"Why I hate watermelons."

I'll never forget the night I met this buxom, free spirited man-eater. If memory serves, her name was Yolanda Ledbetter, though all her friends in the bar called her "Yo-mama Bedwetter". She answered to either, as she had no shame.

Yolanda's favorite thing to do was what country boys down south call "The Watermelon Crawl". If your not familiar with this pastime, all you really need to know is that it involves a voluminous amount of "sweet red wine made from the finest watermelons on the vine". Popular country and western vocalist Tracy Byrd immortalized the whole thing in a song which offered the sage advice: "If you drink, don't drive, do the watermelon crawl", which basically is an illusion to the foolishness of driving drunk and the inevitability of crawling once you've had your fill of the beverage in question.

Anyway, back to Ms. Bedwetter...I mean, Ledbetter. The night we met she was somewhere between the driving and the crawling, headed quickly towards the latter. She strolled across the bar, stood next to me and slurred, "Do you have a watermelon I can sit on?"

I replied in the negative.

"If you had a watermelon", she continued, "I'd pick the seeds out with my toes."

"What would you do with them, then?" I inquired.

She was quick with her reply. "I'd stick at least one of 'em up the ass of every man in this dive!"

Being one of the males present that night and not wanting a handful of watermelon seeds shoved up my rectum, I tried to change the subject. "So, you're one of those blue-eyed beauties who hates men, are ye? Are you ridin' a bandwagon or do you come by it naturally?"

"The only bandwagon I'm ridin', my cocky friend, is loaded to breaking point with watermelons and you can bet there are thousands of seeds available there for me to ram up these bastards' bungholes. I told you once, I'm-a gonna pick out those little black seeds and stuck 'em up you guys' backsides, see what grows out of 'em."

I could tell she was a persistent woman. Twice more I attempted to divert the conversation from the sowing of seed to something less threatening to me (and to any other man there who was in danger of being fertile ground). Each time she insisted that the anuses of the entire male gender should be filled with watermelon seeds.

The night was winding down, rapidly approaching that time when, as Mickey Gilley once proclaimed, the girls all get prettier. Yolanda had backed off of the seed talk and was focusing her attention on the country & western band that was on stage (a backwater affair that butchered everything from Merle Haggard to Lynyrd Skynyrd). She was in agreement with me, insomuch as I had made a comment to the effect of "these guys suck". As deranged as she no doubt was, at least she knew a shitty band when she heard one.

The feisty, although by this time slightly inebriated Ms. Ledbetter drank one more glass of watermelon wine and I began talking to her about old dogs and children. Something in my conversational tone struck a chord with her, I do believe, because she said, "If you don't drive me home I'll have to do the watermelon crawl and I don't want to ruin this new pair of Wranglers I'm sportin'..."
They WERE nice Wranglers, I had to admit. It would be a shame to ruin them when a ride home was to be had for the price of a sordid, sweat-soaked, grunt-filled evening with a man who was bound and determined to change her mind about the general worthlessness of every man in the world. It was a daunting task, but I felt up to it.

We arrived at her house, a nice little place but a mess. Yolanda was apparently a slob. She had invited me in after I had insisted upon walking her to the door (I had to hold her up the whole way or she would have had to do the crawl, which would have defeated the whole purpose of my being her personal chauffeur). As the coolness of her air conditioning unit blew on her, she seemed to sober up a little bit. She could walk, albeit unsteadily.

She took my hand and dragged me to her bedroom. I put up a slight bit of resistance, but not much. Truth be told, I found her to be strangely sensuous, seductive & sexy at that moment (2:35 am to be exact). She pushed me onto the bed and said, "Get undressed, I'll be back in a moment."

"Bingo!" "Now THAT's what I'm talking about!" "Home run!" Such were the thoughts that ran through my mind..."Conquest!"

"Turn over, baby", she said in a voice that let me know that she was had great expectations. "I don't want you to see me as I walk through the door."

I was curious why she was so shy. After all, she really had a great body---she was stacked like a brick shit house, to tell the truth. But who knows why a woman is the way she is? If she was self-conscious I figured there was nothing I could do about it but to humour her. I had already stripped naked and my clothes were lying in a pile at the foot of the bed, next to a couple of empty Jim Beam bottles. I turned over, smiled and whispered to myself, "Oh, well, girls will be girls...I'm gonna get LAID tonight, brutha!"

Next thing I know I felt something entering my asshole. My next thought was that it wasn't someTHING, but some THINGS. Small little things, hard as pebbles, a little bit slimy but not enough to where I couldn't feel them making their way into the nether regions of my virgin rump.


Watermelon seeds. I should have seen that coming...



I see Yolanda every once in awhile.

I always turn away and pray she didn't see me.