'Til The Cows Come Home

Will You Pee My Valentine?

Y’all seem a little scared to hear my watersports story. So that’s the one I’ll share. It is Valentine’s Day, after all.

Many moons ago, I attended my very first New York Pride festival. One of the boys that I worked with (why, the very same boy who helped me "refinish" the conference room table at the office) invited me out with his boyfriend (who was jealous that he wasn’t invited to attend our “conference”…but we made it up to him off-site eventually) and some of their friends. We got all decked out and hit the bars for a long night of cocktails, dancing, and mischief.

One of their friends and I got along extremely well. He was visiting from Philadelphia and staying with my co-worker. As dawn started to slowly break over the West Village, it was suggested that I come back to their apartment – in Jersey City, of all places – to have cocktails as we watched the sun rise behind the Manhattan skyline. It was a big leap of faith for me to go back to Jersey City with them. The sex was going to have to be pretty amazing because, if it wasn’t, it would take forever to get back to the PATH station and go all the way back up to 189th and Broadway, where I was living at the time. Fortunately, the promise of sex turned into a guarantee of sex after I got an enthusiastic and heavy make-out preview endorsement.

Across the Hudson, after a few mimosas and one excruciatingly bright sunrise, our hosts rapidly disappeared into the bedroom with their own Pride pick-up and left Philly and I to our own devices in the guest room. It didn’t take long for us to get hot and heavy and start doing lots of fun drunk things to each other. At some point, Philly excused himself to use the bathroom before we took things to the next level of play. He opened the bedroom door and crept out so as not to disturb the festivities going on down the hall (although, really, you could have set off fireworks outside the master bedroom and it still wouldn’t have drowned out the sounds coming from the other side of it). I laid back, closed my eyes, and waited for the fun to resume.

Which is precisely the moment that our friends’ three-month old Jack Russell terrier came bursting through the bedroom door, leapt onto the bed, and peed all over me.

That's the first time I ever threw up during sex (but not the last).

Moral of the story: If you're going to go to Jersey for drunk sex at someone else's house, make sure they walk their dog before they bed their trick.