The following piece is extracted from Extreme Fishing Monthly published by The Erotic Hobbies Group.

Bobby Giraffe will be back next week, when he can be bothered or if someone makes his bail. Whichever is sooner.

The excitement normally starts the evening before the trip, so much so that I generally need to pop down a couple of sleeping pills to get me off for the night. Even then I wake up way before the alarm goes off at 3.30am. Normally I am terrible in the morning, rolling over and over promising myself 10 more minutes, playing stick, that sort of thing. Today though I am up in a flash ignoring my morning glory and getting straight into the shower. I nearly retch as I brush my teeth; it’s always like this, the mixture of nerves, tension and excitement leave my system in a horribly nauseous state. I skip breakfast. On the drive down to the lake my anticipation heightens to what can only be describe as fever pitch. All the gear is packed and there is barely 22 miles or 50 minutes between me and Long Lake. My foot gently caresses the accelerator as I drive as quickly as I consider safe. I don’t want to expire before I arrive, that would be a disaster.

It’s just after 4.30 as I reach the secluded little spot which I favour at this time of year. After a brief prowl around, to ensure that I am alone in my lakeside idyll, I begin unloading my gear. Fishing rods, tackle box and of course the little tent which I erect to keep my activities secret from anyone approaching from the rear. Dawn is just breaking and I am already feeling the tingle down my back that this special place always gives me. I sit down to begin, sometimes I smile to myself like a kid on Christmas morning but sometimes my face must be a picture of concentration as I assemble my gear. As I mount the reel at the base of my spincast rod my mind wanders to previous trips and my pulse and breathing quickens. The 9 pound Little Tupper brook trout last July 4^th, the three beautiful smallmouth bass that made November 06 my best ever fishing trip or the dirty little pike that stole my heart on my first visit here 7 years ago. Now with everything nearly in place I choose my hook. Just holding that tiny piece of moulded steel gives me a gentle stirring in my loins. My balls are beginning to tingle and my hands shake as I tie a Hook Snell and finally I am ready. Reaching into the bait box I extract a nice juicy tender little worm and hold it up before my face, my other hand is heading for my groin but I manage to stop myself in the nick of time. With one hand holding the worm I gently manoeuvre the hook into place with the other, getting the right spot is especially important to me. The side of the worm bulges briefly as I push the hook in and the tension is released with a little gush of fluid as the shiny metal penetrates the soft flesh of the bait. Ready at last I stand up to cast in. I never wear underwear fishing; something about the hard, industrial seams of the denim on my genitals increases the anticipation and makes every move send shivers up my spine.

Finally nearly 2 hours after waking I cast off, my float settling on the calm black water of the lake. I reel in the slack so that line is taught and ready for snagging. I settle back down into my seat, place my rod into its stand and slowly move my hand between my legs. I just know its going to be a lovely morning…