We must put the strange South African guy on hold. I’ll save him for a day when nothing interesting happens. In the mean time, here:
I went to see Bloc Party last night and wet my pants. True story.
Maybe I was so excited about the violent, swirling whirlpool of humanity that formed for “Banquet.” Maybe someone’s elbow nailed me in the bladder. Or maybe I should look into getting some Detrol. However, any way you look at it, I had a serious issue of urine leakage right there, front and center, on the Palladium’s hardwood floor.
I leaned back and yelled to The Boyfriend™, “I just wet my pants!”
He laughed and nodded.
I repeated, “No, I literally wet my pants!”
The Boyfriend™ nodded again with a reassuring look that said, “I heard you over the guitars and even through my ear plugs!”
Why he wasn’t cringing, I didn’t know. Bloc Party broke into “Sunday,” so I just shrugged and enjoyed the music and tried to not be disturbed that I found my crotch pleasantly wet and warm.
Afterward, we walked over to The Waffle for a late, horrible-for-my-hot-Vegas-body meal. The traffic was loud enough on Sunset that only I could hear the crunch of my thick sweat-and-piss-encrusted jeans clinging to my ass and thighs. I was drenched in so much vile liquid that I could hardly pull my pants up. If I hadn’t been wearing a sweater around my waist, half of Hollywood would’ve seen my crack. But I think that’s fairly normal for Hollywood, at least for the homeless and the Kress tramps, and at least any scent wafting off of me could also be attributed to the homeless––and maybe even the Kress tramps, depending on how they’re earning those Marc Jacobs dresses. Anyway, I sat through dinner (salmon and capers over hash browns, insert your own fish joke here), and then we went back to his place for some awesome sex.
“I smell horrible.”
“No, you don’t, sweetie.”
All I kept thinking was “I pissed my pants and this guy still wants to do me. Wow, he is so perfect!”
The next morning: “Hey, can I throw my jeans into your washer? They’re all I have to wear.”
“Sure, but you weren’t that sweaty, were you?”
Blink.
Actually, I was. My dog wanted to grind her back into my polo shirt and sweater from last night, and usually she only chooses cat shit or manure to scent her coat with. And, though I’d hastily tossed my clothes onto the floor last night, I could smell the sweat wafting up to where I lay in bed this morning. Christ, I thought, I was a biohazard last night. Now you know how diseases get spread, because the CDC didn’t bother to slam me to the ground, cuff me and haul my filthy ass to quarantine in Atlanta.
“Well, I mean, they also have my urine on them.”
He blinks.
“You were serious?”
“That’s why I said ‘literally.’”
“Oh.” The Boyfriend™ pauses, and I’m sure, racing through his mind, is every dirty thing we did last night and precisely where his tongue licked.
He shrugs. “Yeah, of course. Toss ‘em in.”
This is why I love dating men in their 30s. Nothing freaks them out.
