SLIPPERY SLUICES

We've unanimously voted that we have summer now, so it's no longer The Dolphin we go to; it's "The Sluice", a little down the river. Not that there are any sluices around any more. The last on record was demolished in the late 80's (1885, that is - the Y2K problem isn't that new). But who cares? I mean, there is no Flipper at our sauna, either.

The best thing about The Sluice is how you get there. It's a long and winding road along the dikes of our river (we're so close to the sea, the river has its own tides). We are in Jockel's yellow Fiat Barchetta convertible, the dike twists and curves, and after curve 10 or so we're in a world of our own. The sun is emitting heavy-duty photons today, the land lies in silence, the bees are humming, the small sounds of grass slowly converting to hay... wish I could have heard all this. Jockel will really have to have that muffler looked at soon...

There's no house around for miles, the road is on top of the dike now, and Jockel is still following its curves, thank God. There is sort of a pool, a place my father always called the "swimming place". He used the grandfatherly German term "Badeanstalt". Nobody nowadays dares to really swim in what passes for water in our little brackish river. But a pond, with its appropriate mosquitoes and fireflies and a hundred yards of beach, has a magnetic attraction for the proverbial blondes. And just about everybody up here is fairly blond. And in a place as remote as this, nobody bothers to wear bathing clothes.

We're lucky; the place is practically jam-packed. I spot the Meyerdierks sisters, statuesque giantesses both, in real life owners of an establishment that calls itself a "lingerie shop", except that the customers are all male, and never carry packages when they exit an hour later... The Meyerdierks are there with some of the Polish shop assistants, which rotate on a monthly basis. Must be their day off.

Jockel emits one of his better romantic sighs, and, indeed, that would be that Teresa that he's mentioned before. She's in the water, with her slim yet muscular back towards us, her flaring hips in slow movement as she tiptoes deeper... and her bare breasts swinging from side to side.

The scene looks like a remake of that Devon Daniels Caribbean movie, and traX sounds like he's strangling as the river goddess slowly turns around, her glistening mounds swaying, and waves at us, and the oscillatory velocity increases (groan!)....

With everybody on board staring at the freshly imported Polish wonder of nature, our car decides it's time for the big bang. There is only one tree between the next village and our destination, and Jockel's Barchetta finds it unerringly. No big deal, we're doing maybe 30 mph or so. The car folds up impressively in slow motion, and I, fascinated, watch Jockel and traX being nailed to their seats by ballooning airbags. Me -- hey, I'm flying, thinking lovely thoughts, and then there's that sickening thud, and the lights go out.

Beautiful birdsong with Polish accents awakens me. My vision is somewhat obscured --by big, swaying tits it seems-- and indeed, I find myself encircled by fluttering stark naked "lingerie shop assistants" who want to practice what they learned in their first aid courses... too bad I don't need artificial respiration. So I decide to look as miserable as possible, and indeed someone --oh, it's Teresa?-- tugs her tits somewhat aside and places my head on her naked lap. Too bad I don't seem to be able to bleed or do anything else heroic. But of course, I am the center of attention, not Jockel or traX, who are struggling with their inflated airbags (not nearly as pleasant as those that confront me).

The sun goes down, or, no, it's just Susi Meyerdierks approaching with the biggest hip flask you've ever seen. Now, where are those Mantovani strings when we need them?

Leaning comfortably against the cool, wet softness of a whole lot of Teresa, I watch Franzi Meyerdierks arrive with the inevitable T-shirts for her employees: after all, the rule is to keep the merchandise covered... But, of course, I'm far too sick to leave my cozy place, and so, with sweet Polish purring and cooing, a nude Teresa helps me to sip what appears to be astoundingly good cognac from Susi's hip flask. After a while she decides she needs some refreshment, too, and we share the rest of the booze.

If I remember right (it was a real giant hip-flask!), we did not all end up at our intended destinations. After my slow recovery, we went to buy some lingerie instead. Don't ask me any details; I didn't see much beyond those magnificent protruberances of Teresa and some mauve and dark violet lingerie. As for the medical report, everything's fine, of course. Just looks like I overdid things a bit, as usual.

And I got to polish up my Polish. Such a beautiful language...