Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
The bathroom floor wasn’t exactly my usual five-star accommodation, but with Mark, you took what you could get. We were mid-whatever-it-was when the silence shattered. Not with a shout, but with the soft, deliberate click of a key in the front door, followed by an equally soft, yet ominous, closing. “Honey?” I whispered, because honestly, who else has an extra key to his ‘villa’? Mark froze. He panicked.
Then she was there, framed in the doorway, clutching a grocery bag. Honey, sweet Honey. Her eyes, usually warm and crinkly from years of smiling politely at my questionable garden gnome collection, were now like laser pointers, fixed squarely on me. Not him. Me. It was as if I was the primary exhibit in a very unscheduled, very nude art installation titled ‘Caught Red-Handed: A Neighborly Disaster.’
Caught Bangin’ On The Bathroom Floor
Mark, bless his idiot heart, launched into action. “Baby, what are you doing here? I thought you were at Yoga!” He tried to physically block her view, which, seeing as we were both butt-naked and practically fused to the bathroom tiles, was a futile endeavor at best. “It’s not what it looks like!” he declared, his voice a frantic squeak.
Honey didn’t say a word. She just stood there, bag still clutched, those laser eyes unblinking. I had a sudden, terrifying thought: How could he forget he’d given her an extra key? This wasn’t some random break-in; this was an authorized, albeit devastating, entry. My mind raced back to all the theoretical “player rules” he’d spouted over cheap drinks – “Convince her you’re gay,” “Never admit to anything otherwise.” He was clearly attempting to apply Rule #1: utter, nonsensical denial.
“No, no, Honey, it wasn’t me!” he insisted, gesturing vaguely at my person. My person, currently tangled with his, on the bathroom floor. I wanted to laugh. Seeing is believing, buddy, you might need to change your specs. Honey finally moved, not to scream, but to take a slow, deliberate walk. She glided past us, her gaze still locked on me, leaving Mark flailing in her wake. She entered the living room. Her head tilted slightly. “The counter,” she said, her voice eerily calm, “Was that you two?”
Mark’s head whipped around. “No! Baby, it wasn’t me! I was, uh, just cleaning it!” She moved to the sofa. A faint indentation, a stray button. Her eyes, still on me, seemed to ask, The sofa too? Mark, meanwhile, was doing an awkward naked shuffle, trying to explain how the sofa had simply ‘deflated’ in his absence. Then she walked into the hall, toward the shower. I could practically hear the ghostly echoes of our earlier, rather enthusiastic, tryst. “The shower,” she stated.
“It wasn’t me!” Mark yelled, practically doing a full ballet leap to cover his modesty, which, again, was rather pointless. Honey didn’t raise her voice, didn’t shed a tear. She just looked at me, then at him, then back at me. She stayed until every single, undeniable piece of evidence had been mentally cataloged, until the sheer absurdity of his denials had reached its peak.
Mark, you may have thought you were a player, a smooth operator with your extra keys and your ridiculous rules. But standing there, butt-naked, watching Honey calmly dismantle your entire flimsy charade, it was clear: boy, you got caught!
Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
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