Crab sex goes on a lot longer than you’d think.
I admit I had no choice but to watch, Officer, but there was no tingle in my trunks this sunny A.M. I felt some objective admiration as those little critters went at it hammer and tongs on the plastic bag isthmus that passes for the Sihanoukville shore. It made a change from enjoying them tossed in a fingerlickin’ Kampot pepper sauce.
All the other crabs sat in a circle around les amoureux with their backs to the surprisingly vigorous action for privacy’s sake. I thought that was lovely of them. But I could only stare with purely scientific interest at those green-shelled hump-meisters – either that or burn my retinas to cinders glued to the exquisite buns of a coyly posturing devotchka trawling up and down the foreshore in a lime thong.
Don’t get me wrong: I appreciate a peachy buttock as robustly as the next human. I myself have bounteous globes – back in my salad days I was a saucy burlesque with a penchant for the pole and my unequivocal rear assets meant a garter belt overflowing by dawn’s rosy crack. But there’s a time and a place for egregious Lycra cleft kecks, and on a public beach chockers with New Year families of every ilk, bending over to beachcomb in a co-polymer stringlet the size of Kaliningrad Oblast was not it.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful for a perfect sunkissed bum, or for nature’s jam packed cornucopia in general. Don’t get jealous, but as we speak I’m writing to you from an over-water cabana down on our patchy old south coast. It’s a breezy overcast morning. There are seafaring butterflies, silver fingerlings skipping away from some inept Korean tourists with half a million dollars worth of fishing equipment, a couple of lolling hornets that I got my one good eye on, and an unfeasibly fit Slavic couple with a rope-and-swing thing hanging from the rafters. I’m assuming it’s some new isometric Pilates workout but it might just be more Russians having sex. It’s always hard to tell. I’m impressed that they brought all their stuff with them though: they probably need to be that pumped to carry it all.
I thought a few days away from CharmingVille’s bustle and grit would help me blow away some life-muffling cobwebs and ponder my Goat Year resolutions with fewer distractions. Being a water rabbit, I love the sea, and Kep was fully booked, so while Hubster just gets on with it with nary a navel gaze, I’m here in this Onassian playground to take a good hard look at myself. I got some serious stuff to work out.
- How to be kinder to people. The barking should stop.
- Patience. Get me some. Right fucking now.
- Perhaps it’s also time to get a proper job – a cube farm with a staff canteen and some kind of health plan that lets me drink the minibar dry in a luxury Bangers condo while I recover from increasingly urgent wattle surgery. Plus one can’t live on the miniscule compensation payout from last Easter’s tragic eyebrow incident forever. I’m down to my last furry 500 riel. Yes. A job might be something to consider.
- Also, should I go back to my natural hair colour?
The tropical lullaby whispered by wavelets caressing the giant concrete octopus at the foot of the hotel garden has been most inspirational for these and many other ponderments. But I’ve turned to my internet for some of the answers that can’t be forecast by the intersecting lines of Sergey’s impressive six pack or counting the back hairs of the gold-toothed boozenik lights out and face down on the sand in front.
Apparently, terrariums are going to be super important for me in 2015. I like the look of macramé potholders too. There’ll be plenty of fruits. I’m urged on a couple of sites to curb my control freakery and delegate important tasks, or at least ask for help more often than I do. So instead of googling AskJeeves for a toothpaste recipe that’ll remove unsightly coffee and beetroot stains, I’ve made an appointment with my dental hygienist. I’ve given up on my self-styled exercise regime that counted my trips to the fridge as a “five second fat blaster” and enrolled in rope wars at the local gym. I’ve also enlisted the services of the tuk tuk guy who cleans our gutters. He happens to be a dab hand at wardrobe culling and has promised to do my colours. By June I should have nice white teeth, an even hotter body, and fewer but more important clothes.
The biggest change of the year will be for our pet. Bunster‘s days of squiring the chesterfield are over: he’s scheduled to get his bits done in the first quarter. Hubster’s not too happy about it but we tried a girlfriend and he just ran away. He might be gay, the Rabbit I mean, but I’m over his raiding my wardrobe and chewing the bejesus out of my black t-shirt collection. His hormone-fuelled sofa-rooting shoe-feasting days are so 2014. Like me, he’ll just have to get along without his damn biscuits.