Third Date: Sweaty Tits

He looked at himself in the mirror. He had tucked his cock between his legs, his pubic hair covering the shaft just enough so that he could try to picture himself as a woman. The light of the bathroom did not lend itself to enhancing any latent femininity he may have possessed and instead only emphasised the sharp angles of his face. He wondered whether makeup would soften things up a bit, but he was running out of time. She had specified 7pm and he did not want to be late under any circumstances. A fly danced on his toothbrush with the gracefulness of a ballerina. He swatted it away and brushed his teeth.

It was their third date. After two successful previous dates, she had invited him to her place and said she would cook him dinner. This confused him because the last woman who had cooked for him had been his mother. Was it alpha to have a woman do this for you? He wasn’t sure, but for a guy that had just tucked his cock between his legs to see what he might look like as a woman, he wasn’t about to turn down a free meal. An invitation to her house had seemed significant to him and part of him wondered whether he’d get to touch her tits. His mind wandered back to the only point of reference he had and he drew a blank. He put on a shirt and left.

She lived close by so he decided to walk. Although summer had well and truly dug its fiery claws into the daylight hours, it was still early in the season and like an old man retiring to bed after a long day, the heat too, did not stay long once night had come. He walked through the streets with a spring in his step. He would’ve started skipping, but he was afraid of looking like a total homo, so he refrained. Children were being called in by their mothers and cars were pulling in to driveways. A soft breeze fondled the leaves of the trees that lined the street like the invisible hands of a pervert on a crowded train. He tripped on a tree root but regained his balance before having to perform a ninja roll. He saw a dwarf watering a lawn. Their eyes met. “Evening,” he said to the dwarf.

“FUCK OFF!” said the dwarf.

“Ok,” he said and kept walking in the direction of her house.

He knocked on the door four times. Three was standard, he knew, but three was also an odd number and this did not sit right with him. Four would be better luck and better luck would lead to him being able to touch her tits. She answered the door in an apron. Underneath the apron she was wearing a white dress with a floral pattern running through it like a rash. She was holding a wooden spoon and he could see a red liquid running down the length of it and onto her hand like slow moving lava. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said.

“Where’s your car?” she said.

“I walked,” he said and she moved aside so he could come inside. The smell of tomatoes and herbs and other shit crept up his nostrils the further inside the house he went. She handed him a drink. It was wine and although he was certain he had displayed some hesitation in taking the drink from her, he worried that this was a trick to see whether he was gay. The opportunity to touch her tits seemed even further away. Like the shipwrecked sailor who sights a ship in the offing, he could only watch as her tits drifted away into the horizon. All this metaphorical thinking had distracted him from the silence that had wedged itself between them the moment he had entered her house. “Smells good,” he said.

“Thanks. Won’t be long,” she said.

“What’s new?” he said.

“My grandma died,” she said.

“Oh, that sucks,” he said.

“Not really. She was a bitch,” she said and continued stirring the pot on the stove. A thin layer of sweat had started to form at her hairline. She wiped it with a tea towel and continued stirring. Occasionally their eyes met and they smiled at each other. Sweat continued to form and started rolling down the sides of her face and down her neck, coming together at the ravine that was her cleavage. He decided that this did not affect his desire to touch them, in fact, if he was honest with himself he wanted to touch them more now. “I have to use your bathroom,” he said.

“Sure, down the hall and to the right,” she said. He had to take a shit.

The toilet had a pink cover on it that looked like carpet. He ran his hand over it and felt somewhat uncomfortable that something that resembled a blanket was so close to shit. His father’s words filled his mind in that instant and he said in whisper, “…sticks like shit to a blanket,” and smiled. He sat down and thoughts of her sweaty tits immediately flooded his head like a busted dam after torrential rain. It was not long, however, before he snapped himself out of this trance of perversion because he remembered how hard it was to piss with an erection while sitting down. He shat and reached for the toilet paper. As he pulled it from the roll, the toilet paper did nothing to arouse his suspicions. When he wiped confusion fell upon him. The paper in his hand felt different on his arse. He was reminded of the time he had gotten a bed sheet stuck between his arse cheeks. He had thought it might be fun to sleep in the nude and that’s when it hit him. His shirt tail had gotten caught between the paper and his filthy arsehole and just like the time he had slept naked, he had once again left shit stains on cotton. A state of confused panic ran through him like a freight train through a small town but not over what had happened. The problem was he didn’t know what he should do. He could tuck it back in and pretend that nothing had happened but that would only end with the shit spreading and the smell would not be contained by cotton and a layer of cheap denim. He had to go home and change shirts. He pulled his pants up and went out to tell her.

She was still stirring the pot when he went back into the kitchen. Her fringe had taken on a darker tone to the rest of her hair because it was wet with perspiration. “I have to go home,” he said.

“Why?” she said, looking up from the pot.

“I wiped my arse with my shirt,” he said.

“Oh,” she said.

“I’ll be back,” he said and he saw the first signs of sadness in her eyes like the first drop of rain that falls before the others. He ran out the door before it went any further. He sprinted down the street with his shit stained shirt tail flapping in the wind like a flag. Even though he was in front of it, the smell still chased him down like a pack of dogs, defying all logic. He briefly wondered whether he had remembered to flush the toilet, but reigned himself in because all problems must be prioritised in their order of necessity. It was dark now and he ran home like a murderer or a rapist or someone that had just robbed a fuel station.

At home he removed the shirt with the ferocious panic of a man that had been attacked by a swarm of bees. He dropped the shirt to the floor and rummaged through his wardrobe and grabbed another. He looked at the shit stained shirt on the floor and picked it up. Maybe it was salvageable. It was something he could decide on later, so he threw it into the washing basket unintentionally transferring the smell of shit to every piece of clothing that was waiting to be washed. Back out the door and he was sprinting down the street in the direction of her house like a lunatic that had just busted out of the asylum. The absence of the shit smell that had followed him home gave him hope for the rest of the night. Her tits were not as far away in his mind as the distant ship, but he would still need to do some swimming if he was going to get within touching distance. He rounded the corner and slowed his pace down to a trot. By the time he got to her house he had reduced himself to a leisurely stroll and he could hear crickets over the sound of traffic in the distance.

He wasn’t overly concerned when he noticed all the lights were off in her house. Lots of people did that these days to save energy. Who answered the door though was an entirely different matter. Things didn’t seem right when he had to knock sixteen times as opposed to four. Sixteen was still an even number so everything was fine on that front, but his knuckles hurt. He was rubbing his battle worn hand when an old lady answered the door. He was instantly confused. “Ah..who are you?” he said.

“You’re the one knocking on my door. WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” said the old woman.

“I’m looking for my girlfriend,” he said.

“FAGGOT, I HAVE A FIREARM IN MY UNDIES THAT IS NOT A PENIS. LEAVE MY PROPERTY OR I WILL SHOOT YOU!” she said and slammed the door in his face. He stood there staring at the door for a minute trying to comprehend what was happening. He checked the address and he was as sure as the shit on his shirt tail that he was at the right place, but she was no longer there. It started to rain. It started with a few drops and by the time he was on the footpath the clouds had opened up to such an extent that he was soaked to the bone within minutes. He walked home in the rain wondering where the fuck she had gone. He decided to keep the shirt.

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