TMI Thursday: The Late Night Catch

Someone--I think it might have been Fancy Schmancy--asked a few weeks ago "how many semen stories do you have?" Um...I'm a guy. I produce the stuff. Chances are, I have a ton of them.

To that end, here's another.

When I graduated from undergrad, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I knew that I wanted to go to grad school, but I didn't go right away. I thought I'd do the mature thing and find a job and pay off some debt and get myself settled in before I went back to school. Sounds good, right? Well, me and my fancy new degree in chemistry couldn't find anything right away--there's a definite paucity of chemistry-oriented jobs in the greater Fort Wayne, IN area. And, every time I found one, someone with a MASTER'S degree would swoop in and secure it. Curse you, post-graduate education!

Running low on funds, feeling the pressure of just having gone through four years of rather expensive Catholic Education, and with creditors sniffing around my bushes like Jehovah's Witnesses, I went the desperate route: I found the first damned thing that would hire me.

This happened to be the now-defunct Little Professor Book Company on the south side of Fort Wayne. "South Side" sounds so menacing, but it was in an area filled with would-be affluent people--you know the kind who think they're wealthy and important. This, of course, led to many, many entertaining moments dealing with the snobs, like the woman who scoffed once and said, "What would you know about chemistry?"

Anyway, I spent the interim between graduation in 1998 and the start of classes at Notre Dame in 1999 working at Little Professor Book Company. Sometime during that winter, after Christmas so that things were mostly dead, the Ex- had moved to DC for her job. Because we would inevitably fuck like dogs in heat when we were around one another, we had to find ways to rid ourselves of unwanted bodily fluids. This meant that we had a lot--and I do mean a lot--of phone and cyber sex.

Through attrition, I had worked my way up the corporate ladder from lowly bookseller to assistant manager, which gave me free reign (in my mind) to constantly proclaim that there were "a bunch of savages in this town." It also gave me the chance to pretty much pick my hours, and I chose the night shift. Being the trustworthy and honest Boy Scout that I am (not to mention clean, reverent and all those other fucking traits the Boy Scouts follow), the owners had no problem with me counting the money, locking up the store, and shutting it down at night. This meant that, many a night, I was there, all alone.

Another fortuitous turn was that the store had a 1-800 number, accessible from anywhere in these United States of America. Remember, this was before VOiP was popular, so long distance calling could rack up the charges. This provided me with the excellent opportunity to have some phone sex with the Ex-, and then I could recover afterwards through idle conversation and then we could go again. Or, I'd go home and--since the drive was just long enough--dial into the internet, and we could have ourselves some lovely netsex.

While I was at the book store, I befriended this weird kid named Shane. I say "kid" because, like me, he was about as mature as an eight-year-old. Shane and I did a lot of stuff together...usually involving alcohol. He was the other assistant manager at the store, and when I wasn't working at night, he was.

So, here we are, back in January or February or something like that. I closed up the store, counted the money, took the call from the owners, and bid the last of the closing personnel good night. I locked the door, turned off the front lights, and picked up on line 2 where the Ex- was already going at herself hot and heavy. Instantly, I was aroused, so I unzipped and joined in the sharing of autoerotic pleasures.

Finished, I leaned back in the chair, looking down at my messy pants. I hadn't had time to properly find some paper towels or something to release into prior to joining in the fun, so I messed myself. Badly. It was everywhere. It looked like a boiled milk factory had exploded. I was in the cool-down stage and my dick had limped its way back inside my still unzipped pants when the back door suddenly banged open.

"Aha!" Shane screamed! "I caught you!"

Now, it was 200 feet from the office to the back door. When the door banged open, I sat up in the chair and looked through the window of the office to see what was going on. As luck would have it, my shirt fell over the creamy mess on my pants, hiding the evidence.

"Still on the phone, I see!" Shane said, busting into the office.

"Yeah, she called here after the store closed. Since I'm done and clocked out, I don't give two fucks what [the owners] think," I replied, willing my shirt to stay in place and to not have any unfortunate drips occur.

"You're a dirty, dirty man. I love it," Shane responded. It was at this point that I realized he'd already had a couple of Popov and Cranberries. Shane was a connoisseur of cheap vodkas.

"I do what I can to please," I said. The Ex- laughed.

"Well, mother fucker, you'd better say good night, because you and I have to go visit Matt." Matt--this, uh, other Matt--was the bartender at the bar behind the bookstore, a very common stopover for us after work. Or during work, if things were going swimmingly. "I need to go sign something out, and then we're drinking, buddy!"

Shane disappeared, and the Ex-, having heard everything, said, "Um...did he see anything?"

"No, I'm covered up," I responded, hastily zipping my pants and looking for a mop or a towel or anything to clean up with. Finally, I got some napkins from someone's dinner and wiped everything up, wrapped it up inside some other napkins, and tucked them into my sleeve. Shane returned.

"You ready, bitch! Hi, Ex-!" he shouted.

"Hey, Shane!" she shouted back. This was not an uncommon conversation while I was at the Little Professor Book Company. "You better go, honey. I'll talk to you later."

So, we proclaimed our undying love for one another, and then I hung up.

"Ready?" Shane asked, impatient like a puppy.

"Let me hit the head," I said. I went in, flushed my towels, washed my hands, and dabbed at my pants some more (I was wearing black pants). Satisfied that I was clean enough to appear in a dark, smoke-filled bar, I emerged from the bathroom. Without further ado, we walked over to the bar, where we proceeded to drink and to chat away with people.

At one point, I was talking to this girl who worked in the same shopping plaza as the book store. She looked down at my pants, and said, "Oh, what happened here?" She pointed. Aghast, I looked down, looked back up and said, "Shit. I sneezed earlier. I must have...gotten some on me. I'm so embarrassed." She laughed.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed. I've had that happen, too. I'll just look down and find out I've got some strange liquid on me."

Yes. Yes, I'm sure you have.

Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!