I’m in a hotel at about 4:30 in the afternoon. It’s post-lunch date, and my date and I have extended the party to room 203 in this clean and serviceable motor lodge overlooking the highway.
We are mid-clench, groping tweaking biting and of course, because I’ve had a couple of drinks and because I’m a girl, I have to pee. I scoot off the bed and into the bathroom, closing the door but not latching it.
I’m in full flow when the door swings open and Gus, a dead ringer for Mr. Clean, swoops a hand down between my legs, sticks his fingers in the stream, licks them clean. Yum, he says. Don’t be greedy.
Oh really. Next time, I say, just ask and you can have it right from the source.
The suspicious acetate coverlet goes on the floor, and we’re rolling and fingering and tugging and fucking and fucking and fucking and I have to pee again. Gus swings a desk chair around, covers the seat with a towel. He positions me so my tailbone is at the edge of the seat and kneels in front of me with his mouth open.
I can’t do it.
After a few moments I manage a measly squirt, which Gus neatly catches in his mouth. Baby, he whimpers. I need more.
I know! I say. I know! I’m sorry! I grab his hand and pull him into the bathroom. He lies on the white tiles and I grasp the towel rack, squat over his face. Still nothing.
Who knew it was so hard to pee on someone? I have visions of my child self gently correcting my errant attempts. No, silly, she says; you pee in *there,* she says, pointing to the toilet. I know, I tell her, but today, just today, I really want to pee on that guy.
I sit on the toilet, and Gus turns the water on. Ah ha. The old toilet training trick to the rescue.
And I drown the motherfucker.
We fuck for a few more hours, and then we watch the Daily Show.