I frowned. Why can’t I stay presentable for more then five minutes?
Scrambling into the laundry room, I immediately sprayed a gallon of Spray & Wash on the burgundy stain. I stared at the tennis ball-sized wet spot on my crotch and only then did it dawn on me that I was about to take that stain with me out into public.
I considered changing clothes, but then I stopped myself. Why should I be ashamed of a wet spot, just because it’s located in my nether regions? People spill things on their clothes all the time and dab it with water or cleaner and no one changes clothes. I decided to face the world with dignity, wet spot be damned!
I walked into our neighborhood drug store with my head held high and my wet spot prominently displayed. And you know what I discovered? Most people don’t usually look at your crotch, which is relief, unless you’re a freakishly endowed exhibitionist.
It wasn’t until after I collected my two-liter bottle of Coke Zero and took my place in line at the cash registers that anyone noticed.
A young woman in brightly colored yoga pants and a hoodie entered CVS with her hair gathered up into one of those chip clips that made it resemble a blond octopus in the mid-seizure. She saw my wet spot and cut her eyes to her left, while trying not to laugh, before veering down the hair product aisle. I narrowed my eyes at her and mentally chastised her. Oh, grow up, missy! Everybody knows if I had wet my pants, it would have leaked down my legs, and this wet spot is far too large for ordinary post-urinary penile dripage.
Shortly after her, a young hipster dude swaggered into the store and locked eyes with me after catching the stain on my crotch. He arched an eyebrow and gave me a wicked smile, before disappearing down the snack food aisle. Perhaps I didn’t give my wet spot enough credit; I mean they all look the same to me. However, this guy came across awfully flirty with the stain on my cargo pants. Did I have some sort of magic wet spot mojo? I wrapped my arms a little tighter around my soft drink and stepped up to the cash register.
A friendly, older African-American woman asked me for my CVS card. As I handed her my iPhone with the CVS app that showed my CVS card number, she noticed my wet spot and appeared to become very agitated. Her hand shook while she scanned my bar code and she stuttered a thank you when she handed me my receipt. It was weird. She acted as if she suddenly realized I was a serial killer and had given herself away and fully expected I would reach into her cash drawer and beat her to death with a roll of quarters. I thanked her, grabbed my Coke Zero, and left.
I was still processing the cashier’s reaction when I ran into the young hipster dude outside. He grinned and asked, “Do you come here often?”
“Not really,” I said, holding up my two-litter soft drink. “I’m not very thirsty, so this should last me a while.”
The hipster dude licked his lips. “What a pity …”
I nodded and hurried to my Miata. I put the top down in hopes that the sunlight might dry my wet spot faster.
I had expected the world to be ashamed by my wet spot, but never anticipated that it might turn anyone on. It was so naive of me. If some people get into dressing up in furry animal costumes and getting it on, why wouldn’t there be someone eager to lick my cherry stain?