Trapped in the Water Closet
A couple of weekends ago my girlfriend informed me that she wanted to take me out to dinner. One would assume that it was our anniversary, or there was something to celebrate, but they would be wrong. The fact of the matter was much simpler than that – she was horny. She wanted a part of me inside a part of her, plain and simple. Let’s be honest for a moment: Can you blame her? Wait a minute, don’t answer that. Anyway, with me being the respectable young lad that I am, she knew that she was going to have to wine and dine me if she wanted to peel back and taste from my fruit of pleasure (I should take this opportunity to point out that wasn’t a reference to an uncircumcised penis – I am as cut as Clark Gable III). No, I was not going to give it up for a little bit of sweet talk and a handful of Sour Patch Kids. Not twice in one day, anyway.
“Let’s go to [Local Italian Restaurant],” she said.
“So we can do the whole ‘Lady and the Tramp spaghetti-sucking-into-kiss-thing’,” I replied.
“Of course! I also have a gift card for there, so that’s an added bonus.”
“Romantic and financially responsible – nothing makes me harder.”
The ride there was pretty standard: Loud rap music and me throwing up random gang signs I had learned from watching Banging in Littlerock on HBO many years back. Traffic was light, so the trip did not take long. Upon arriving at said establishment, it was obvious that the place was packed asshole to asshole – to the point where if someone standing behind you farted, you would literally absorb it through your rectum and burp it out of your mouth a few minutes later. The perfect plan for a restaurant, because who wants the taste of a stranger’s asshole in their mouth for the rest of their afternoon? That is one flavor of 5 Gum I will not be purchasing. You’re not going to have that happen to you, find out there’s a twenty minute wait, and then leave to find somewhere else to go. No, you’re going to wait it out and order food – delicious food, to erase the shame. And the taste; that God awful taste.
To our surprise, as crowded as the parking lot was, we were told it would only be about a ten minute wait. Everything seemed to be coming up roses, and the sentiment was only echoed with the next statement I heard, which came from a large group of family members congregated to our right.
“She was molested by the Bishop!”
Admittedly, I was not privy to the previous parts of the conversation, so it very well may have been heard out of context, but if anything is worthy of “Put on Your Sunday Best” family dinner, I would say it would be that. The girl’s mother seemed so proud of the violation that even I wanted to respond with a slow golf clap. I thought better of it and simply whispered to my girlfriend, “I’m pretty sure that bitch is crazy. I guarantee that Bishop isn’t wealthy, so they aren’t going to get very much from that lawsuit. Why are they celebrating?” If I can’t buy a house big enough that I can’t hear their crying at night, I’m not sacrificing my child’s virginity for a payday. But that’s just me, I guess. Who am I, really?
True to the hostess’ word our wait was not very long and we were soon on being seated. Along our way we passed a couple in the middle of a very deep conversation about sports.
“I’m pretty big into MMA,” he said.
“Oh, yeah. That’s where they kick, right,” she replied.
Yes, that is where they kick. That and soccer. And cancan dancing. And people having seizures. They are pretty much all the same, really.
I hope this isn’t their first date, I thought, she’ll barely lick the tip. My concern for the future of his sexual escapades was cut tragically short as our waiter arrived and we began perusing the menu.
“What exactly is Gnocchi,” I asked as I looked over the selections.
“I’m not sure, actually. You should know, you’re the Italian one.” She replied.
“First off, that comment was full of bigotry. Secondly...” I trailed off.
“Nothing, never mind.” She always wins. Damnit!
I decided to go with the Cavatelli, mostly because that was one of the few things on the menu that I could recognize. She ordered something else but I did not catch what it was because I was preoccupied with watching a freakishly tall waiter weave in between patrons like a synchronized dancer.
How does he do that, I thought to myself. He’s like Johnny Weir if Johnny Weir could dance around men and not put his penis in them. And do all of that on a regular floor instead of ice. I guess he’s actually nothing like Johnny Weir. Why am I even thinking about Johnny Weir? That is so Johnny Weird.
Once the food arrived, it didn’t take long for me to be halfway through my plate, since I eat like I’m Jodie Foster in Nell. Every time I eat it’s like I had never been introduced to prepared food. Seriously, don’t reach for my plate; you may lose an appendage.
“Is it good,” my girlfriend asked.
“Mmhmm,” I replied, nodding my head and barely moving my lips. Even so, a small bit of food fell from my mouth, which I quickly caught again before it hit my plate.
I can also guzzle a drink like it’s the last bit of air before taking a Navy Seal qualifying test, so it was no wonder that around three-fourths of the way through the meal I had to urinate.
“Ugh. I really have to pee, but I don’t want to stop eating,” At the time, in my head, this was actually a problem that needed to be talked through.
“That’s quite the dilemma, huh?” To this day I’m not entirely sure, but I think I was being patronized.
“Do you think anyone would notice if I took my plate with me?”
“I would notice, and I might have to stop talking to you.” She was probably joking, but I wasn’t willing to risk it.
After taking one more defiant bite, and being pointed in the direction of the restroom, I reluctantly left the table and started down the hallway to my right. The only two things on my were how good my meal was and how badly I had to piss, until I looked ahead and a third thought butted its way in; creating a saucy, pissy, beautiful threesome of visions in my brain.
What I saw before me was a man who at first could have only been described as Fabio’s badass cousin – the donkey punch to the former’s tender caress. Had this man actually been Fabio’s cousin he would have been right beside him on that rollercoaster. He would have snatched that bird out of midair, started singing Sporty Thieves’ most well-known song, “No Pigeons”, snapped its neck for dare intruding his cousin’s personal space, and orgasmed as he drank its blood. Graphic, I know, but true. Upon further reflection, he was a damn near doppelganger of Jimmy in Roadhouse.
Despite a couple of minute differences, the likeness was so uncanny that when we inevitably made eye contact, all I wanted to say was, “You are such an asshole.” I fought that urge, though, because had I said it we then would have had to find a pond at which to have our final fight, and in the end I would have had to tear his throat out, and that probably would have ruined my appetite. Also, I was a little hypnotized by the tail end of his mullet, which seemed to be swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Why is there so much wind in this hallway, I thought as I watched it blow to and fro. In the end, I made the smart decision and only nodded, thinking, what a fucking boon. “Boon,” by the way, is an insult that I’ve been wanting to break out on the general public for quite some time, but am afraid to because it sounds entirely too much like a racial slur.
After our brief – and painfully awkward, albeit silent – exchange, I entered the doorway he had just exited. Little did I know that seemingly inane action would go on to change the rest of my life.
Said doorway had no actual door, in a very “come right on in and empty your bladder and/or bowels, or take part in any sort of bulimic after dinner activities you please” kind of way. In lieu of a door, the designer opted instead to include an immediate hard left turn, which I have to admit did the trick quite well. As I made the turn, my eyes gazed upon what was absolutely the most pristine pisser people probably paid to pee upon. Whoa, sorry about that. The alliteration got away from me for a minute there.
In other words, the bathroom was very nice. I’ve never eaten in a five star restaurant, nor have I ever stayed in a five star hotel – hell, I’ve barely ever received a five star wanted level in any of the Grand Theft Auto video games (that’s actually a bold faced lie, because I will beat a hooker’s ass in front of a cop and then steal his car; I virtually don’t give a virtual fuck), but I feel safe saying this bathroom was fit for any such establishment. At the time, I was the only person in there so I was able to pause for a moment and really take in its beauty. The sinks, the floors, and even the walls seemed to be made of an ivory colored marble. It could have been actual ivory for all I know, poached from only the largest and strongest elephants of the herd. The spigots gleamed as if they were constructed from freshly Windexed glass, or maybe even blood diamonds that the aforementioned poachers stopped off to mine on their way home. And the lighting, oh the lighting. It was even more romantic than the lighting in the seating area. It was if a light was shining down straight from Heaven – a loving spotlight – directing the universe’s attention straight to your crotch as you urinated. “A thing of beauty,” a choir of angels would sing as you unzipped.
Having taken it all in, I then saw a wooden door ahead of me, the kind that you normally see inside fitting rooms. If they sell pants in here I am never leaving. Any normal human being would have nonchalantly opened the door to peek inside, but I chose to burst it open like a child looking for their Easter basket – in the first or second place they had looked, not when they had gotten to the seventh or eighth attempt and their will to search (and to live) had been crushed by their parents’ crafty hiding skills. Waiting behind door number one (or should I say door number two – poop!) was the world’s largest and most immaculate stall. It was big enough to do cartwheels in, or possibly host an MMA event for the awkward conversation couple to attend. It came complete with a changing table that looked sturdy enough for even an adult to use; and get this, its own sink! You don’t even have to wash your hands with the commoners! This was truly living like a king.
“Oh, you are definitely getting my pee,” I said out loud to myself as I gazed at the toilet, like a “John” picking out his favorite fetish hooker from a Madam’s stable. Dropping my pants in much the same manner, I knew that something this magnificent deserved a sit-down and not just a run and gun situation, and once I was seated it did not disappoint in the least. It was as if the seat was molded specifically for my ass and my ass alone. The way it cradled made me feel like newborn baby wrapped in a soft blanket being held against its mother’s bosom. All of my cares and worries immediately faded away and a feeling of warmth and happiness washed over me. I felt so good that out of nowhere I started dancing a little bit as I sat there, humming a rhythm that sounded a lot like Dr. Dre’s “Kush”. Before long I was singing along – hold up, wait a minute, let me put some piss up in it.
Maybe it’s not just me, but anytime I use the stall in a pubic bathroom, one of the following four things damn near inevitably happens:
1) Someone preceding me has – accidently or purposefully I do not know – completely missed the giant target that is the opening of the toilet and urinated not only on the seat but all over the floor as well. The “on the seat” situation is gross enough being that I then have to wipe it up prior to sitting, but in addition to that, the urine always seems to have come from a “first thing in the morning session.” It’s like dirty, brown, swamp water, and you have to wrap your hand like a mummy’s with toilet paper to ensure it doesn’t touch your skin. You don’t know where that person has been, and you don’t know if coming in contact with it could turn you into the next Toxic Avenger, so that caution is entirely warranted.
Speaking of this, I want to leave a message for the guy who used the bathroom before me on May 15th, when I Saw Bridesmaids -- the bottom of my shoe was soaked in the puddle you left behind. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If leave my shoes dry from here on out, that’ll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don’t, I will look for you I will find you, and I will kill you. It will be a death full of both urine and blood, and it will not be anywhere near erotic as it sounds.
2) If there is an adjoining stall, often times someone will occupy it, which in and of itself is fine. The situation gets a little hairy when they begin making herky jerky movements, or grunting and groaning and moaning. It’s like they are reciting Denzel Washington’s final speech from Training Day with their asshole. King Kong certainly ain’t got shit on you. It’s terribly uncomfortable and it makes me wonder if they need medical attention, but I don’t want to call for help and embarrass them if it’s unwarranted. I also wonder what exactly they are doing in there. Is shitting just that enjoyable for them? Are they not even shitting; do they just have a public masturbation fetish? Is it even a more specific public blumpkin fetish, but they couldn’t find a willing participant so they are both shitting and masturbating? Lastly, did they find a willing participant and actually are getting a blumpkin? And, if that’s the case, why aren’t they sharing the wealth? Chances are they know I’m in there, and nine times out of a ten a guy could go for some head, so that’s just rude of them to not even offer. Where are your manners, people? That’s fine, though. Whatever. I don’t want your blumpkin sloppy seconds anyway – which, coincidently, are some of the sloppiest seconds possible.
3) Speaking of hairy situations, how do I always end up with someone else’s pubic hair me? Some of you may be wondering if I am a fan of that, and I’m here to tell you that I am not. Not in the least. It is a heinous infraction upon one’s personal space; it’s basically rape sans the penetration. I’ve actually had to take a “rape shower” on numerous occasions after finding someone else’s “short and curlies” upon my person. Afterwards, I had the typical victim’s outlook. I believed it wouldn’t happen to me again, until it did. Again and again. I finally found the courage to stick up for myself and went to the police station to file a report. When they asked if I could describe my attacker, all I could say was, “short, thick, and black,” which led to this mix-up. My bad. Sorry about that.
4) I don’t know if I’m the subject of some sort of real-life fecal version of Where’s Waldo, or if I at some point accidently (or maybe on purpose, depending on how much I had to drink) sat on tracking beacon and permanently lodged it inside my rectum, but there’s also a pretty good chance that as soon as I close and lock a bathroom stall, someone is going to try to come in. Not only will they try to come in, but the fact that the door is locked won’t seem to register, nor will they hear me say, “occupied,” or, “I’ll be out in a minute,” or, “I’m fucking shitting!” They will try to open the door again, and then at that point sigh in frustration and walk away, and I sigh in unison because at that point my concentration and rhythm are shot to shit. Pun unintended.
However, today it appeared as though I was in pretty good luck. I moved my feet and there was no screeching sound of wetness from my shoe sliding across a pissy floor. The entire bathroom was still unoccupied, other than lil' ol’ me. Wait; girthy, monstrous me. Yeah, that’s what I meant to say. A quick glance downward revealed no invading parasites of the follicle variety. All was well as I took a deep, relaxing breath and started to pee. I closed my eyes momentarily, taking in the entire experience. It was like I was staying in a resort for bodily functions.
That’s when I heard the quiet sound of footsteps, followed by the stall handle jiggling the first time. Did I mention earlier that the door had a handle on it? Yeah. A fucking handle. Let that sink in.
Imagine that, I thought as I opened my eyes and looked toward the door. I didn’t say anything, hoping that for once I was encountering a “one and done” kind of guy. The handle jiggled a second time, and then a third. I shook my head, and as I opened my mouth to speak those standard words, someone beat me to punch.
“Someone’s in there, honey. Come over here.”
The sound of the voice caused me to clench mid-stream, cutting off my river of dreams prematurely. That was a woman’s voice. Why is there a woman in here?
“OK, mom,” a quieter voice replied. “I’m going to go over here, too,” a second voice called out.
Ahhh, alright. That makes sense. A mother accompanying her two young sons to the restroom was not a strange thing at all, it happens all the time. But then I got to thinking; why did she bring them into the men’s room? I know they are boys and all, but wouldn’t a mother normally take them to the women’s restroom? Maybe she had made a mistake. It does happen to the best of us, after all. But what if it wasn’t such an honest one? What if she uses her sons as a cover to walk right into men’s restrooms and stare at penis for free? What a floozebox! I was beginning to like this woman more and more.
It didn’t take long for me to resume peeing, and the restart was just as enjoyable all the way until to the end. As I pulled up my pants and buttoned them, I wanted to make my way to the community sinks and meet this mystery woman. On the off chance my assessment of her intentions were less than accurate, I decided that was probably a bad idea. Come to think of it, things would have been just as bad if I they spot-on. It was best if I just waited. Besides, as I mentioned earlier, my stall had its own sink! What kind of fool wouldn’t take the opportunity to use it? It’s not often you get to wash in the lap of luxury, after all.
I flushed the toilet, and as the water swirled down, it sounded like Susan Boyle belting out a goose bump inducing rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream”. I turned toward the sink and looked in the mirror. My reflection looked as it never had before – more jovial than ever, full of life; I swear I could see the outline of a halo resting atop my head. The soap smelled like a field of strawberries which went on forever, The Beatles style. I love this goddamn stall, I thought as I turned on the water. The water pressure was perfect, feeling like a gentle hand massage, resulting in a calm that was a perfect dichotomy to the stresses involved in using a public bathroom. Over the sound of Susan Toylet (see what I did there?) and the running water of the sink, I could faintly make out the sound of other voices entering the room. I paid them no mind, even as the door to the stall beside me closed. As far as I was concerned, I was still alone in my personal nirvana.
Filled with a feeling of peace throughout my entire being, I shut off the faucet and dried my hands on the towel, which I’m pretty sure was made from the finest jerboa hair; the only thing that could produce a dry that dry. After a final “X.Y.Z.,” I was reassured that things had “A.B.C.,” and took one last moment to look around the stall. You know how in funeral scenes in movies one person always stays a little longer than everyone else, with a sad look on their face, and as they do eventually leave they are met by a group of people who silently console them with a light touch to the shoulder? This was exactly like that, other than the consoling part. I wouldn’t want strangers’ dirty bathroom hands touching me.
I said my final goodbyes and opened the stall door, again taking in the marble-like decor of the bathroom as I made my way to the exit. I could hear water running at the sinks in the front of the room. Pfft, silly commoners. I had no qualms with blindly judging them, for once you use your own personal sink in a public place, everyone is beneath you. With an heir of superiority I neared the doorway, and peeked around the corner of the wall to see who was there, and was surprised when I saw what appeared to be a purse on their shoulder.
Wow, guys are really taking this whole “man purse” thing a little far these days. Seriously, what would you carry around in one that large? I looked a little further around the corner and saw they had long, flowing blonde hair lying across their shoulders. Must be a rocker. Or maybe a biker. That’s it! He’s a biker, and he’s carrying his helmet in the bag on his shoulder. As I got a little closer, their face became visible in the mirror.
Is he wearing make-up? Some guys are into that sort of thing, and that’s cool, but he’s wearing an awful lot. The sound of someone clearing their throat echoed from the stall behind me; but it wasn’t the deep, “I’m a man, bitch, and I make man noises” kind you’d expect. It was soft, almost dainty. Completely feminine, if you will. My eyes quickly shot down to the feet of the person standing just ahead of me, and I was shocked when I say their footwear – heels. My calm suddenly drained out of me like a meal that had given me food poisoning.
I’m in the fucking women’s room!
I was frozen in fear. It was like the scene in Jurassic Park where the T-Rex is coming and you can see the water rippling in the water, except any water rippling was being caused by urine instead of a giant beast approaching. I was 99.9% sure that she was in fact a human being and not a Tyrannosaurus Rex, but they do say to never to say never, and I had mistaken her for a biker a few second prior. Maybe if I stayed perfectly still she would not see me when she inevitably looked up after washing her hands, just like in the movie. Minus the hand washing, of course, because the dinosaurs didn’t wash their hands. They did, however, open doors, which is terrifying. I instead decided to run and hide like the coward I am.
I started making my way back to the stall as quickly and quietly as possible. I can only imagine the look on my face, but it probably resembled that of a bank robber who didn’t get out in time, and is now surrounded by the entire S.W.A.T. Team (including Uncle L). I had no idea what I was going to do, and I kept envisioning someone spotting me, and running out shrieking, or even worse, pepper spraying or tazing me. Before I would have a chance to explain myself, the cops would arrive and probably pepper spray or taze me (or both) again before handcuffing and hauling me away. Worse yet, if I tried to make a run for it, the guy from the awkward date would probably try to show off by reenacting his favorite mixed martial art maneuver, and the way my luck was going, he’d turn out to actually be quite skilled at it and beat my ass in front of a large group of people. I started to convince myself that this was not going to end well, and began preparing to go out in a blaze of glory.
I will die in this (literal) shit hole before I let them take me alive. Fuck the police, fuck the police, fuck’em!
The only thing that interrupted me mentally getting my N.W.A. on was a familiar sound starting to echo throughout the room – the sound of a trickle. I had made it far enough from the sink area of the room that I was fairly certain Biker Rex Lady couldn’t see me, so I felt safe stopping for a moment to listen. That moment was very brief, for it did not take long for it to register that the sound was someone starting to pee. Unbeknownst to me, there was a third woman in another one of the stalls, and she had a lot to drink with her meal.
Oh for fuck’s sake. I darted the rest of the way to the stall. I tend to only enjoy think ing about things going into females versus out of them, so actually hearing the latter was rather unsettling to me and only fueled my panic. As I entered the stall, I heard another sound –a click – and then saw the stall door beside me start to open. Girl #2 (whose moniker may or may not be descriptive of more than simply the order in which she entered the room) was apparently finished with her business and coming out. Now panicking even more, I grabbed a hold of my stall door and slammed it shut as quickly and violently as I could, which of course is perfectly normal behavior for any refined lady in public. She wouldn’t suspect a thing.
I once again locked the door as I listened to her footsteps heading for the exit. The coast was clear for now, but I still had no idea how I was going to get out of this predicament unscathed. I tried to formulate a plan, but each thought was cut short by the ongoing river rapid which was that woman’s urination stream. God forbid, if the poor state of the economy ever causes her to lose her job, she could easily find work as a ladderman-and-hose-and-“hydrant”-all-in-one for her local fire department. At the very least, she could be a power washer for all the neighborhood homes; it is sterile, after all.
She must do kegels. A lot of kegels. Like, kegels all day long. I wonder if she has ever snapped anyone’s penis in half. I wonder if you could die from that if left untreated, because that would be like a Chinese finger trap; you wouldn’t be able to get away. Oh, my God, what if she’s some sort of kegel assassin?! Who does she work for? I wonder how you get into that line of work, anyway. Did I shut off the television before I left? I need to get back to the matter at hand.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I had been in a women’s restroom once before, but that was in high school and thus did not count. This was the real world and it was nothing like I had always imagined. I didn’t see a group of women congregated at the sink, looking into the mirrors as they freshened their make-up. One didn’t ask another how her lipstick looked, and she didn’t reply by telling her “absolutely kissable.” There wasn’t any giggling, nor an addition that her “tits look great, too.” There wasn’t an eventual kiss, ultimately leading to hot, all-female group sex. There wasn’t a single bit of any of that. I mean, people were actually going to the bathroom in here; nothing more, nothing less. What the fuck is with that?!
The stench of a young man’s crushed hopes and dreams (and thankfully that was the only stench) filled the air. I was a beaten down and broken shell of my former self, and ready to throw in the towel. The only thing that kept me from turning myself in right then and there was that I had half a plate of delicious pasta waiting for me if I made it out of there. And my girlfriend, of course.
The toilet flushed as Girl #3 – who seemingly took three #1’s – exited her stall. It must have been happy hour, because from then on there was a steady stream (pun unintended, but I’m keeping it) of women coming and going. It was absolutely ridiculous. I thought I was never getting out of there, but it did give me ample time to try to plan my escape. In the end, there was really only one thing I could do – make a run for it. I waited patiently for a lull in the action. The sounds of flushing, running water, and footsteps started to grow further and further apart, until everything fell silent. It was time for the phoenix to rise from the ashes. Like a scene out of a movie, music started playing, signaling a slow build-up as I prepared myself for battle. There were no actual speakers anywhere in the room, so this was all in my head. Fittingly, the song was Joe Budden’s Escape Route “Intro”. “Yet and still, put a pill in front of me, I’d pop it...” I wish I had a pill to pop at the moment. At least I could have blamed the entire mix-up on me being high as shit.
A deep breath later, the stall door was flung open and I was on my way. I stayed low, just in case I encountered any enemy fire. I looked neither right nor left, only ahead. I didn’t need to see if anyone spotted me; I was pretty sure I’d hear their screams of “pervert” if they did. To my surprise, and relief, I heard nothing as I neared the door. The only obstacle left was getting through the doorway without running into anyone coming in. Even that went smoothly. There wasn’t a single soul in the hallway, which allowed me a moment to rejoice. I pumped my fist (not in the Jersey Shore way), and then threw my hands toward the sky, screaming, “FREEDOM!”At that exact moment, a waiter turned the corner of course, and simply looked at me. I lowered my gaze and proceeded onward, not wanting to push my luck any further.
“I need a drink.” Those were the first words I spoke upon returning to the table.
The next time the waiter came by to ask if we needed anything, I ordered my usual – Jack on the rocks. My girlfriend and I continued with our conversations about any random topic that happened to come up, but as I sipped my drink I couldn’t help but think about everything that had just transpired. I nodded and said “Mmhmm” in agreement to her, but in my head I was thinking, I went in the same door he came out! Did he make the same mistake, or was it all a set-up? What was that fuckjack up to?! How did I not notice there weren’t any urinals in that room? I may be legally retarded and I need to have myself checked out. Those sounds; I’m never going to forget those sounds. Why would God do this to me? I want to go back to being blissfully ignorant, please let me go back. This inner turmoil went on for a few minutes, causing emotions which I had never before felt to build up inside me.
“I used the women’s restroom.” There it was. I cut her off mid-sentence and just blurted it out. I laid it all out there; no going back now. I already had my glass to my mouth and was chugging before she could reply.
“What?” She looked like she wanted to laugh, but I think she could tell I was upset, so she held it together.
“It was awful. It was absolutely awful.” Another flashback, another rush of emotion, another regret, another chug.
After I told her the entire story, she took my hand in hers and told me that everything was going to be alright. She tried to salvage what little hope I had left by assuring me that not every women’s room was like that.
“I mean, I don’t necessarily take part in it, but most girls do,” she told me.
She insisted that most of the time what I had originally envisioned is the way it actually was, but I knew she was fibbing. Still, it made me feel a little better. And harder. Not “harder” as in I felt like I was rough and tumble S.O.B., either. Harder as in I kind of had an erection. Not a full hard-on, but enough that it sucked to be wearing jeans.
Another drink and a box of cold pasta later, we were heading for the exit. I scanned the patrons as we passed by them, looking for someone who may recognize me. I saw not one scream, not a gasp, not even a finger point. It seemed as though I had gotten away scott free; or whoever did see me was waiting outside with the police to snatch me up as I left, To Catch a Peedator style. Thankfully, that did not happen, and we made it to the car without any problems, I was shaken, and I knew it would take me quite some time to get over the traumatic occurrences of the day, but in time I would be OK. I would be Ok; I wasn’t going to allow my soul to be swallowed by any porcelain demon, no matter how aesthetically pleasing its camouflage. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked over at her and smiled. She smiled back, and we drove off, leaving all of the peril behind.
And when we got back to her place, we had sex.