Response to a prompt: The word “psychlorute”. Based on a true story.
“I am a psychrolute!” he told me, very matter-of-factly, before he dove out of the inflatable raft and into the cold, churning water. Did I mention that he had removed every stitch of his clothing before leaving me alone in this raft, heading for a waterfall? It wasn’t a very high waterfall, but I was sure it was big enough to eject me from the raft if it went over.
He was swimming away from me, sideways to the current, shaking his long hair in the whitewater caps.
“Whoo! Whoo!” he screamed joyfully. “Paddle backwards!” he hollered at me. “You can do it! If you get too close to the falls then jump out and swim!” He backstroked his way toward the shore with his big biceps and his big naked legs doing a frog kick. Every once in awhile a little peek of his junk.
I paddled backwards, against the frothing current, and slowly the raft began to spin in a circle. I paddled. Sweaty, fierce paddling. He was already on land, drying off with a towel from his truck. I ran the raft onto the shore.
“Careful!” he scolded. “Toss me my clothes, willya?” I threw his whitey-tighteys directly at him. Shoes, too.
“Hey, come on, now,” he smiled, pulling on his underwear. “Isn’t this the most interesting first date you’ve ever had? Admit it! Come on!”
From The Boomer Babe’s Guide to Dating, Chapter Six.
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