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JWR 3.22 - Crotch Digger

 

Have you ever been eating some small finger food and maybe youíre getting overzealous and you start tossing them into your mouth?  You begin to think you could throw it so far up into the air, stand up, spin around, tip your head back and it would just plop onto your tongue.

 

Then you miss.  No big deal, but you miss you mouth.  Maybe you hit your lip or maybe you hit your cheek or forehead, but the point it, you missed your mouth.  Youíre unable to think about the unlikely event that YOU missed because you had a rhythm going.  Fingers pick up a piece and you toss it and your mouth opens a split second before the food gets there and then you close your mouth and chew.  But in your zeal, you messed up the rotation.  You canít think about that: thereís a piece of food somewhere in the demilitarized zone.  If youíre like me, food canít exist outside itís container or your mouth.  You must find it.

 

Luckily your brain registers feeling a small object strike an inner thigh and immediately you know where that piece of food is.

 

You reach down and try to fish it out from between your legs.  We all know it would be much easier if you were to stand up and bend over and pick up the piece of food off the chair, but you donít.  And itís not because youíre lazy, but to do that, and then to find the food and put it in your mouth....well, that would be nasty.  Somehow, if you are able to snag that food from your crotch, you can still eat it and not think of it as contaminated.

 

As you dig further and further down into your crotch scavenging for the morsel of food the outside world darkens and then disappears and your universe has become your fingertips, the piece of food and your crotch.  The food has found its way deeper between your legs like some rodent hiding from a predator house cat.  Finally you get your fingertips to grasp it, after some interesting sensations, and just as you are to begin extracting the food, someone walks past your office and stops to see you with a hand up your crotch.  You could say something, anything, even the obvious ďIím looking for foodĒ would be better than your look of fright.  Youíre caught with your hand in the cookie jar, almost literal, no?  The other person attempts to keep a look of disgust and shock off their face, deep down they know what youíre doing, but thereís that slim chance you decided to take this opportunity to have a good time that makes them make that face.

 

The person walks away unsteadily as if they had been spinning in circles and you sit there moments longer with your hand practically up your ass.

 

You decide itís time to end the horror and remove the food.  It could have been a peanut or a legume.  Even a piece of corn would be acceptable.  A raisin, an oyster cracker, an M&M.  But you chose this day to eat and eat wildly with raspberries.  Your fingers tell the story.  They also tell a more disgusting story to those with a sick mind.  Contemplate eating the mashed raspberry and licking your fingers clean.  You decide to, but for a moment too long because another coworker has stopped by your office just in time to see you examining your reddened and messy fingers close to your face...almost close enough to eat.

 

Again, words fail you and the explanation may cause harm.  The person has no problem contorting their face into an eeew look.  You donít move a muscle.  The person drops the papers they were bringing to you and takes off.

 

You eat the remainder of the raspberry and lick your fingers.  You let moments pass and think you can hear down the hall gasps and laughter.  Finally you stand and look at the seat and see no redness.  This is a positive.  There is the downside that all the juice is on your pants and you regret wearing khakis.  Secretly you knew they would be your downfall.

 

There is one chance and that is that the juice collected precisely in the center of the crotch of your pants hence it would not be visible to one standing in front or behind you.  Only those who would stand below you may see it, or those staring at your crotch should you decide to sit like a whore, spread eagle.

 

You crane your neck and bend over at the waist attempting to see if a red blotch is visible where your butt cheeks part ways, but you donít bend that way.  You quickly think of removing your pants and just as quickly nix the idea.  Two visitors already have taught you the lesson of Threeís Company-like slapstick comedy.

 

You decide to make for the bathroom and pass several coworkers on the way who you hear snickering behind your back as you grow more and more unsure if the laughs are directed at an anecdote relayed to them by those who had seen and misunderstood or at a red blot on the seat of your pants.  Finally you reach the bathroom and lock the door and try to remove your pants with your shoes on and visions of you tripping and hitting your head against the sink donít horrify you nearly as much as those of coworkers finding you on the ground with your pants around your ankles and the red spot that has seeped through to your white briefs.  You wisely decide to remove your shoes and then the pants, just like mom taught you.

 

Through some miracle there is no red spot on your pants and a wave of relief rushes through you.  You ignore the knock on the door and clothe yourself at ease, tuck in your shirt and double knot your shoes before walking out.

 

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

 

John

 

Copyright © 2003 John Lemut