Excluding only shellfish, banana fish, seaweeds, large fish (especially sharks), the myth of mermaids/men, anemone, the ancient (almost seemingly arcane) coelacanth, coral reefs (the danger of which should be blatantly obvious to anyone), and all manor of pure underwater darkness, Mantosori loved sea life. Yeah, he adored it. That is to say, more acutely, he loved scuba diving in the clear, safe, phosphorescent shining blue water in the vicinity of his favorite resort in Cancun. To come further clean, we would have to be totally frank and make it known that our human ward, Mantosori, had but one passionate connection to scuba life, and but one vicarious connection at that. Her name was Bimba. Long, tall, brown, explosively gentle Bimba, his scuba diving instructor.
Perhaps to explain that we’ve been watching Mantosori for the entirety of his life and have become concerned with his choices of late would be helpful, dear reader, in your understanding of why exactly we are writing all of this down for your consideration. Perhaps to explain that ol’ Mantosori is quite fat would also be helpful. Fat fat fat. Quite, quite rotund, ol’ Manty. Quite, quite large. Perhaps a short story about ol’ Manty’s childhood would do you some good perspective as well – shed some quick light on his inner workings; his, how shall we put it, fat inner workings.
Well, quite a long time ago, as ol’ Mantosori is no young man, not at all new, in his twenty-first year to be precise, ol’ Manty got a sexy hair up his ass and bought a blow-up friend, replete with anatomically correct holes and curves and protuberances. A real fake friend with which to fake real fuck. He named her Geneveve of the Isles of Kumquat. She, though used mostly for the purpose of pseudo-consensual coitus, became his closest friend, attending all of his dinner parties, living room movie screenings, after movie philosophical discussions, etc., to which, in reality, only she was invited. His small life seemed to expand just a little having her around. Her semi-presence seemed to elevate his abilities, and even occasionally vanquish his inadequacies. When once he might have been afraid to use the toaster, if she wanted toast with her tea, he would brave the appliance with only the slightest hint of resentment. If she were to need feminine items from the store, when once he would’ve been terrified to even stand in the feminine items isle of the supermarket, he would march to the store and present the cashier with his groceries, closing his eyes when he/she scanned the embarrassing and emasculating items. And if she wanted to fly to Cancun to vacation in the sun… well, that might still be too much. Our Mantosori might be a brain case, but he was still aware of the taboo surrounding his caring deeply for an inanimate object. Cancun… with its neonery and its sugary taste. What does she think I am to suggest such a status quo friendly destination? Why not Zaire, why not Everest?? If I become someone who travels to Cancun to vacation, what does that make me? Cancun… well… Cancun could be fun… He’d always wanted to visit the Caribbean, and he was finally in a position, financially and in his professional life, to be able to afford the time away. Perhaps he could go and test the waters (both literal and social) to see if, perhaps for Christmas, he could, perhaps, risk arranging for them a nice time away from their confines. And, heck, their 20th (!!) anniversary was coming up near Christmas. What better timing to brave the clear, warm, azure waters of love made public, love without caution, love split open and allowed to pour out freely, showing the world that love is also the color of the sky.
Fast forward to a 41 year old fat man in spandex trying to hide an erection on the dock of his new scuba instructor’s pier. Fast further forward to the same fat quadragenarian bargaining with the tropical water, toe first, terrified of what fates might await him under the surface of that vast blue nothing, that aquatic aspic where danger waits suspended in 3-D slow-mo.