And I’m out at a party, they’re probably just going to let me in. I’m very excited to see my son, Chris, at this party, and the anticipation is so strong I can barely walk, let alone behave. I want to act cool, but all I do is sweat. The sweat comes from the inside out, and it drips down my back, and the more I walk the more it drips. I can feel the moisture building up under my arms. Eventually I reach the door. I’m ready to break into a run. “BOOOM!” I’m going to be at Chris’ party! Once inside, the party continues to pick up momentum. We are moving to the music. There is no alcohol, we have only just gotten there, it’s not the time. I don’t even know these people. I see them at school or at a club, and I can’t remember their names. They just leave the most distinct impression, the type that is hard to put into words. When I look at them, they put a feeling into my body, a kind of electricity. I never had the guts to talk to anyone, but I know I don’t have to be scared, and I know they are safe, because of their skin. I wish I knew how to talk to them. I think of my wife, and the time I asked her to go out to a club with me. She did not take me seriously. She said to me that I would never be able to handle the world outside of the bubble in which I live. I knew she was right, that I was weak. I just wanted to escape reality for a little while. Now, I’m having a great time. Everyone looks fabulous. The women are dressed in dresses, the men are dressed in suits. The music is cool, but not too cool. There is no one I know anywhere, so I don’t have to be self conscious. There is one guy there that really draws my attention. He is much older, he looks twenty-something, so I know that he’s legally old enough to drink. And there’s no doubt that he does. He looks very different than the other people at the party. His hair is short and tight, and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. I bet he has been in at least one fight. He’s muscular, which is something that I am not, and he moves fast, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s wearing a black suit, and even though it’s tight it makes me feel a little bit hotter, which I appreciate because I’m not cool. He is handsome and he is confident. It’s as if he’s the host of the party and this is all for him. I know that if I ask him to dance he won’t reject me. I can tell he wants me to approach him. He doesn’t want to come to me, he wants me to come to him. I know I have to act casual about this, but I can’t act casual because I am so aroused by this guy. I am going to lose control if I don’t go to the bathroom. As he walks by I get so close to him, almost grazing his body, that I can hear the fabric of his suit rubbing against mine. When he gets to the bathroom door he turns around and I see that his shirt is also black, but not tight, and his skin is pale. He looks so nice and clean, and I start to lose control. I hope he comes back soon. I need to go to the bathroom again, this time it’s really needed. When I get to the bathroom I realize the stall is occupied, and I take a seat on the toilet. The stall opens up, and I glance over at the door. No, he didn’t come back yet. I can feel my underwear getting wet. I need to take them off. I can’t just sit here wearing only my underwear. It’s way too embarrassing. “Excuse me,” I say to the guy in the stall, “is there a public bathroom around here?” “I’ll just go out in the hallway,” he says, “follow me.” As we exit the bathroom I glance over at my image in the mirror. The underwear has gone all black, and I now have no idea what color I’m wearing. The image in the mirror doesn’t have this problem though, because it doesn’t have a face, and eyes, and lips. I feel like I’m going to die. The image is smiling, and I know that it’s laughing at me. It is a person I am disgusted by. This is something that I wish I could erase, but I can’t, because I am me, and I am not the type of person that would want to erase that part of myself. There’s a party still going on, and my son is dancing by himself. I have never seen him dance so well. There are a few times where he seems to not know what to do. I don’t know what he would think if he knew how great his father looks dancing. Eventually I can feel my underwear getting wetter and wetter. I take it off and place it in my jacket pocket, and now I feel even more shameful, like I’ve just taken off my shoes in the middle of a restaurant. I am sitting in the stall with my own underwear in my pocket, so I start putting my pants back on, but the zipper gets stuck, and I feel like a little kid being made to wear his pull-up after it has been used for potty training. I can’t get out of them. I’ve got to go, but I can’t get up. “Excuse me, I need the bathroom,” I yell to the guy. He isn’t in his stall. He’s gone. My pants are starting to slip off my hips. I need to get out of them. I’m not sure how much longer I can wait, when someone comes in the bathroom, and I have to decide quickly whether or not to hide. I decide to get up, my underwear is sliding up past my hips, and I need to put it back on so I don’t get charged for the pants. Once I get them on I put my pants back on, and now my underwear is soaked with urine. But I can’t get any wetter. I get out of the stall, and the guy comes in behind me, and I feel myself getting wetter than ever. I put my underwear on my ankle. It’s way too wet to use. “I thought you would have to go,” he says. “Ugh,” I say, “I didn’t, but I’ve got to go again.” He sits on the toilet, and I’m very aware that I am sitting on top of him, even though we are separated by a wall and the lid of the toilet. I start feeling so embarrassed that my underwear is wetter than ever. “I can’t get up because I don’t have any underwear on, but you don’t mind me sitting on your lap,” I say. “It’s not my lap,” he says, “it’s your face.” “I need to get out of these pants, but I don’t want to sit on this guy’s face,” I say. I start to feel overwhelmed by all of the things I have to do. I can’t do any of them, they all feel wrong. “Just give me your underwear, and I will use it,” he says. “That’s way too creepy,” I say, “I don’t even want to touch it.” “It’s not creepy, because I will still wear it,” he says, “and so will you.” “No, you won’t,” I say, “you’re going to wash it out.” “You’re my clothes now,” he says, “and you have no right to reject me.” “I don’t have any clothes now, because my pants were wet,” I say. He pushes me backwards into the stall, and I hit my head on the lid of the toilet. I feel the impact in my face and I know I look really bad, that my face is probably covered in blood. I can feel the wetness, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. He puts my underwear around his waist and pulls me close to him, and I’m very aware that he’s probably got my underwear sticking to his stomach. He puts his arms around me and we start to move around to the music. We have always danced like that when we’ve had sex. He does the same things that I do in bed, but slower, and there is nothing sexual about it. He just feels really safe, and I like it. I feel so tired and alone, and I