This is not the business.
Fortunately after all that self-medication, I can still sit up enough to type and whatnot... which brings me to today's tale. The other evening after the basketball debacle, I decided to log on to Facebook to check some messages. One of those messages was from an old "associate" from my high school days. She found me through mutual friends and decided to hit me up as we hadn't communicated in several years. We conversed over the usual catching up propaganda (i.e. how are you; what have you done with yourself, how many kids, baby mamas, STD's, protection orders, time served, etc.) when out of the blue, she asked if I was still as fast as I was in high school.
To some of you, that might seem like an innocent question. I ran track in high school and I was fast enough to actually win some races but my speed never hit a higher gear than the fateful spring afternoon during my junior year of high school.
I distinctly remember it. I had a half-day from school that day and I was feeling high off life. I called my associate above (we'll call her Sweet Thang for the story's sake) and she informed me that her folks worked late and that I should come over to watch some videos. Being that I had no cable at home, I jumped at the opportunity and we journeyed over to her house and crept down to the basement. Sweet Thang offered me a seat on the couch next to her and turned on the television (and turned off the lights).
As Craig Mack brought the new flava in my ear across the screen, I became transfixed on to what new dance I was gonna try and do.
SIDEBAR - I learned how to dance by imitating moves I saw on videos. Don't judge me. I put in work on the dance floor
I looked over at Sweet Thang to show my approval for the gift of BET, smiled brightly and went happily back to my viewing (while nodding my head to the beat). In hindsight, I guess I should have noticed her staring me down and licking her lips but hell, I had cable! Needless to say, I was startled to feel a hand on
*Cue Marvin Gaye - Sexual Healing*
Kiss.
Touch.
Grab.
Stroke.
Tug.
Unzip.
Uno.
Dos.
Rojo.
Miércoles.(Yes, I started daydreaming in foreign languages)
Wow.
Ahh.
Ohh.
Was this really happening?
Was I about to get my ummm.... passport taken away?
As I fumbled with the bra clasp (and with my mouth watering), I shot up a silent shout-out to God for hooking me up... when I heard a loud voice coming from upstairs.
WHODAFUGGIZINMYHOWSE?!!!
Don't make me get my pistol!!!!
I think I almost messed myself I was so nervous. I vowed to never think about sex again - if the good Lord had it in his heart to get me out of that basement with everything on me still attached. With my pants still around my ankles, I ran-hopped to the basement door but it was dead-bolted shut. [Unprintable curse words were shouted internally.]
Sweet Lady told me the only way out was either going back upstairs or climbing through a small window that a mouse would get stuck in. [Again, unprintable curse words were shouted internally.] As I lamented my demise, I laced up my shoes, straightened out my clothes and walked toward my impending doom.
That's when I heard the bathroom door and the toilet bowl flush.
With lightning speed, I ran up the stairs, through the living room and out the front door in 4.6 seconds... and I hadn't seen or heard from her until the other day.
Never did find out if he had a pistol - but aren't you glad I didn't?
I know my bullet-free behind is.
After you finish laughing at me, let me know about a time when you were caught in the act (because I know I wasn't the only one.) While you're doing that, I'm gonna pop some more Advil.
Have a good one!
