It's been another one of those years, I think to myself as I walk into the grocery store on New Year's Eve. Not just another one of those years in the pandemic limbo of when-is-this-plague-gonna-end-and-when-can-I-just-say-fuck-it-Covid-take-me-now hell that we're all sick of enduring. I mean another year since I last had sex.
I really don't care to recall the last time I got laid, but I can tell you it's been too long.
How long is too long?
Too long is when you turn that question into a sexual reference and giggle like a prepubescent that doesn't have any clue what sex really is but hey who am I to judge, neither do I these days.
Too long is when you wander into the produce section to grab a few things for tonight's quiet dinner with friends only to be visually assaulted by carrots and Japanese eggplants and jesus god no, not the zucchinis...
Look away. LOOK AWAY!
Look at something else.
Oh for fuck's sake.
As I turn away from the fungal ha-ha-you're-not-fornicating brigade a message comes through from my friend in Germany:
Wearing red panties on New Years is supposed to make you get lucky!
I contemplate which end of the laundry spectrum my red panties are currently on while I wait in the checkout line.
I leave the store with my dignity and a few other items, none of which are from the produce department.
It's still early in the day. Plenty of time to go for a soberingly frigid walk with the dog.
Cold air does me good, gets my mind off the things I don't have and am not having.
obligatory corvid photo
The sun sets, taking with it the illusion of warmth that had convinced me not to put thermals on under my jeans.
It's cold. Wicked cold. It's glad-I-don't-have-testicles-but-you-wouldn't-be-able-to-tell-if-I-did-it's-that-cold cold.
This perverse level of cold does sadistic things to my bladder and I suddenly find myself swept into a sense of unsexual urgency pertaining to my parts (yes, unsexual, not my kink, swipe left).
Home and my toilet are a couple miles away.
Uphill.
Run.
Run in winter boots while carrying a little dog.
I grunt and moan and pant and cry. I explore different ways to position my pelvis to reduce the pressure on my bladder, a stark contrast to the pelvic positionings imagined during my hot and bothered shopping trip. I side-eye the hedges surrounding churches. Contemplate pulling down my pants and sitting my ass down on a frozen curb. It's still light out, though. Could get caught. Don't want to spend New Year's Eve in jail. Don't want that kind of sex.
Just a few more blocks.
I can make it.
Hurry.
I pass the bushes outside the school where those old homeless dudes take their shits.
Pass the busted porta-potty in the park.
One more block.
I grit my teeth.
Sprint.
Apartment complex door. Key.
Come on!!!! Open!!!!
Stairs.
Unleash the dog.
Fly!
I get to my studio apartment.
Get the key in the door.
Turn it.
Open the door and proceed to piss my pants.
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Tips on Pissing your Pants:
When the dam breaks, there's no time to make sure the dog gets into the apartment and the cat doesn't get out. Hell, there's not even time to pull down your pants. What's the point? It would only mean a bigger mess. You just leave the front door wide open and run to the bathroom and sit down on the toilet and finish the job and marvel at how the urine still makes that delightful tinkling sound as it streams into the toilet bowl through two layers of clothing.
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What's done is done.
I thank the good lord I had the twisted foresight not wear those thermals as I kick off my muddy boots and peel off my piss-soaked pants and underwear. I fling them into the bathtub.
In waist-length winter coat and nothing else I rush to retrieve my confused and probably traumatized dog from where he lingers in the hallway outside the apartment, making sure to slip on some mud I'd tracked onto the slick wood floor. The slip sends me lunging toward the startled dog, who dashes down the hallway so that I have to chase him, butt-naked (in the most precise definition of the term), down the hall while praying that none of the holiday passersby are gaping through the building windows at my glistening frostbitten ass.
Thankfully the dog turns and runs inside.
I run in after him and close the door. Hurry across the room. I think I feel a droplet of piss running down my ankle but I am more concerned with closing the blinds before the neighbors on the balcony see me in full winter bush.
I am spared one smidgen of luck, as my frantic and erratic behaviors cause my cat to scrambleskid under the bed instead of making a break for the great beyond. With everyone safe, I tear off the rest of my clothing and drag my now-dead dignity into the shower with me and my pisspants and wash everything off but the shame.
Then I get out and dry off. I pretty myself up and put on red panties.
why the hell not
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In addition to assurance that nobody will ever want to have sex with me from here on out, this post is my official entry to the Comedy Open Mic Contest. I nominate @ewkaw and @nikv to participate because they've made me laugh before and I have faith that they can make you laugh as well.
And if you think you're so funny, you should enter, too. Use the link above to figure out how.
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