Stonefish's Beachy Romance thread

[East Coaster]

Ainu? From Japan? This really piqued Stonefish’s imagination. It was as if she had washed up on the beach, carried by the endless circular currents of the North Pacific, through the Strait, and into the Sound, like the glass fishing floats that were his childhood pursuit. This was destiny. Seaglass Woman in the flesh……

 

[DimeBrite]

Stones was confused. Where had he seen this disheveled Japanese woman before? He knew her, had met her? No. She was an image An image jumbled in his mind as a series of flickering blurry shapes and figures. It was that tape. That old VHS tape he played in the garage of Boot's mildewed fishing cabin down on McNeil Island exactly one week ago. No! It couldn't be her! Ainu crept closer, first on two legs... then bent over backwards on all fours like some demonic crab. His bowls quaked as her eyes pierced his through her tangled mat of damp salty hair.

 

[Mingo]

...Ainu crept closer, first on two legs... then bent over backwards on all fours like some demonic crab. His bowls quaked as her eyes pierced his through her tangled mat of damp salty hair...

Stonefish felt an odd mix of fear, curiosity, nausea and titillation as Satoko-the-Ainu began the strangest crab dance he'd ever seen. She went at him, then away from him, then to the right, and the left, never shifting her gaze from the ever-growing bulge in his puffy Simms waders. Stonefish decided that titillation was winning out over nausea, but he couldn't ignore the one remaining gas bubble that was locked and loaded in his quaking bowels....he decided to let it fly and observe her antics in comfort.

"Fwapwapwapwap!"

She smiled and arched her pelvis....

"Poit!"

Satoko giggled and resumed her bizarre Dungeness dance. Stonefish studied her oddly smooth crustaceous gyrations. Suddenly the light went on and he remembered where he had seen that dance before. The year was 1976, at the Budokan in Tokyo. Japanese pro wrestler Antonio Inoki was squared off against Muhammad Ali in an exhibition match. Ali crept around the ring like a hungry cat while Inoki went down on all fours in a near-identical display of crab-dance Kabuki. Inoki kept this odd seafood fighting style going for several rounds while Ali smiled and mock-taunted him out of fake rage, knowing full well his bank account had already been stuffed full of the negotiated $5M in prize money.

"You aren't by chance related to Antonio Inoki are you?"
"How did you know?"
"The dance. I remembered it from his fight with Ali."
"Very perceptive. Good memory. It's working, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"

Satoko kicked the huge dirty orange Croc from her right foot and pointed at his crotch with her big toe.

"There. Right there. I'd say you rather like my dance, eh?"
"I'm confused. I don't DISlike it, but I don't know what you want from me."

Satoko jumped up, like a trained gymnast leaping to her feet after a floor exercise. She walked directly at Stonefish and grabbed his wader belt. He could see and smell her breath in the cold morning air; it was a fragrant blend of Spam musubi, Orange Crush and Milk Duds with a hint of Tic-tac residue. Stonefish didn't know whether to push her away or pull her closer. He had to decide quickly which choice to make, because it was clear now what she wanted from him.

 

[Wadin' Boot]

She walked directly at Stonefish and grabbed his wader belt. He could see and smell her breath in the cold morning air; it was a fragrant blend of Spam musubi, Orange Crush and Milk Duds with a hint of Tic-tac residue. Stonefish didn't know whether to push her away or pull her closer. He had to decide quickly which choice to make, because it was clear now what she wanted from him....

Mingo your powers of absurdity have grown exponentially on the Sandwich Isle. Plus this line

"There. Right there. I'd say you rather like my dance, eh?"

Seems lifted out an elegant Samurai movie translation, or at the very least something from the Wu Tang Collection, particularly visualizing this dubbed "I'd say you rather like my dance, eh?" with a gruff/sorta posh British male accent....

 

[Mingo]

Seems lifted out an elegant Samurai movie translation...

View attachment 1511

Exactly. It has more impact if you can envision the audio track deliciously mismatched against the mouth movements of the actors.

She is your creation. I only gave her a birthplace. And I have not yet elaborated on her Puget Sound coconuts...I leave that to you.

 

[Wadin' Boot]

Satoko jumped up, like a trained gymnast leaping to her feet after a floor exercise. She walked directly at Stonefish and grabbed his wader belt. He could see and smell her breath in the cold morning air; it was a fragrant blend of Spam musubi, Orange Crush and Milk Duds with a hint of Tic-tac residue. Stonefish didn't know whether to push her away or pull her closer. He had to decide quickly which choice to make, because it was clear now what she wanted from him.

A relentless buzzing sound was hammering Stone's skull. It seemed like it was coming from the basement well where Satoko was dragging him. But no, it sounded familiar, more like his alarm. His crust- filled eyes popped open and stared at the blinking and blurry LED.

4:30 AM.

He hammered the snooze button. Then, thinking better, he slid the Alarm function to off.

Goddamn alarm.

Another Monday morning. Another Monday morning set to alert for Fishing Time. But Stones had screwed it up, this alarm was set for yesterday. For Sunday AM. He was now awake a full two hours earlier than he needed to be. The prospect of work by 8 was nothing like that of a day on the water. He shook his head, wondered if this would make a funny story, and concluded, correctly, it would not. No one needs to hear about your dreams or how you woke. .

He lay back on the bed, staring up at the void. Still, What was that crazy dream? The VHS tape, the crab, the swimmer, the perfume. It was madness. Except for the smell. The room, his room, smelled of the perfume she wore. The swimmer's perfume. And today, of all days, February 14th. Valentine's day. It's 4:30 Am on the most romantic day of the year. Awake when he didn't want to be awake. Remembering a mad dream. Running loops of ideas through his head. In the dark. And still there was the wiff of it, a fragrance, the swimmer's funk.

But that wasn't all. there were noises.

At first slow rasps, almost whispers. But as he counted, they became deeper, resonant, vibratory and ultimately thunderous. And unmistakable as snores. Someone was next to him in this bed. He dared not turn his head, for he was now a little nervous. The snores were getting louder. The phonics of it did not suggest a small, petit airway with tiny cute little tonsils now and then poking their little fleshy heads out into the pharyngeal cavity, swayin' in the breeze to coquettishly say:

"Hey there Mr Hard Palate.....come here often?"

No, this was an altogether professional affair, bigger, no nonsense. Resonant like a bass note on grand a church organ. Or say a truffle-sized, truffle-colored, hemorroid ball-valving a generous fart to a tuned-up symphonically appropriate 7.5 richter scale percussive flatus. Rumbling. 18 wheeler on pothole-filled side streets rumbling. A freight train a comin' seriousness to it. You could feel whatever tissue chunk was causing this wobbling. You could picture it flopping back and forth off of a substantial fleshy tissue neck. All of it was occurring perhaps two or so feet from Stone's healing ear.

He lay there wondering how large the tonsilar appendages, the epiglottal folds must be. No doubt they were bobbing up and down to oropharynx with air intake, and then expelled back to nasopharynx with exhalation. At the very minimum this chunk of resonant sloppy tissue he thought was probably as large as grape. Or a big black mussel. But more likely the size of a golf ball. Maybe not with the white dimpled carapace of a golf ball, but like the weird fucked-up innards of a golf ball with elastic webbing and earthen tones and so on.

The obstructing lump would be mucousy, wet. Maybe like the innards of a golf ball fished out from some frogwater. Mildewed. Maybe like a peeled and sorta rotten ornamental quince. Or maybe it was more squishy like a lychee. A weird thumb-sized fleshy, moist, dark-hued lychee fruit rattling around close to the hard palate, but like, really wanting to party with that known lothario, Epiglottis. It would be covered in spidery veins and smears of mucous and tiny bubbles of spit. Maybe it looked just like a truffle-sized hemorrhoid, but in the throat, and not smelling bad, no not smelling bad at all. Maybe smelling like a truffle, but not like a hemorrhoid. Maybe it was just a huge nugget of ambergris that lived there. Fragrant, waxy, mobile, airway obstructing, and then not.

These thoughts kept looping in his head. All of them accompanied by a symphony of low frequency high decibel noise. Now and then the sounds ceased for 20, 40, 60 seconds before barking back to life. Like some kind of stalled plane exercise, you wait for it to NOT start back up and wonder if this was it. OScillations. By 4:45 the snoring was still going on. Cyclic. Then back to rasping and near imperceptible quiet. Minutes, hours, circadian, ultradian, multiday, seasons, years, eras, eons. cycles.

Wake early to fish, wake later to work.

He thought he should be annoyed by it. He thought he should want to prod this person just to make it quit. But he couldn't. He couldn't because he found it strangely comforting. Strangely vital. This was warm, familiar. And his thoughts came back to Valentine's day. Was it something he would call love? He shook his head, this couldn't be, I mean it's 4:50 AM and 20 minutes earlier a crazy Japanese Crab Walker was dragging him to a basement well, and now he's all oxytocin and prolactin and serotonin and thinking the elephant in the room beside him is described best as Love?

No, that was insane.

Or was it....

 

[Matt B]

That was an amazing journey I just went on reading that, Mr. @Wadin' Boot.
But still, somebody go check on ‘Boot, just cuz three Valentine‘s Day paragraphs on the truffle-rrhoid.

 

[Wadin' Boot]

That was an amazing journey I just went on reading that, Mr. @Wadin' Boot.
But still, somebody go check on ‘Boot, just cuz three Valentine‘s Day paragraphs on the truffle-rrhoid.

What, you don't like food porn?

 

[Go Fish]

Don’t get me involved in this insanity.......

 

[clarkman]

OMFG!

too damn good!

 

[Wadin' Boot]

 

[Brute]

Some of you have missed your true calling…

 

[Wadin' Boot]

 

[Paige]

God damn how did I miss this thread, fucking hilarious

 

[ABITNF]

She drifted across the weathered stones and broken shells like 98 pounds of warm fog. Her waders were tight in all the right places, and where they were loose I got the impression an old double hauler like me could easily guess what would bring the next rise.

Her eyes were dark. Darker than the Ebony inlay on the Struble reel seat of her custom built Meiser 8-weight 4-piece. And they were aware, bright and, as I could plainly see, greedy. She gazed over the waves. Waves that lapped against the margin of the land's end, like an ancient heartbeat of the earth. At first, she missed me sitting on the worn and weathered beach log. That's not unusual as I've made my life keeping invisible in plain sight. Her glance passed over me like a warm wind and I was locked onto her for obvious reasons.

I knew two things about her right off. One, was that I couldn't trust her any farther than I could cast a level 3 Euro line on a 10-weight Echo EPR. And two, she was my kind of woman. Then she noticed me and I sensed the air escape from her lungs like she's suddenly been startled. Her eyelids dropped and her breasts rose taught against the breathable fabric of her Orvis Clearwater wading jacket as she inhaled and slowly made her way towards me.

"Got any 12 pound fluoro?" she said. Her voice was hot, sticky—like a burning marshmallow. I tried not to look impressed. Like it wasn't a question I'd been asked before a hundred times in a hundred places that fished better than this.

She held out #4 chartreuse over white Clouser while from the end of her clear poly leader hung an inch or two remnant of a frayed piece of tippet. I tossed her a spool of Trout Hunter which she caught while not dropping the Clouser or failing to keep eye contact. I felt that if this display was her way of telling me that she was good with her hands, it worked.

She peeled off about four feet and while still looking at me tilted her head back curled her lipsticked upper lip and deftly bit down trimming it off in an instant with her icy white teeth.

"Come on," I said. "I'll show you where I got a nine pound hatchery yesterday." "OK", she said, "I'll even let you cast on them first because my wrist is sore from the seven I've landed this morning." My jaw dropped like a tungsten bead off a tying bench, while a triumphant but mischievous smile caused the flesh on her sensuous cheeks to rise like rosebuds about to burst in spring. As we walked together down the beach, never was I so happy about a broken tippet.

 

[Wadin' Boot]

Even the AI bot wanted to play along:

As Stonefish made his way down to his favorite stretch of beach on Puget Sound, he couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement. The weather was perfect for fly fishing, and he was looking forward to spending the day casting his line and trying to catch searun cutthroat trout.

But as he made his way onto the beach, he noticed something strange. There was a thick fog rolling in, and it was making it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. Stonefish wasn't too concerned at first - fog was common on the beach, and it usually didn't last long.

But as the fog continued to roll in, Stonefish began to feel a sense of unease. He couldn't see the water anymore, and it felt as if he was completely alone on the beach. It was as if the fog had somehow swallowed up the entire world, and Stonefish was the only one left.

Just as he was starting to feel truly isolated and alone, Stonefish heard a strange sound coming from the water. It was a soft splashing noise, as if someone was swimming just below the surface. Stonefish couldn't see anything in the fog, but he could feel the presence of another person.

Suddenly, the fog began to clear, and Stonefish caught a glimpse of the mysterious swimmer. She was a tall, imposing figure, with long blonde hair and a strong, athletic build. She was wearing a swimming cap, and she was swimming through the water with ease, despite the fog.

But as the woman got closer, Stonefish noticed something else. She was wearing a strong perfume, or at least that's what he thought at first. As she got closer, he realized that the smell wasn't floral at all - it was more like the smell of meat farts. The woman must have been eating something before she went swimming, and the smell was overpowering.

Despite the unpleasant smell, Stonefish found himself drawn to the woman. She was unlike anyone he had ever met, and there was something about her that was both intriguing and intimidating. She seemed to be in control of the fog, and Stonefish couldn't help but wonder what other secrets she might be hiding.

As the woman made her way back out to sea, she left behind one of her shoes on the beach. Stonefish picked it up and examined it, and he was surprised to find that it was much larger than his own size 13 feet. The woman must have had massive feet, like flippers, and Stonefish couldn't help but be fascinated by the thought of her swimming through the ocean with such ease.

Despite the woman's strange behavior and unpleasant smell, Stonefish found himself drawn to her in a way that he couldn't explain. It was as if she was some kind of exotic creature, like ambergris, and he couldn't resist the strange, semiological attraction she held for him. He felt like a cop who sees a donut - he couldn't stop himself from wanting to know more about her.

In the end, Stonefish continued to visit the beach, fishing for trout and searching for seaglass. And every once in a while, the mysterious swimmer would appear out of the fog, leaving behind a trail of meat farts and big shoes, like some kind of irresistible, cold-water siren.

 

[ThatGuyRyRy]

it was more like the smell of meat farts.

You mean to tell me that ChatGPT has learned about meat farts?!?

Know we really know how much Alexa and Google have been listening to all our conversations.

 

[Uptonogood]

View attachment 446
She was all arms with an embrace not easily overcome. This was some kind of amorous Grendel the old salts had warned of on foggy mornings long forgotten. No blade could defeat this licentious syren of the beach cobbles. Muscles strained tight as he struggled to break the suction from his watertight armor. Then her parrot like beak made a most unwelcome appearance.

Ah, man, that image is going to go to the grave with me! Curse you! Ugh!

 

[Wadin' Boot]

My new secret weapon for picking up stuff I don’t wish to touch in the never ending battle against parking lot littering scumbags.
$1.99 at Harbor Freight….
SF

"Stones used his blue grabber in his right hand to gently lift the swim cap off the perfumed swimmer. Meanwhile she used the pink grabbers, one for each hand, to help try and slip his wader suspenders off his broad and burly shoulders.....The odors were amazing.

"if only I had a second grabber" Stones thought, "this would be a whole lot more special, like two crabs scuttling about"

The clicking of the grabbers was speeding up along with their shared excitement, like beautiful percussive sorta crustacean love music, snapping and clicking, getting faster and faster, perhaps the only way to describe it is almost exactly like a dot matrix printer going nuts at a crowded DMV office, everyone in the entire office painfully aware that the only thing doing any work there was the Epson FX-870, perhaps the finest model every created by the early 90's engineering A-team at Epson (otherwise known as the team that knew laser printing sucks), that Epson Fx-870 gracefully yellowed with age but still spitting pages, clicking and zipping along, ejaculating out various technical details and important number and letter combinations that would be no doubt very useful to someone at some point, somewhere."

 

[DimeBrite]

Every piece of refuse tells a new amorous tale which must be told.