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No…Not There!

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Amazing the promises we make to friends as we wash down cheeseburgers with one too many Margaritas, trying desperately not to spray the table as, one-by-one, we shared tales of our youthful misadventures. My girlfriends each surreptitiously crossed their legs and contracted “those” muscles as I ended my story of the romantic interlude that followed the handling of some aggressively spicy cayenne peppers at a local Hungarian restaurant; but it was time to get back to work. As we filed out of the restaurant — likely to the delight of the staff and the other diners — I promised I’d share this chapter from my novel.

Fri 02/01/08

Slowly…ever so slowly…my lowering eyelids blocked out the sunlight streaming through the windows of Barry’s conference room. My forehead rested lightly on the intertwined hands I’d brought up so the others around the table might consider me to be in deep thought – instead of sound asleep.

I sure as hell hoped I didn’t snore.

“Yes, that is my client’s understanding.” Barry’s abrupt response thundered in my right ear, breaking through the garbled din from the opposite end of the table. Clearly my body was present in this, yet another, seemingly endless settlement discussion. I can’t say the same for my head. I took a long drink of the now room temperature water before me so I could pretend to be a conscious participant.

He continued, “Why don’t we break here and take about fifteen minutes to stretch our legs?”

His request didn’t come a moment too soon, for as we all stood, the river that had been building between my legs threatened to break the walls of the dam that held it back.

“And splash some cold water on your face while you’re in there,” he whispered as I moved quickly past him and toward the door. “You don’t have to be here much longer, but it would be nice if you stayed awake.”


I squeezed tightly as I raced down the hall through the door marked “Ladies.” Fortunately, I was alone as the clearly audible “Oh…my” escaped my lips. So this is a $500 an hour bathroom! The floors, walls and counter tops were covered in the most incredible rose-marbled stone I’d ever seen. On my left a gilded mirror was affixed to the wall above each of the pair of white shell-shaped bowls. A dove-gray chaise lounge in the opposite corner invited me to come, lie down and relax. I’d almost forgotten why I was there.

I entered one of the two private rooms, locked the dark walnut door behind me, unzipped my jeans and abandoned my customary public restroom squat. After all, a ladies’ room that expensive deserved a title more lofty than public. And my ass deserved to rest its cheeks on that throne.

As quickly as the stream began, I stopped it, held for a count of five, and let it flow again. Then I repeated the exercise. Someday I planned to let Jack collect the return on his investment in those diamond earrings; I’d begun practicing my Kegel exercises again to make sure the profit was all we both expected it to be. I’d slowly worked my way up to over a hundred of them each day.

At that moment a light bulb flashed behind my eyes! What if I could contract Ms Peach’s muscles to the tune of a song – releasing just a tiny bit of urine as I relaxed between each contraction? How fun – and ultimately impressive – would that be? And I knew the perfect song: the Maxwell House percolator song!

So I tried it.

Tink! Tink-tink-tink!

Oh, this is fun!

Tink-a-tink-a-tink-tink! Tink-tink-a-tink-tink!
Tink-a-tink-a-tink-tink! Tink-tink-a…

Oh shit!

Suddenly thunder clapped, bombs exploded and the roar of an 8.0 earthquake filled the room! Every color I’d ever experienced flashed before my eyes! And I was gripped by a very real version of Fred Sanford’s imaginary “Oh Elizabeth, I’m coming to join you, honey” pain.

Ow! Ow! Owwwwwwwww!

Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

As soon as my bladder forced me to let it empty itself, I crossed my legs and rolled onto the beautiful, cold, rose-marbled floor, laid there and cried. In the past, whenever I’d had a charley horse – usually in my chest or a leg – I’d just stretch the muscle out, massage it and apply ice.

But when that wickedly painful muscle is…uh, you know where?


About PD Williams

Writer - primarily humorous women's fiction. My secret agenda is to help men become in actuality the visions they think they already are. I point out their many flaws in the kindest, gentlest, most supportive way I know -- gotta protect those fragile male egos -- so we can stop wasting our energy trying to change them. After all, as women, we have more important things to do.

4 responses »

  1. I have no personal experience from which to draw a connection to this, but I believe I can empathize a little? I suspect, were I of another gender, I might be ROTFLMAO, but I only find myself both a little CONfused and BEmused. Part of me feels a bit like an intruder, privy to a little TMI. Well written, though, PD. Well written. Perhaps the proof is in just how strange it felt to read it, eh?

  2. Funny!!


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