As an adult, and I use that term loosely, I fully—kind of—understand that shit happens. By “shit,” I mean accidents. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking of accidents like forgetting to pick up your kid from school or drinking one too many Belvedere martinis at happy hour. You know, accidents no one can really predict or prevent.
Then there are the accidents that can and should be prevented . . . like taking a big piss on my bedroom floor.
Wait! I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Let me backtrack a tad.
Do you ever get that feeling? You know the one: It’s a Saturday night, you haven’t been out and about in a few weeks, and suddenly have a craving to tie one on, get freak nasty, let your hair down (insert your favorite euphemism). That was me. I call that feeling the “itch.” Fortunately, we live in a world where most itches can be treated and cured with a shot and seven-day vow of abstinence.
Turns out, the cure for my particular itch was to bar hop, have a few cocktails, and see where the night took me. And let me tell you, it took me somewhere, all right. I only wish I’d brought along an umbrella and rain boots for the journey.
I was looking good and feeling better. That afternoon I’d happily broken my two-week-long diet for a refreshing, ice-cold beer and a large plate of tri-tip nachos. When in Rome. Or, more appropriately, when in Petco Park, eat the wienie. So to speak. And I didn’t just eat it; I swallowed it whole.
Here’s the thing with me: I’m an all or nothing kind of guy. Go big or go home, if you will. Why have a handful of Sour Patch Kids, when you can have the whole bag? Why drink one Coors Light, when you can drink a 30-pack? Why eat one slice of pizza . . . You see where I’m going with this.
Anyway, I guess I should have been upset that I’d abruptly ended my diet. Two full, hard weeks of staying on track and fighting unhealthy urges down the drain. The truth of the matter, though, I wasn’t mad, sad, or even the tiniest bit upset. I was relieved. It was my choice to end the diet—not an accident—and once I’d made that choice, I was free to go to the dark side. All the way to the dark side. Translation: Eat and/or drink everything that didn’t eat and/or drink me first.
And I did!
I was already full of beer, carbs, and sugar. Why couldn’t I just go home after the baseball game (perhaps stop along the way for an additional treat), get into bed, and turn on Netflix, like any normal, rational human being? I don’t know.
Actually, that’s a lie; I do know. You do, too, because I already told you. I’m an all or nothing kind of guy. Go big or go home, remember? And home was the last place I wanted to go. I’d had a small taste of what I’d been missing for the past couple of weeks, and I only wanted more. Lots more.
Then again, that seems to be the current climate we live in, right? Nothing is ever enough, always wanting more and more. We all have some sort of insatiable hunger within us these days. I can’t help but wonder . . . Will that hunger (regardless of what it is, as everyone’s hunger is different) ever be fulfilled?
A couple of bars later, I had a healthy buzz. The type of buzz where I still knew my name and hadn’t lost my wallet, iPhone, or apartment keys. It had been a good, productive night; it was time to go home. Except, I didn’t want to go home alone.
Now, you can trust me or not, but I only wanted to take someone home with me because I felt like cuddling. Who doesn’t want/need/enjoy a good cuddle buddy? Don’t believe everything you hear . . . or read on the bathroom stall at Urban Mo’s Bar & Grill. Sometimes, men—gay men, even—just want a good cuddle session.
My fault doesn’t lie in the fact that I’d wanted to cuddle after indulging in a few adult beverages. Probably more than I’d needed if I’m being completely honest. I’m only human. A human with amazing hair, but still human, nonetheless. No, my fault is that I hadn’t been more selective with who I’d picked to cuddle with, which is definitely a rookie mistake.
If you’ve been waiting for the climax, here it is: The guy I brought home to cuddle with, and only cuddle with, peed . . . everywhere—except in the toilet! I’m talking about on my bedroom floor, closet floor, and the hallway floor.
Soaked. Drenched. Puddles for days.
A couple of reflections: How can someone pee so much? And, while it’s never fun to be pissed off, I am thankful I hadn’t been pissed on that night or early morning. Needless to say, I have a new appreciation for hardwood floors.
Call me crazy, but some bodily fluids just don’t belong in the bedroom—or hallway—thank you very much!
Looking back on my very own, personal Watergate incident, I’m contemplating whether or not I’m partly to blame for what happened. Is it possible that I’d stumbled into some sort of fetish party at that final bar stop of the night?
You see, before I’d decided to take home Betsy Wetsy, I’d struck up a conversation with another man, a neighbor, actually. We exchanged pleasantries and phone numbers, and then, for whatever reason, went our separate ways. Little did I know then, I’d gotten quite lucky and dodged a, well, we’ll just call it a “bullet.”
The next afternoon that same neighbor sent me a message, telling me that he’d gotten the shits due to all of the beer he’d drank.
Seriously? I mean . . . WHAT. THE. FUCK. And no, that’s not a question—it’s an exclamation. As in, what the actual fuck! It takes a lot to shock me. Yet, for a pretty much stranger to talk to me about his bowel movements, yeah, I was shocked! And not at all impressed.
I repeat, though: I’d lucked out.
I’ll take a rainstorm over a shitstorm any day of the week.
To add insult to injury, my guest blamed his “accident” on my roommate’s dog, because that was such a plausible explanation. What a peabrain! However, he did leave his Calvin Klein socks behind, and they fit me, so that was a plus!
Come to think of it now, perhaps my hunger has been fulfilled. At this particular moment, I do feel satiated. Back on my diet (for the time being), no need or want for a cuddle buddy, finally realizing that sometimes, less is more.
Maybe it takes almost getting peed on to put things into perspective.
Maybe that’s part of the beauty of fulfillment: Before you can realize what you truly want, you must first have to learn what you don’t want.
And I don’t now or ever want to be peed on.
So…tl;dr you got a second-hand pair of yellow socks? 😜