Sitting in the tub, laid back, eyes closed, relaxing. Suddenly a firefly flashes in my face. I open my eyes to see one hovering not six inches from my nose. It’s dusk, but not yet dark, so I can see this guy, even when he doesn’t flash. He flies around behind my head, and I spot another lightning bug squatting on my towel. The hovering bug flashes a few more times, then closes in on the towel bug, after it tentatively flashes at the same frequency as the hoverer. He lands a few inches away, wiggles around a few times, flashes a couple more times, but doesn’t close the gap.
Then he takes to the air again, circles around, flashing a few more times. The towel bug finally responds, again hesitantly. The flyer lands a couple more times, but never closely approaches the towel bug. Airborne, he circles a few more times, then finally disappears into the closing night. The towel bug never moves. (Later, as I climb out of the tub, I have to carefully flick it off, before I can dry myself.)
The firefly mating game, as I understand it: The males fly around, sending out their subspecies’ flash code. They are on the lookout for a female, sitting on a bush, who might respond to their language. When he sees the awaited answer, he closes in and mates, if he can. But sometimes a devious female will flash a code alien to her subspecies, trying to lure in a foreign male, hoping to make dinner out of him. Like the praying mantis, the mating game may be the endgame for the male.
My fanciful interpretation of what I witnessed this night: The hoverer is, of course, the male. He was checking out a potential liaison with the towel female, but eventually declined to copulate and flew off. Why? I can conceive of a few options. First, she rejected him—the usual prerogative of the female. She didn’t get turned on by either his hovering antics or his flashing skill. Deeming him less than a desirable guy to father her eggs, she flashed only weakly, telling him to bug off.
Second, maybe he rejected her. His energetic hovering tricks and flashing were being wasted on a tired, uninspired lady. He tried to dance with her, but she just didn’t light his fire.
Third, maybe she was a killer trying to lure him—flashing deceitfully, hoping she could draw him in for the meal. “Come a little closer, buster, and you’re dead meat.” He was enticed by the prospect of sex, but luckily cautious. He sensed it wasn’t quite right. Something about her flash seemed suspicious. It had a bit of a foreign accent to it. Not yet horny enough to tempt fate, he opted for safer skies.
Will I ever know what really happened? Guess I’ll have to take a few more evening baths and keep my eyes open.
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