Sanguine
Bloody Ardor
My dad was a big boxing fan and because of his position in the hotel casino business, he got very expensive seats at some of the best matches held
anywhere. I never knew the cost of the tickets --- I was just glad to be there in the first few rows with the Vegas power players and the colorful
pimps and their ladies.
A few times he had enough tickets for a third and I would grab a date who didn’t mind dressing up and being part of the show. At times when the big
brutes in the ring were almost knocked into our laps, my ladies showed the usual squeamishness you would expect. Only once did I invite a young lady,
Molly something as I recall, who got blood on her dress, on her arm but what I saw then in her eyes was not disgust or embarrassment; what I saw was
raw lust, blood lust.
Most times we would stop for a drink somewhere after I took my dad home but not that night. I couldn’t wait to see if the primeval juices were not all
spent at the match, if the lady might still be caught up in the moment, might feel as unfulfilled as a fighter who is more than ready and has yet to
throw a punch.
I don’t really know what I expected but the word fierce comes to mind each time I think of the name Molly.
The occasion was eclipsed years later when I spent almost a whole summer with a lady by the name of Valerie. Val was anything but a tomboy but she
loved the outdoors, played tennis, loved to compete – she jumped at the chance to fly to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico with me for a four day weekend for
some fishing. We caught a nice calm day that put us on the fish near the famous Gordo Banks fairly early. Val was not the bikini type, was wearing
shorts and a T shirt that still showed off her lovely skin, her gym-rat muscle tone.
She brought in the first fish – it was a big bait fish, a tuna type but not good to eat. It gave her quite a fight on the light bait rod and reel and
she was really into it when the deck hand clubbed it, unhooked it and threw it in the big fish box in case we could use parts of it later. Blood was
running on the deck, a few spots on Val’s deck shoes --- there was the look again; that unmistakable look of atavistic triumph over the prey, that
pulse quickening adrenalin rush, the hormone flood.
I hooked and landed a 30 pound dorado while Val shot some pictures, some video. We hooked another and she landed a 25 pounder without a problem. We
were all high-fiving and throwing down the beer and sport drinks – a great captain and deckhand, calm seas, made the day a real winner for everyone.
Later, at the room, after lunch, drinks and then a nice shower, we were both ready for a siesta. I fell out fast as the sun had wasted me on the boat
ride but I was curious as to what would happen when we awoke, were refreshed, ready for another kind of adventure.
I’m not at liberty to divulge the play by play but I can give you the feel of the thing without revealing intimate secrets. Looking back on it now
(that was many long years ago) I would say that I felt as though I came to the place with the wrong equipment, that tournament grade gear would have
been appropriate. It was as if I had packed surf gear, then decided at the last minute to go after tuna, billfish, wahoo.
Maybe the whole world of sportsmen knows all about this but for those few who have never seen the look, when you do, my advice is to find a soft,
private place with no sharp edges, bring your A game and big two speeds. You won’t be sorry.
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