The Fire Fighter's Balls
After my date with the Fire Department, I am certain that I will be rescued in a timely fashion should I ever need it. What I am not certain about is how my left butt cheek got bruised.
I love auctions; this was my first experience with bidding on people. I was prepared to objectify as many firemen as I could. First, I would need some cash. I know that fire fighters are city employees and are thus, highly compensated, so I took $20 with me.
It hardly had a vodka tonic in me before the midget fireman humped my leg. I shook him off and chastised him in my best dominatrix tone. I brushed off my leg with my cocktail napkin and made a mental note to take an extra birth control pill when I got home. A girl can never be too careful.
I claimed a bar stool with a group of eager women. We sized up the men and each other. Between eying the guys, we traded fake complements on shoes, hair, nails and weight. The cattiness was getting to me and I excused myself to the restroom. The bathroom was no better. It was packed with women discussing how to be the perfect fireman's wife. Feeling panicky at the word "wife," I touched up my lip gloss, lied to a woman about her hideous shoes, and slipped out the door.
When the bidding began, the old guys took the stage first. I got out my crisp $20 bill. My palms were slightly moist. They talked about them for a bit and flashed some pictures of them in their gear. No one was bidding. I believe it was at this point when I screamed, "take it off!" and maybe something like, "woo hoo." I waved my $20 around in the air frantically. The woman next to me said, "Honey, it's a retirement party."
I smiled sweetly at her and said, "Perfect."
The wives of all those old firemen couldn't catch me. Even in their sensible shoes.
Still, I wish that I could explain the bruise on my a$$.