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I started to back away but the man spoke first “ah, sorry to barge in on you but it got late and my son was throwing a fit cause he wanted to see you and its our last night here and he said he knew you; Say’s you’re quite the fisherman. I apologize but you know what it’s like trying to console a distraught child.” I was dumbstruck and speechless. The man noticed, continuing slowly “So… does he know you or is he just playing me for the fool and having me bother you for no reason,” adding an uncomfortable chuckle. I gave in and plopped down in my chair and offered him a seat at the picnic table. I grabbed a beer, tossed him one (which he caught even with his son in his arms,) and waited for him to kick my ass. His boy started to rouse, only half awake in his pajamas, but began explaining (for me more than his father) that I met him while he was swimming near to where I was fishing. I was more than willing to play along; his story was better than me being pummeled by his father. . You say you didn’t boff him. Or are you using the Clinton definition? Don’t make me run that red dress under a black-light?” “There are no details,” I laughed in spite of myself. “And no, there are no cum-stains on my dress, thank you so much for the imagery,” and then in a pretty bad Texan drawl: “Ah did naht have sex with they-at may-an!” “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she looked at me sideways. “You had a five-hour pash-fest with Kev.” “Four and a half,” I said. “We walked around the block to warm up for the pash-fest.” “Four and a half hours of pashing?” she studied the red gaps beneath the cold cream with a pained expression. “Uh huh.” “Clothes stayed on?” “Yep.” “Undies too?” “They’re clothes, aren’t they?” I smirked. “The Clinton impression cost you some credibility,” she quipped. “And no coming whatsoever?” “With Kevin?” I asked, knowing she would get the implication. “Bullshit!” she blurted, eyes boggling. “You sent him away with blue-balls and then went and finished yourself.
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