about this?"

"Well, yeah, he kinda did. But he didn't make a big deal out of it. And to tell you the truth, I wasn't paying much attention. Like I said, he was acting so weird. I thought he was talking about politics or just his registering to vote."

There was a brief lull as both women smoked and pondered the situation. Velma sat up and started rummaging around on the coffee table. "You haven't seen my nail file have you?" She paused and looked over at Bebe. "You know, I just had a thought. Was he that way, you know, distracted like, when he picked you up? What I'm asking is, did something happen during the date that might have caused this?"

"Well, he seemed all right at first, I think." Bebe picked the file off the floor and handed it to Velma. "But I was carrying on, doing a lot of the talking. You know, trying to act like I was interested in what he’d done down in Baton Rouge. So I'm not sure. The one thing that was different from any of our other dates was those two damn niggers almost running us off the road."

Velma's eyes widened. "When did that happen?"

"On the way to the Catfish House. It was on that stretch of road with all those hills and curves. We were coming around a really long curve when this over-loaded pulpwood truck with two big niggers in it started coming right at us. I mean they were way over on our side of the road.”

“Damn. What’d y’all do?”

“Mark managed to dodge 'em, somehow. But it was close. I tell you, it just about scared me to death. I flat-out freaked and started yellin' that he should chase those niggers down and teach 'em a lesson. Then I noticed him giving me a kind of funny look and something told me I better shut up. He shook his head and said he'd rather spend his time wrestling with me than those pulpwood haulers."

Velma hooted. "You got to give him credit for coming up with a good line. I just wish you'd noticed how he was acting before then. But I doubt if it matters. I can't see something like that changing how he feels about you. Do you think something might have happened while he was in Baton Rouge, you know, with Amy?"

"I've been wondering the same thing. But I don't think so. Still, with her anything, and I do mean anything, is possible."

"I suppose there could be more going on between them than we first figured. They might of gotten carried away, you know, at one of those parties he told you about. If that happened, maybe he's feeling guilty and all."

Before Bebe could respond, Velma continued, "And while we're on the subject of getting carried away, I take it you two still haven't done the dirty deed?"

"Not yet. The timing just hasn't felt right.” Bebe winked at Velma. "Why do you think I went out with Darrell Ray?"

They both giggled, then Velma said, "Well, honey, maybe he's just getting tired of waiting for some action. Look, even if that's not the main problem, I promise you, a little back-seat boogie session will get you his undivided attention."

Bebe hoped she didn't come off sounding like a kid to her older friend. "You're right, of course. But what if the problem’s something else? Isn't there a chance doing that too soon could make things even worse?"

After lighting another Parliament, Velma said, "Not if you play it right. How you handle a guy after you do it the first time is super important. Nothing personal, but whatever you do, don't try pulling your roommate's old rejuvenating virgin stunt or, even worse, pretend it's your first time. It's 1968, for God's sake. You know better, I know better, odds are even Mark knows better. After all, he's bound to have learned something in college."

Bebe had to grin. "At least a little something."

"The trick is," Velma continued, "to act just a little confused and vulnerable, like it was so incredible you feel all shook up. Instead of saying you've never done it before, you say you've never 'felt' like this before. It's a sneaky little way of suggesting that, even if there might have been one or two others, he's the best."

Down at the other end of the couch, Bebe pretended she was taking notes. "Act confused and say, 'felt.' Is that right, Professor Meeks?"

"You got it. That way he'll get all full of himself and want to be your knight in shining armor and go around saving your honor—for himself, of course. Once he's your big, brave protector, you start hinting around about how it might be nice to have some sort of casual, just for the summer type, understanding. Maybe say something about how that way you'd have a good excuse to say no when guys like Darrell Ray ask you out."

"Velma, you won't do. Does any guy ever have a chance around you?"

"Not if I have my way, honey. They never have and never will. Just ask poor Buddy."

"So you think it's time I got it on with Mark?"

"A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do," said Velma. "And just between you and me and the walls, I've heard some girls say it’s kinda fun."

Bebe grinned, then checked her watch and stood. "I've gotta scoot. But do you remember that joke, the one you said you told Buddy, about how you were giving up sex because it was too messy, too much work, and the position was ridiculous?"

"Oh, yeah. I had Buddy going for a minute. You should've seen his face."

"Well, to tell you the truth, that's pretty much how I really do feel. I love everything leading up to it. You know, the flirting and the dates and even making out. And there are times when I do get a little turned on and really want the guy. That’s when doing it can be fun, at least for me. But most of the time, it seems a lot more about his wants and needs than my feelings. Still, I suppose if it has to be done, it has to be done."

"That's the spirit, girl.”

"Because I promise you," continued Bebe, in a voice that left no doubt about her sincerity, "there's no way in hell I'm going to let anyone, most of all Amy Marshall, keep me from winning this time."