Bass Fisherman. Thomas was never quite able to come to grips with why a Bass Fisherman would be any different than any other kind, but he was repeatedly told that it most certainly was. There were even tournaments all over Wisconsin, Minnesota and the Dakotas, other place probably, she explained to him, but those were the ones her husband went to. Hitch up his boat, give her a peck on the cheek and he would be gone for three days or more. Sometimes a week..
Thomas would try to imagine what a Bass Tournament would be like and he could only conjure images of middle aged men playing softball but using a fish instead of a ball. A paunchy, balding guy wearing a tractor-brand baseball cap arcing a fish toward and equally paunchy guy at home plate waiting to slug it with an aluminum bat. A whole outfield of men with jeans drooping around their ass cracks running around the outfield with small landing nets waiting to catch the pelted fish. The stands full of Bass Fishermen holding plastic cups of cheap beer cheering and spilling and slobbering.
One morning while he was away fishing and they were lying in bed together she told Thomas that her husband seldom went down on her.
"You wouldn't think a little head would be so difficult, you know," she complained. " He's like a puppy at a bowl of Gravy Train or something. Lick, slobber, lap, chew, slobber. Really! It's easier to just fake a good one and roll over."
It was meant to be complimentary to him, Thomas was sure, but the combined images of men playing baseball with a fish and her balding High School Principal husband, naked, and eating her pussy like a salivating dog rather put him off.
Maybe I should take up golf, he thought.