The bathroom itself wasn't too bad: a reasonably clean, darkwood affair. I undid the button of Ms. Inimitables' jeans and a fheww sound came out, like an untimely flatulence. Actually, it was an automated air freshener just above us, clearly with a sense of humor.
Now, to get caught, you have to leave the door open, but it pays to keep it locked until the two of you are past the preliminaries. I was wise enough to bring some lube to speed things along, and soon enough we were both fulfilling the biological imperative. But, again, no visitors! How could that be? And, I have to admit, the pressure was getting to me. Once I started thinking about how the pressure was getting to me, it really got to me.
My ever-supportive partner, sensing things were amiss, stood up, turned, lowered as if to propose to me, and instead took my wilting leek into her mouth while, she would tell me later, resting her head comfortably against the toilet paper roll. What a good woman.
Suddenly, the door cracked open, and a very high, very mortified woman's voice yelped, "Sorry!" I can imagine the tableau before her eyes: a man with lowered Calvins, his back three-quarters to her. A soap-commercial beauty on one knee, mid-Electrolux — hardly what you expect to see when you go to use the john after dinner. Still, she was a sport and, collecting herself outside the door, followed up with the eminently civil, "People have to use the bathroom."
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The disapproving face of our server is not soon to leave me.
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"We'll be right out," I replied at volume, not exactly qualifying as master of subtlety.
A passerby at that moment would no doubt have heard some low-voiced cackling and chortling amid the hurried sounds of pants being pulled up, zips zipping, etc. But less than a minute later, I bravely exited in front of my companion, shielding her from scrutiny, only to meet not the polite patron with the insistent bladder, but another insistent face, our grandmotherly waitress, who scowlingly indicated that in my haste, I had failed to sign the credit-card receipt. Egads. I wrote in an unduly large, apologetic tip, and we rushed to the door.
Observation/results: Spontaneously getting it on can be fabulous, for sometimes the cup just runneth over, and, hey, why shouldn't it? Planning to get caught, however, means that you have to manufacture all the momentum — and fight off the jitters. It's definitely a much dicier affair.
That said, it's pretty fun getting busted either way, assuming the crime stays victimless (I'm glad the surprised woman wasn't a mother bringing her eight-year-old to the loo). Having your disapproving server waiting for you outside, however, is less fun, and clearly James Bond would have pulled the whole experiment off with a little more aplomb.
Still, while the disapproving face of our server is not soon to leave me, and while technically it was pretty much the worst sex Ms. I and I have ever had, there's no doubt it's one that we'll remember, and the giggle count will continue to rise. Plus, next time we plan to get caught in a restaurant, I'll remember to leave the forty-percent gratuity before we leave the table. That should take care of the scowl.
Read more I Did It For Science here.
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