When the line is too long, I find somewhere else to go. The soggy beach bathroom, with its soupy floors of wet cold sand and footprints had a line that extended beyond the bathroom doors, a whip of women waiting, rocking their weight from heel to toe to heel again. They mingled with the patrons who stood in line for hot dogs and ice cream in the shapes of rockets. I wasn’t about to wait. “I’m going to find a discreet pocket and go pee.”
“No, you animal. You will wait in line like a lady,” my friend reprimanded.
“You sound like my mother.”
“Good. Someone needs to be.” She smiled.
“Actually, screw that, my mother would tell me to go pee in the sand too.” And with that, I left the line and found a private area beneath the deck where no one could see me. I peed, squatting, watching my hard stream disappear into the sand like a wave.
Later in the evening, we drove to Carvel. “We” consisted of some friends I knew and their friends. We’d just crashed a catered house party, and we were making our way back to my friend’s home, when we’d driven past Carvel. Well, you can’t very well drive past Carvel. Once inside, people began to survey the colored tubs of hard ice cream behind frosty glass cabinets. I was too drunk for ice cream. I needed a bathroom. “Excuse me Sir, may I please use your bathroom?”
“No,” came out in a grunt without even the pretense of polite.
“We have no bathroom.” I hate this. There is no way this scooping machine of a man goes all day without ever needing to use a bathroom. This particular Carvel was isolated along a busy highway.
“Listen, Sir, I know you have a bathroom. There’s no way you hold it all day. You gotta go sometime, and my sometime is now.” I was drunk; I know I sound like an asshole.
“No bathroom.” Ugh. Fine. I’d find my own in a bush in the dark.
My heavy D100 SLR was slung across my body, and my handbag was hooked into the crook of my arm. In my long jeans, gold shoes, and white tank, I walked back toward the car looking for a spot to hide and pee. Alison, the driver of our little carpool, asked me to wait up, leaving her boyfriend Adam in the car. She, too, had to pee. Near a wooden red fence, where no one could really see me, I decided to drop trail. “Here, let me hold that for you.” Alison took my camera and handbag for me as I pulled my jeans and panties to my calves. I wasn’t worried she’d run with them. It was quite the opposite. I felt the very strong feeling, in the width of air between us, that she wanted me. I became nervous and stopped watching where my stream of urine was landing. The stream was strong and steady, splashing the black tar of the lot near the fence. “Wow, that’s so hot,” she said without bothering to whisper. “I love your panties, too.”
I knew exactly what was going on here, but I tried to play it cool. “Oh aren’t they great? I have them in five colors.” I thought if I girled it up some, added some levity, she’d stop staring at the curve of my stomach and the space between my legs. Quite aware that I was on display for her now, I thought she might bite me somewhere. I wiggled back into my jeans quickly, pulling them up in one quick movement. It was clear to me now that she never had any intention on going to the bathroom and was instead going for me. “Thanks for holding those,” I offered quickly trying to grab back my camera and bag. Surprisingly she gave them to me without a fuss, each item in each of my empty hands. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.
Or maybe she’d then use my filled hands as her chance to fill my mouth with her wet tongue. Just so I’m accurate in the telling of what happened next, I’m going to share with you the text message I’d sent to a close friend immediately after this episode went down:
This night has been INSANE. I was just attacked by a swinger chick. Not kidding. In a bush. You have no idea. I went to pee in a bush and a woman ATTACKED me. No joke. She watched me pee, said she had the same underwear, then she said she wouldn’t let me past her unless I kissed her. (This sounds disturbingly familiar to a billy goat gruff tale with trolls). Before I had a chance to deny her, she slipped her tongue into my mouth. She clearly swings more than both ways. More like the way of the samurai pusssy.
Dude, this isn’t even a txt message; it’s a nightmare. The worst part of it all was I felt like I had to kiss her back or else I’d be seen as a horrible kisser. I mean, I’d rather go down in history as bisexual than be thought of as a bad kisser. There’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re making out with an avocado. So I kissed her back to prove I could, and then I pushed her off me. In the car, I spoke through clenched teeth as my friends licked their cones. “Steph, want some?”
“No thanks. I clearly already got mine; I guess I had it coming.”
Later, when I told my friend from the beach, she mock-lectured, “You see, Stephanie, that’s what you get for being such an animal. Maybe it will teach you.”
“Teach me what? Please. Whatever. At least it’s a good story.”
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