Nipple Bait

Finding confidence in the oddest of ways

As land dwelling mammals we can’t really see what our bodies look like underwater. Our eyes aren’t made for it. Sure we’ve donned goggles from time to time, but what our actual bodies and body parts look like to the animals who call the water their home we will never know. We can’t see through fish eyes. Fishermen the world over have spent millions looking for the perfect lure, each one searching for just the right combination of color, movement and texture to convince the spherical lens of a fish’s eye that this bobbing wriggling thing is the yummiest morsel a rainbow trout’s has ever seen. But there was no angler’s guide, or bait and tackle pro that could’ve invented a better lure than my tiny eight-year-old pink nipple fluttering rhythmically just under the surface of the water that summer day. To the fish swimming below me my nipple must have looked like the single best amuse bouche ever served up in this body of water. And so the fish did what fish do, it went in for the bite.

mmm, boy nipple!

Growing up is a bitch. You have to constantly weather new uncomfortable situations, learn things you never knew you needed to learn, and face down fears of the unknown as you experience life’s many challenges for the first time. You’re small, only eight years old, half the size of regular humans. Things are big and scary. Movies seem real, grown ups arguing feels like the end of the world, and spilt milk might actually be worth crying over. But as I stood on the beach of Lakeville Lake gazing out at the teenagers on the “big raft,” I knew today was the day. The big raft had been calling to me for two summers, a siren song waiting for me to be a strong enough swimmer to reach it. It didn’t matter that it was way deeper than I had ever swam, either your feet can touch or they can’t. I was ready. My nipple wasn’t, but I was. I had been working the kick board, breathing to the side, and keeping my eyes open. But little kid doubt is a powerful thing. I was just three years removed from worrying there was someone in the closet at bedtime. I could still be afraid of a new food from time to time, and couldn’t always even fully trust my own bladder. But sometimes you gotta go full Nike and just do it.

You see, everyone who was anyone who ever had any fun ever was out on the big raft. The Mellon boys were there, so were the Williams’. Roger and Theo and those three girls whose names I never knew. For years I had heard their laughter from the beach while I was dicking around like a baby in the shallow water, making dribble castles and generally just sucking. I could see them all living their lives to the fullest, big kidding it up on the big raft. The seemingly endless game of shark tag, the king of the hill shoving, the dark mystery of whatever was happening under the raft where the boys and girls would go for what seemed like hours. God dammit, carpe this diem little Seth! My step dad was right there with me and that guy could hold his breath longer than any human. Basically fucking Aquaman as far as I was concerned. He knew I had what it took, we’d been working it, talking it, preparing for the big swim. Like Henry V on St. Crispin’s Day he rallied his little step progeny to dive once more off of the beach. Nothing else mattered that day. Not the AIDS crisis ravaging NYC, not the USSR and their nukes, not those boners I seemed to be getting all the time, none of it even crossed my mind, because today was the day. Slathered in sunscreen, cheese sandwich fortified (30 minutes ago for cramping purposes), standing like Michael Phelps on the starting block of life I lowered my goggles, flop dove in, and off I went. Feet chugging, arms pumping, checking each breath to see that my step father was there with me. Calm, cool and aquatic, my progress steady through the different mysterious pockets of lake water temperature.

Go for the gold boy!

As an eight year old venturing out into the dark water for the first time, the sensation of a fish’s mouth clamping down on my nipple was not in my brain’s lexicon, so it triggered quite a flood of little boy endorphins. The fear was intense and the bubbled garbled yelp I let out was probably heard all the way back at the snack bar. According to those who were near me on this, my maiden voyage, I swam so fast it seemed I wasn’t even in the water. Had I been timed it’s possible I would have broken the Connecticut under nine freestyle speed record. My little arms windmilling, my adrenaline fueled legs churning the water like twin Yamaha 150’s. I probably could have towed my stepfather on a wake board behind me if he had a rope tied to my panicked little frame. That nibble was 43 summers ago, but I remember the feeling of that fish’s little mouth chomping down like it was last Tuesday. I wonder what the fish thought as his worm-like snack turned out to be very much attached to a half human, whose underwater shriek must have registered with all local aquatic life. Nearby turtles exclaiming in turtle, “what the fuck was that?”

those puppies can move

I covered the 50 yards in seconds flat and launched myself up onto the raft. No longer concerned about my swimming ability, safely on raft wood, catching my breath, rubbing my swollen little nip I realized just how much stronger I was than I thought. My ability to swim the distance was never in doubt. I did it no problem. All it took was the feeling of a sensitive, albeit useless, part of me being eaten. I was more than ready for this game of shark tag, mainly because I knew better than any of these teenaged punks what it really meant to be bait.