But as she gets closer I can see that’s not all the pit was looking at, her tits are fucking leaking, they’re producing milk, there are stains on her shirt. I felt the blood drain from my head, and my eyes roll back, and I felt the heat along my leg, and this was the fucking hottest thing I had ever seen, in my twenty-three years. And she’s walking toward me, and I’m guessing that she has to walk into or through this crowd, and she’s going to have to take her tits and her pregnant abdomen and squeeze through here, probably next to me.

I close my eyes, in the middle of the pandemonium, and you know, there are points in your life where time slows down, where a minute feels like an hour, and this is one of those times. I am seeing T22, with his greasy fucking hair, come around the side of the pit, and I can see the smelly fucker with the white beard, and I can see Hawaiian Shirt Dickface Guy, and I can see the back of W83’s fuzzy Q-Tip head, and he is standing on his toes, arms raised, and everyone’s arms are raised simultaneously, and it’s so fucking loud in here, and I have my eyes closed in the middle of it because I am trying not to think about the dancer and her swollen glands, and her sex organs, and I’m trying not to let the fantasy take hold, because it is going to ruin everything. But it is taking hold, she’s in my apartment, she’s taking off that smock, and that tight top, everything is falling out, and—stop thinking about it—I can’t help it, and next thing I know she is in front of me, and I’m fully engorged, sideways in my pants, and it’s against her, against her belly, in the middle of hundreds of guys, who are screaming for an order.

And we make eye contact, and she looks at me through her glasses, and all I can think is: fire, I think she wants to kill me, I’m sure she can feel it against her.

Fuck the badge. I gotta get the fuck out of here.

I smash through the crowd with my fists and my arms, and once through, I break into a run. I am a tripod at this point, but nobody is paying any attention, they are all looking at the COMS pit, which by now has turned into Lord of the Flies. And I think I can hear W83 yelling after me, like he’s trying to sell some stock, I’m not sure, and if that’s the case, I’ve just ruined my career. But I don’t care, I’m going to spot myself in about two seconds. So I barrel into the bathroom, blast open the stall, unzip, present myself to the wall and promptly launch an oyster, high, in an arc, bouncing off the back wall, and coming to rest on the handle of the toilet, absurdly dangling. Thinking of parted lips, and apricot areolas, I let another fly, but then everything goes black, and it occurs to me that I am losing consciousness, and what I hadn’t realized about losing consciousness is that in the last millisecond before you do, you usually think of something, like, oh shit, I left the coffee maker on, but now I am thinking, as I drop to my knees, that fucking rusty pipe broke and hit me in the back of the head, and they are going to find me unconscious, on the floor, with my come on the wall and my dick in my hand.