Here’s another in the Bad Date series…I had picked up my girlfriend of the time at her parent’s house.  We were both pretty young, so neither of us had an apartment.  But I had a brand new car (A sexy Subaru station wagon…woo woo!  Granted that big back area could be a benefit, but we never made it back that far).

We drove a little ways to a wooded area she knew.  It was near a small pond, with houses across the way.  We pulled in, killed the lights, and, well, you know...let’s just say that clothes were quickly becoming optional.  It was dark, and pouring out, so it seemed perfect.

Ah yes, there’s that word “seemed”&hell ip;

We were still pretty much in our own seats, but that was changing rapidly.  I won’t go into details about “whose head was where”.  Suffice it to say at least one of us was very happy, and both of us were distracted.  That’s when the first set of headlights appeared behind us.

When I saw these first set of headlights I was mildly annoyed, thinking another couple had crashed our party.  “Don’t you know to dim your lights, moron!  Have some respect!  We’re BUSY here!”  Those were the first thoughts going through my head (the one with brain cells).

Then the next set of headlights appeared…followed quickly by the 3^rd set.  “Wow…that&rs quo;s a lot of suddenly horny people”, I thought.  That’s when the brain started to get some blood back and began to actually think.  That was also right about the same time when I saw the first of several uniformed officers heading our way.

You’d be amazed how fast cops can pull up, and be out of their cars and heading right towards you when they want to.  We began to scramble to get dressed.  If I recall, my pants were just down around my ankles a bit, but my shirt was nowhere to be seen.  My girlfriend was equally lacking clothes in all the right places.  Now my aggravation was growing (while something else was shrinking).  At that point I had no idea that being “aggravated” at the cops was not a good thing.

First thing I noticed that didn’t sit well was the way the cops were approaching.  Now mind you, it was hard to see because they had their spotlights shining right in on us.  Plus we had all kinds of houses across the way turning on their deck and yard spots.  I felt like we were the main attraction at Ringling and Bros.  The cops were coming up on each side slowly, their hands clearly sitting on their holsters.  “Brain to hands…don’t make any gun-pointing gestures right about now, got it?”

The cop on my side started barking orders.  Basically he wanted to see my hands, and he wanted them both outside my window.  And he seemed to want me to start doing this right away.  I put the window down on my car, and began to protest about the fact that it was pouring out and my interior was getting soaked.  So I offered to come out.  They counter-offered with something that gave me the distinct impression that my suggestion was not well received.  Go figure.  Meanwhile, they pretty much grabbed my girlfriend and yanked her from the car. 

Why all the hub-bub you ask?  OK, I’ll wind this story down with the punch line…as my continuing luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time would have it, there had apparently been some type of an assault at that very location recently, but the suspect got away.  He had taken a girl there against her will.  Luckily nothing happened as the girl managed to get away, but it was treated as an attempted rape.  Soooooooooo…with me and my girlfriend choosing that particular spot on that particular night, we unwittingly almost ended up on a COPS episode (not that they had those back then).

After some quick checks the cops realized the situation.  By now of course we were both soaked.  But we got back in my car and made a hasty getaway.  What started all of this?  A nice old lady in one of the houses across the way was playing Good Samaritan, and called the cops as soon as she saw us pull in.  Can’t necessarily blame her, but man, what a crappy way to end a night that had so much potential!

As I approach the second-half of my life, I’m happy to report that, on occasion, I actually do learn a thing or two.  Granted, it usually takes repeated applications for stuff to sink in, but eventually I connect the dots and figure it out. 
One of these life-lessons I have learned is to always check for toilet paper on the roll.  Like a Pavlovian dog, I instinctively scan my chosen stall upon entry to make sure that the trusty white roll is not only there, but that it is functional.

You might say I’ve achieved my PhD in Preparatory Ass Wiping.  When you repeatedly make sure the roll is there, that’s your undergrad.  But when you learn to also make sure that all the sheets aren’t stuck together through some freak of manufacturing, then and only then have you earned your advanced degree.  Luckily, it only takes one time of having to attempt to wipe yourself clean with a torn off wad of TP to get yourself educated.

But some of those early days in “school” were pretty rough.  One in particular stands out.  I was at a party when my body decided it needed to shed some pounds.  It was bad enough that I was going to have to face the daunting task of doing a discreet Number Two, something that for me is nearly impossible.  The skill of taking a dump, and NOT making noise, escapes me.  No matter how much I try and control it, the pre-dump gas just seems to explode out of me.  It’s like my sphincter is locked shut, and only when sufficient back-pressure has built up do the doors open.  I’ve actually made ripples in the toilet water from farting.

In this case, I did manage to control the sound explosion a bit, but only by executing a pre-squat cheek-spread that would make any porn star proud.  Course I almost started to giggle like a school-boy when I began to make hissing sounds before any skin touched the always-cold toilet seat.  But the smell was another hurdle to be overcome.  As luck would have it this particular episode featured a by-product that was relatively solid in nature (ie, no “squirts).  Generally-speaking, the harder it is, the more aromatically sealed it seems to be.

Since I was at a party, I intended to do as little as I needed to.  I mean, I don’t know about you, but my dumps seems to happen in groups of two or three at one sitting.  The initial one is usually the largest, but not always.  Thing is though, if you’re anything like me, you know that “timing” and “closure” is everything if you plan to stop production after the first wave.  If you don’t get it just right, then what happens is when you try and wipe yourself, you may encounter the leading edge of Wave Two.  And the problem is that once Wave Two tastes freedom, it’s really hard to deny it…and trust me – pushing back is not an option!

So naturally I mis-timed it, and here comes Wave Two.  OK, fine, I can deal.  That’s when I reach for the toilet paper, just so I can be ready this time.  And all I see is a few shreds of white, dangling from a dull-brown cardboard roll.  “Shit!  The same bastard who empties the water cooler at work and doesn’t replace it is at this damn party!”  I look behind me…no spare roll to be seen, and no courtesy box of tissues either.  So there I was, desperately in need of anything that resembles toilet paper, and none around.

I looked around the room.  You ever notice that nine times out of ten the bathroom in a home is small enough that you could probably extend your arms out sideways and touch both walls?  Well guess what?  This one wasn’t one of those rooms.  Not even the garbage can was in view.  And trust me, if there had been a few used tissues in there I would have recycled them!  I contemplated the feasibility of taking that cardboard roll apart and “softening it up” somehow, but wisely abandoned the thought.  My mind was racing.  I checked my shirt, wondering if it was long enough such that I could cut off a piece of the bottom and use that?  Sigh…not really.  Besides, it’s one of my favorite shirts.  How could I ever explain the fact that a chunk of it is missing? 

So, I’ve got no choice…looks like I’m going to be doing “The Crab”.  Now, “The Crab” is what you have to do when your pants are down around your ankles, and you have “brown particle matter” between your cheeks that needs prompt attention, and you need to move.  See, in that situation, you can’t stand up because standing up causes the cheeks to come together, creating a warm, mushy feeling that adults really shouldn’t be experiencing.  So you have to pretty much stay in a squat position.  Even worse, chances are the minor friction of the toilet seat is probably holding your cheeks further apart than normal, so even if you remain squatted, there’s going to be some closure when you get up.  That means you have to dedicate your hands to cheek-spreading duty.

So I grab one cheek each, pull apart, and lift myself off the seat, still in the squat position, mind you, and I start to do the “The Crab”.  I head on over to the sink, figuring the spare rolls would be there.  At this point I have no choice…one hand has to be relieved of cheek-duty so it can open the vanity door.  Knowing full-well that if I let go I run the risk of cheek-to-cheek contact, I prepare by pulling even harder with the other hand.  I also do something similar to what people do when they are bowling and they contort their body, only in this case I’m trying to control the ass muscle of the now-free cheek to see if I can make it manually spread.  Still squatting, I open the door.

Nothing.  At least nothing I can wipe with.  If I want to shove a bottle of SoftScrub up my ass I can do that, or there’s an old toothbrush there.  But I’m not that desperate…yet.  So I re-grab the free cheek.  I think there’s been some collateral damage down there, but not sure.  I crab-hobble over to the closet.  Once again I let one cheek go free.  This time there’s definite contact...oh well, no sense crying about it now.  I see the object of my desire…one full, sweet roll of TP.  I grab it, balance it on the top of my thighs, and do the crab-thing back to the toilet.  And of course the seat’s cold again.  Christ, I just LEFT!  Show some damn mercy, will ya?

Once back on I proceed to wipe, but I can already tell I’m doing more “smearing” than actual “wiping”.  The thought crosses my mind to grab a face cloth, run it under some warm water, and clean myself up a bit, but I quickly let that thought go.  Even I couldn’t do that, even though in a way my host was to blame for not making sure there was enough TP for the party.  Can you imagine finding that thing in your laundry basket the next day?  I wiped as best I could, leaving small traces of toilet paper stuck to my ass for sure.  Now that’s an attractive picture…I should have taken an anonymous close-up of my ass and mailed them the picture…”Had a great time at your party, except when I HAD TO DUMP!!!”