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French Pussy

By Maggi Maynard

The hospital x-ray showed that I hadn't broken Geoff's jaw. With hindsight I should have followed the conversation more closely, but how would you like it if the night before your wedding your future husband told you that he was only interested in French pussies! Now, I know Geoff has had a well earned reputation with the women, but I really should have realised the pussy to which he was referring is the catfish, or silure as the French call them.

But I get ahead of myself. The story I am about to tell you is true and unabridged. It is strange and haunting. This story will change lives. It has certainly changed mine. It begins on an extremely hot June day - the 30th to be precise - in Weybridge Register Office when wedding tackle and fishing tackle merged. Yes, that well known wit and raconteur about Staines, Geoff Maynard, had reeled me into that most holy of landing nets - matrimony.

Many have called me mad, including my mother who wishes she'd had me certified when she had the chance, for taking this step with an angling fanatic - "Fishing will always come first. I just hope you know what you are doing." is typical of the comments I received on my wedding day. But if the truth be known, I love fishing. Or is it just that I have been brainwashed for the past two and a half years? Whatever, when given a choice of honeymoon venues I decided I would love to go back to the French lake where this unlikely romance really took off. The French lake where I had caught my first carp of 22 1/2 lbs (and Geoff had blanked).

But my groom was not out to better my carp or retrieve his credibility among his friends - as I said earlier, he was after a totally different quarry. French pussies. Last year we had watched a Frenchman take out a 25lb cat from the lake and it had inspired Geoff to try for them as well. I have a sneaking suspicion that he only married me to have a good excuse for going on yet another fishing holiday. However, I digress.

Apart from one other couple, we had the lake to ourselves the whole time we were there. Having bivvied up, my new husband set up the main rods while I did a spot of tiddler bashing. I did really well actually, catching small perch and roach - ideal bait for the pussies. I proudly presented my catch to Geoff, who quickly did the business with the bait (I still can't bring myself to hook up a livebait) then we sat back to await our first take.

There was a moment when I thought my luck had changed, but quickly realised that although my husband was calling "Puss, puss, pussy!" in a silly voice, this was not an invitation for me. Oh well, plenty of time for that later on. I've often called Geoff a smooth talking bastard, but I was somewhat surprised when a 35lb catfish succumbed to his charms a few minutes later, although she played rather harder to get than her human counterparts! He had to fight for 30 minutes to land her - he reckons an average of ten minutes with human females! I don't want you to think he's big headed or anything, he just has a very large .......er.. ego, that requires continual stroking. He was really excited by this amazing capture and we celebrated in true Anglo-Saxon style by repairing to the tent - Well... it was our honeymoon! Four or five hours later yet another 35lb cat yielded herself up to my husband's tackle! My God, does that man having pulling power or what?! It's just as well I'm not the jealous type, because this fish he actually kissed. Can you believe it? He snogged a French pussy. A doubt about my own sanity did cross my mind in that moment of piscean passion.

OK. Two pussies in one day would be enough for most men, but Geoff, as you will have gathered, is not most men. At 10.30 that night he hooked another one, this time 21lbs. So with three pussies under his belt my new husband went to bed a very happy man and I fell asleep a very happy woman! During the night I was awakened by a short but screaming run, but it stopped, so I didn't bother to wake him up - I felt that one way or another the poor boy had overdone the pussy thing. However, the next morning revealed that I should have woken him because the rod had been ripped off the pod, so violent was the take. With groans of "Why didn't you wake me up? That was probably a fifty pounder", ringing in my ears, I set off for the town. I returned an hour later with lunch only to discover that he had caught yet another cat, 30lbs this time. This fish should have been mine. With enormous largesse, Geoff had said that I could have the next fish - and I had missed it! He had totally recovered his joie de vivre and dragged me into the bivvy - I can't quite understand it myself, but these French pussies seemed to be an aphrodisiac to him. Perhaps my mum should have had me sectioned.

The rest of the day was quiet in comparison, but we spent a very pleasant evening with Jean and Roger, the neighbours in the next swim who had come equipped with fridge and barbecue. Hmm... Roger...That's a nice name! We feasted royally on steak and chilled champagne - luxury in extremis after the boil in the bag food we had been surviving on. Had I stayed with the champagne I would have been alright, but we switched to red wine. I am certain I had a wonderful night in the bivvy, but can't really remember - suffice to say that I was totally unprepared for the next run at 1.30 am.

This was my big chance to catch my first pussy. I leapt out of the tent and was doing really well until I realised that I was totally naked (that's how I deduced I'd had a wonderful time). Now, the rules of encounter, as I'm sure you all know, is that you can't hand over the rod to anyone else or the catch is void. (Or so Geoff told me). I therefore had to edge backwards to the bivvy and grab for my clothes. With great dexterity I managed to dress myself, gripping the rod with grim determination in one hand. I ignored Geoff's childish and ribald comments. Unfortunately, my natural modesty had given the cat a chance to make for the lily pads and I was totally unable to pull it out. It had all gone solid. I battled fruitlessly for about ten minutes before announcing that I was going back to bed. I replaced the rod on the bite alarm and passed out. My ploy worked. Half an hour later the alarm screamed, Geoff screamed, I screamed - and leapt for the rod. The cat had come out of the lily pads! Twenty minutes later I landed it. A 15lb kitten! I was thrilled. My first French pussy! Of course, all the action had woken me up and there was only one way to get back to sleep. It was two very exhausted honeymooners who staggered from the bivvy at dawn to pull in yet another cat - 201/2 lbs.

That night was to realize one of Geoff's fishing ambitions and one which led me to wonder if divorce lawyers would be working at midnight. .........He tenderly took me in his arms and kissed me - our embrace became more urgent. Time stood still. The moon hung curved in anticipation, the wind held it's breath. I held my breath - would we manage it? Four days of lovemaking uninterrupted by runs, our best record yet. No - we certainly wouldn't. Coitus interruptus. Deja vu. The bite alarm screamed its urgent message - "PUSSY!". I screamed mine - "BASTARD!!! - Haven't you had enough?". "No" he called back excitedly "I'll never have enough pussies!".

After a monumental struggle lasting over half an hour, I helped Geoff land a monster catfish. It was enormous! It weighed in at just over 40lbs This time my man lay down beside the fish. I thought this was going a little too far, but I dutifully took photos - Geoff holding the fish at all angles. One of the best photos I have ever taken was of Geoff holding the fish face on. Both had enormous grins - Geoff because he was thrilled, the fish because it was trying to swallow him! 'That's a bit cheeky' I thought 'That's my job!'

I'm going to get serious now. When Geoff put the silure back, gently into the margins, it stayed there for more than an hour, staring at her captor with unblinking amber eyes. Malevolent is the only word to describe the look on it's face. There was no fear, no exhaustion, just outrage. Given the circumstances, I could be forgiven for my flight of fancy - namely that the fish was memorising Geoff's face. It looked as though it was thinking "Another time chum, things will be different. Then I'll have you." I didn't have much time to speculate on The Revenge of the Pussy because it was back to the tent to celebrate with a bit more of the old 'Le petit mort' - if this is what honeymoons are like I want to get married again!