An ode to the girl who cleans my fish tanks.
There was a time when I was the fish geek’s fish geek. I had something like 15 tanks at once at one point. I’d set up tanks for a specific kind of fish; because I wanted to try a different sort of filter; because a tank would just look cool in a particular place. I’d set up tanks just because some tank was on sale and I liked the shape.
I used to spend my weekends working on tanks. I used to hang out at fish stores and knew all the clerks by name.
That all came to a stop. Some of it was because I had kids and suddenly, somehow, I didn’t have the time or disposable income (where does it all go?) Some of it was because I just got tired of of lugging buckets all afternoon. And some of it was because I started scuba diving and suddenly, seeing a fish in a tank didn’t have the same allure.
A couple years ago I finally broke down my biggest, a 200 gallon tank that took up one whole wall. But I still had a couple fish I wanted to keep, so I set up a smaller tank in the kitchen, intending to do a plant tank with special lighting and special Co2 injection. But I just never quite got all that together.
So I decided one day, fuck it, I’m not cleaning the tank, it looks like shit, I need to tear it down or get someone to come in. Only this one old catfish that won’t die stopped me breaking it down, so I went by one of my local stores and asked if they knew who had a tank maintenance business.
They introduced me to one of the employees, a young lady who has such a business. I hired her and now she visits once a month. And now I have two reasons to keep the tank.
I think of her as Tank Girl, though she has no resemblance to either the comic or the film. And oh-my-god, I want her. I wish I had a picture of her to post, but I’m not sure it would do her justice. She looks a little like a prettier, less-tough version of Jessi Combs. But it’s not really the face that makes me crazy.
Let’s start with the thing that does make me crazy. She wears low-rise jeans. And she’s a curvy girl. Not fat, not at all, but with the right curves in the right places. So she wears these jeans, and she does a job that means reach, bend, reach, bend, reach, bend.
And yes, what this means is, the jeans ride down. Way down. Way, Way down. There’s a word for this when a big stinky man has it, but that’s far too crude for this delicate, delicious flower of womanhood. And no matter how she tugs and adjusts, the pants are always right back there as soon as she bends to pick up a bucket.
I could watch her all day. And I long to take a bite out of that sweet white peach of an ass.
Then there’s the scent of her.
I don’t know if I’ve talked about my reaction to scent. I’m not talking about perfume. I truly don’t like perfume much, though a little light scent can enhance what a woman already has. A little floral, a little citrus, a little musk, but just a dab. Far better is a natural scent though; a woman who smells like vanilla, or some other cooking smell, or like lemon or orange because it’s what she’s been eating. A woman who smells like fresh-roasted coffee or even like wine or like some fresh cocktail because it’s what she’s drinking.
But the real thing of it is, what I like is the smell of woman; the smell of sweat. There is almost nothing more erotic to me than the smell of a woman’s sweat, when she’s clean, and healthy. Forget deodorant; forget anti-perspirant. Just be clean, and don’t be afraid to be sweaty. It’s not a good smell, it’s a great smell, and I want it.
So tank girl has that smell. She works hard, particularly a day like today, when it’s hot. She has that clean, healthy, sweaty-girl smell. But there’s more. Like the scuba dive master women I fall in love with every time, she has an ocean smell mixed in. When I see her, she’s had her arms in fish tanks to the shoulder all day long. Now, fish tanks don’t smell great, but she does not smell like a fish tank. She smells like the sea; like the beach, like water and sun. She’s not the best-smelling woman I’ve ever met, but she’s close.
I make excuses to walk by her, when I can, just to catch a whiff. She’s a treat to my senses, eyes and nose, and I picture the other senses she would delight.
Sometimes I want to tell her how she delights me. But I’d rather keep her and enjoy her, so I don’t risk it. I want to keep this one, so I hold myself in check. Maybe I should set up a tank that’s lower, though. Make sure she does a little extra bending.