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Monday June 30—

7:20 p.m.–
EZ and I were harried at the landing by a discordant sendoff fifteen minutes ago. Georgie the beagle bayed our approach, wailing his galling non-stop "Little Latin Lou-bee-Lou" ha-roo, joined by another beagle wearing a bowtie and drool on it's snout. It barked in pig Latin though, due to a lisp.

I situated the trailer into position, unhooked the cinches, opened the hatch and gave EZ the painter, (I am training her to hold the boat rope in her teeth, a helpful new trick she seems eager to help with) and told her to stay calm and ignore the two barking idiot flakes.

"ROOO-ROOO."

"Git over here Georgie."

"Por-jee!" shouted the man squatting on a broken picnic table smoking a cherry Swisher Sweet. His wife, a yellow-haired woman sagging under a headdress of curlers, stood open-mouthed, without cerebral alacrity.

Back into the car, reverse the boat off the trailer.

Georgie and Por-jee, un-hindered by verbal command or moral conscience, snuck toward us silently through the brush along shore.

"WOOOO" and "ROOOO" startled me near the dock. I hit the brakes to set the boat free. EZ barked defensively and dropped her rope. The boat kept backing.

"Georgie-Por-jee! Git back here!"

Shabby, the big yellow lab trotted up, lifted a rear leg, and pissed on our rear bumper. EZ gave me a show I've never seen. She erupted snarling and shrieking, rolling Por-jee and Georgie onto their backs like musty carpets. Circling, she aimed straight for Shabby, fangs bared and not in a smile. Shabby dodged left. EZ snapped at his butt, but only got tail. He yipped and bolted for home behind Georgie and Por-jee. Then she trotted onto the dock, dove high and splashed, and paddling fast toward the boat and its floating rope, seized it with her teeth, turned and, like the Charles Atlas towing a luxury liner to demonstrate her strength, retrieved it back.

She found purchase with her toes against the concrete ramp, dropped the rope, waded back out and nudged the boat softly up against the pier, then tied a half-hitch to the dock and sat down in the boat.

7:47–
We are pulled up on Bald Head. Bullfrogs have begun to chug with more sexual intensity as the sun cools. EZ is sitting with her back to me on the sand, half in the water, sniffing the ripening marsh scented air. Water bugs are towing silvery wakes on the sky.

Earlier today–
Caleb wanted me to meet his Swiss exchange student friend. I suggested an afternoon on the water to swim, explore, show-off northern Wisconsin in summer, hang out.

"I'll ask her, but she probably won't want to swim. She's, uh, quite well-endowed and self-conscious about it."

"Fine," I said. "We can swim, she can wade, sit, whatever."

At 1:30 p.m. I heard the van crunch gravel in the parking lot. Doors slammed, and around into sight he came escorting a trollop who wanted to have sex soon. She was shorter than him, and petite. I feigned not to stare, pretended to evaluate two cranes mating in the west. I glanced toward their approach at a befitting moment, smiled, choked and sneezed Mountain Dew involuntarily as Ambrosia leaned over to shake my hand. Fifteen percent of her ninety-five pounds was uplifted and pushed out on display, severely confined inside a Wonder Bra and wide-openly enhanced by a low-swooping sundress. My God or your God or anybody's God, however false who lives high in the sky, could easily see all He wanted, though it is unlikely He—gay or lesbian—is as enchanted by sacks of fat on young girls as are corporeal men who exercise full advantage of their portions of God-given male hormones.

She leaned into the boat and stepped down. I quickly revved the motor and backed the barefooted Daisy Mae and I away and left Caleb standing on the dock.

Hah-Hah. No, just kidding.

They got in and sat down. Caleb though was athletically hindered by trying to hide the erection in his crotch.

Her sundress was wispy-thin and white with tiny pastel polka dots. Narrow yellow ribbons—bow-tied at the cleavage—flipped in the wind and drew her hand, and my eyes, there often. She wore a white lacy slip underneath. That was exposed freely. The dress was cut low in the back without the wearing-of-a-brassiere in the designer's plan. Hers was right out there like a fashion statement, tiny white-painted clasps smooth and brilliant, easy for most men to unhook with two fingers in the dark after brief practice. Strange to see such a forbidden undergarment so casually revealed.

Her hair was ratted into a Swiss bed head chambermaid shape, as though after sex it'd been haphazardly jumbled high and stuck through with a straight pin. Lots of loose ends flowed free in the breeze.

She had a charming thick accent of some sort. I asked what her native language back in Geneva was.

"French," she said through her lower lip piercing and nose plug, "though three other languages are spoken there: German, Italian" & and some other dialectic accent I couldn't quite understand.

The lip earring was halfway between her lower lip and chin and, later, when I didn't think she'd be too put off by the question, asked if the inside of it bothered her much.

She pulled her lip wide open and showed me it all. A flat silver plate of some sort clasped her lip and lower gums together.

"Don't even notice it," she bragged.

"Do you ever leak spit?"

"Tee-hee-(snort)," she giggled, and said, "not too much."

My son sagged and fainted.

Ambrosia exuded sexuality, either highly practiced to give the impression as innocent naiveté, or blatantly seeking sex, no matter. Whatever.

A prick-tease of remarkable and well-practiced accomplishment.

What are guys supposed to do with such performances of blatantly flaunted youthful female flesh? She's "Too self-conscious to swim," but she shows up showing herself wide, available, and grossly bare. If it's not covered, then it's intended to be gawped at. But, polite men and boys are civilly taught to not stare at cripples and deviants and bare-naked ladies through bright bedroom windows at night.

She was acutely aware of our eyes and teased us by constantly re-securing her wind-blown dress (a la Marilyn Monroe-esque) down under her knees, and tugging the lacy fabric barely covering her breasts back up. "Look but don't touch," didn't seem relevant since she would not have worn that sort of a wardrobe if the boys in her midst weren't supposed to look, and pant and be surprised to find enormous erections in their pants.

We waded at Sandy Flats. She stood in sandy knee-deep water and held her dress up mid-thigh while Cabe and I played Frisbee half-heartedly and pretended to be normal and not distracted in the midst of a sexual goddess. She splashed him and invited retaliation. Her dress got wet, of course, and she sniggled and wiggled and tittered proper wet-cotton dismay.

On to grand Sandbanks. Ambrosia blew Miracle Bubbles into Caleb's face through the pink plastic Miracle Bubble wand. He enjoyed it once, then smiled patiently through the thirtieth spray. Then he and I swam while Ambrosia sat in the boat and blew more Miracle bubbles.

I climbed the sand cliff with the video camera to zoom in and see what God could see down below. But she turned her back when she saw me playing God up high.

We idled upriver under the hide-and-seek sun.

I wish she'd worn a three-sizes-too-big sweatshirt and a pair of comfy old-lady flannel jeans.

She flirted with my son, stabbing at him with a Princess Wand length of stout sharpened grass, no longer a sexual Goddess but a superficial teenaged girl who hadn't yet learned much sense, but knew how to play the sex game. I liked her. I liked Cameron Diaz too, until I saw her on Letterman a week ago and saw what a fraudulent flatulent person she really was.

"Look if you like. But not too much, and certainly don't touch."