Sex in the garden

My education on sex was begun quite early in my life, with my mother providing a live commentary styled after the young David Attenborough on Zoo Quest. “Here,“ she said softly, “ – after his feeble attempt at courtship – we see the male – now preparing to mount the female.” Unlike Attenborough, however, my mother was not secreted in tropical island shrubbery, quietly filming the mating ritual of some rare and exotic bird but was instead seated with a cup of tea in hand, on an aluminium-framed deck chair, at the edge of our back garden lawn, with me kneeling on the grass beside her. Ahead of us – and looking considerably more perky than usual – was our pet tortoise, Toby. A little way in front of him was his garden companion, Fred, who it now transpired needed to be re-christened, Freda.

As we continued to spectate, Toby – with a quite remarkable turn of speed – hastened towards the object of his desires with his neck extended and his mouth agape. Then, when close up behind her, he somehow launched his front half off the ground and came to land with his hindquarters close to her hindquarters, with his front legs then desperately struggling to grip her shell so that he could hold this position long enough to do the necessary. Freda meanwhile seemed wholly unmoved by the goings-on at her rear, and blithely continued to munch away on a dandelion. When the deed was done, Toby slid back down to lawn-level and retreated into his shell. Freda finished off her yellow-flowered teatime snack, and then went in search of further floral nourishment.

“And that’s all there is to it, darling” said my mother. “Much ado about precious little,” she added, and then returned to the kitchen to wash her cup and saucer.

Winner of the 2022 Booksie Flash Fiction competition; attributed to Elizabeth Marshall.