He had accidentally pulled the towel rack out of the wall. In record time. And now I was sitting on the small sink in the closet-sized bathroom, praying that it wouldnt be the next to collapse, one foot on the wall, the other on the toilet that was less than a foot away. I tried not to shriek with laughter as he tried to catch himself from falling by grabbing onto the "cold" knob on the sink, spraying my backside with the icy blast that came out of the tap.
Had anyone told me a week ago that i'd find myself here, i'd have told them to either stop ripping off bad sitcoms or to lay off the crack.
But there I was. Having sex with the prep-cook in a tiny basement bathroom in someone's house i didnt even know.
The fact that he was prepared with condoms meant more to me than the flowers my boyfriend had given me for Valentine's Day. Maybe I just need to surround myself wth better people.
But life is funny and full of surprises and "cliche cliche cliche" and we were both stone sober which put a whole different spin on things.
And i know i have no future with the prep-cook, other than maybe a long-distance friendship, since he's moving to Texas in a month. And even if he wasn't moving, he's far from the person who can support me and provide for me in the future. And i feel terrible saying that, because that's not number one on my list of "What I Look for in a Person." But it should be. Because otherwise, one day, i'll find myself at age 45, on my hands and knees in a bathroom somewhere and someone fucking me from behind, and praying that each time my head hits the wall in front of me that the haphazardly replaced towel-rack doesn't lose its grip and come crashing down on my skull. Yeah, it makes for an amusing story.
but not much else.