Grossly Negligent Use of Hardwood Floors

If there is one thing I hear often it’s “I can’t tell anyone else.”

75% of the time, that statement precedes a story of sexual matters.

For a long time, I have been the haven for many of my friends -and some people I barely know- to come to with sexual issues, stories, or anything of the sort. They know I won’t tell anyone else (aside from the whole internet). They also know I’ll probably have an answer. But most importantly, they know I would never judge them.

My crazy one-night-stands are pretty tame as of right now, because I’ve managed to be snagged and settled by some lucky guy. (You can discuss his secrets with him at a later time, but my aunt will insist it’s his gravy.) Regardless, my stories have died down just a bit, and yet I’m the go-to for spilling the beans when one of my friends -particularly those still swimming in the dating pool- have one that they need to tell to someone, but can’t risk telling that judgmental friend whose drunken hook-ups and tales of depravity pale in comparison.

(Please note: Name’s have been changed, due to the nature of this blog post.)

This particular friend of mine -whom we will call Jenn for the purpose of privacy- is one of my favorites. In terms of sexual adventures, she’s just hitting her stride. Everything is brand new to her. Talking about my sexual encounters and discussing her own is akin to bringing a 4 year-old to the zoo. They know animals exist, and they’ve even seen some, but it’s not until you drag them passed the run-of-the-mill goats and get to the cage that houses the tigers that their mouth drops open and they realize– they do exist! (I’m not sure how I feel about bringing 4 year-olds into this… but you get the point.) In this regard, Jenn’s dating and bedroom life are just as exciting for me as they are for her.

Of course, just like any situation in life– add in a little whiskey and things can potentially go awry. You know, like maybe you end up peeing on a dude’s floor. Cue that slightly incomprehensible text sent to me at 3:30 in the morning…

Jenn: I may or may not have pissed on John’s floor.

Me: Um, what?! That text requires elaboration, please. Nice opening sentence. I’m hooked. 

Jenn: I woke up hammed in the middle of the night and couldn’t find the door. Don’t worry tho, I cleaned it up with a towel and threw it under the bed. 

Oh. Logical.

I’m not sure what it says for my character, but my immediate reaction was envy that this story was not mine to tell. I didn’t even have all the details and I was pouting thinking ugh, I’ve never been so drunk I pissed on a guy’s floor. 

First, let’s get to the fact that Jenn and John were not going to work out. Why? Because John was the worst texter in the world. Unacceptable. His texts were bland one-word responses that could bore the face off a statue of Piers Morgan. (Don’t know how boring Piers Morgan is? Watch his show. You will be bored.) Bad texting is an unforgivable crime. So really, all joking aside, this guy deserved his floor to be peed on. In fact, she should have opened his dresser and popped a squat on his neatly folded Old Navy collared shirts.

Nonetheless, Jenn’s intent was not originally to pee on his floor when she drunkenly accepted his late-night invitation to go to his house. I’m hard-pressed to think that anyone has intentionally went out with the conviction that they would, in fact, piss on a floor. Although, I wouldn’t be surprised if some have.

But what’s a girl to do?

Jenn had too much to drink, second. This is a woe of many, of course. One can only hope that it happens in the confines of one’s home surrounded by the remnants of an empty bag of cheese puffs as you get weepy over the latest X-Factor and finally turn to your cat and ask it “should I text him, little kitty? I just don’t think the bastard cares!” To which, you then misinterpret the cat’s blank stare as a “yes, definitely text him” and proceed to pass out in a heap on your floor after sending texts that make little -if any- sense and that are entirely your cat’s fault. …One can only hope…

Jenn didn’t actually come to until she was already standing in the middle of the unfamiliar room; unfamiliar because she had no clue where she was or why she was there.  Glancing around suspiciously, she looked for clues that would explain her nakedness and whereabouts. She spun this way and that and as foggy glimpses of drunken, entangled limbs began to drift back into her mind, a stinging urge to urinate started to overrun her whole groin area. The realization that she had gotten out of the bed to pee began to dawn as well as the fact that she had no feckin’ clue where the door was to exit and make her way to the appropriate receptacle in which to excrete.

Fuck. She took one step forward and the pain her bladder shot through her entire body was excruciating. Still no sign of the door as she took another step forward and the sensation to let the flood gates open went quivering from head to toe. Doomed.

Much in the same way that alcohol can convince you that your cat thinks it’s a good idea to text some dude– it can also convince you that it’s totally logical to stop at the end of some dude’s bed and start peeing while your eyes try and adjust and find the door. Focus. The wave of relief that began as soon as the splashing on the floor began was all too much to bare, and then there it was: the door. Clamping down with great restraint, Jenn ran to the bathroom and finished what she started on his floor, in the toilet. (I should note: I do not entirely believe this detail of her story. I have yet to meet anyone who could actually stop drunk peeing -especially under such extreme circumstances- and finish moments later. I call bullshit.)

Jenn returned to the room and cleaned up her puddle with a hand towel that she stole from the bathroom. Listening to John’s quiet, peaceful snoring, she let out a sigh of relief for both her bladder and that he didn’t awake, shoved the dirty, tinkle-soaked towel as far underneath the bed as she could muster, and she carefully crawled back into bed with him.

The moral of this story? Well, there are three: 1) always locate the exit before passing out, 2) your cat thinks you should text no one ever, and 3) do not be a bad texter (!) —  pee on your floor is what you’ll get.

 

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One Response to Grossly Negligent Use of Hardwood Floors

  1. shweatyballs says:

    Bestest yet. My cat is stupid. (side note: Is Jenny available to let this tiger out of his cage?)

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