The Piss Window

I got an invitation to dinner with a dignitary last night. A man who’s spent over half his life in the USA and was almost lacking in African-ness, except that he was black, of course. He had heard about me too many times from his son and had decided to meet me. I was eager too. Not to meet him per se, but to find out what his son had said about me.
I and his son were not exactly ‘good’ friends, just friends. For one, he was older than i was. And he liked too much body contact. Too much.
We arrived at the house some five minutes into the dinner proper, making it look like i cared only for the food. I apologized, was introduced, and bam! Huge plate of everything landed in front me. It was the kind of meal you had to take a photo of before digging in, but the condition surrounding me didn’t permit it. I had to start from the unknown to the known. As i browsed through the region like Mongo Park, i discovered new tastes, new tingles, new irritations. It was as beautiful as it was awkward.
Then i must’ve had a bit too much water before arriving here cos my bladder sent signals.
I announced my intention to use the bathroom, making it abit obvious that i wanted to pee, not …number two. As soon as i got in the bathroom i happily relieved myself and i think i was in a hurry to rush back out just to try and beat the piss window when i pulled up my zipper but Jimmy Jaggers wasn’t properly tucked safely in. Oh yes, i saw the universe in all its glory. I felt the earth spin. I felt every single sweat duct open up. I couldn’t scream. At the same time i couldn’t suppress the scream. So the sound must’ve come out similar to when one is forcing out a huge number two. So much for my piss window. There was no way these people wouldn’t think i came in their house to eat their food and take a shit. I was in the bathroom for what seemed like time long enough for two number twos and i still was in there. Eventually, i had to step out, forcing myself to walk upright and steady as i made my way to the table. I was actually praying that someone would ask what happened. I desperately needed to explain the fact that i didn’t poop in their toilet. But who would ask? So i thought to prompt the question by repeatedly feeling my groin area as i responded to questions and comments.
Finally, the question came — with a whisper and a palm on mine — “what happened to you?” To which i explained with exaggerated pain.

When i leave, he will help disseminate the information. I don’t mind letting strangers know i caught myself in family jewels. They just shouldn’t think i took a dump in their toilet when i didn’t.


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