I have the condom halfway off when I hear something scurrying about in the needles behind me. I turn and look down, where I notice two wide bands of white fur against a background of black. It’s not the condom that smells like a skunk. It’s a real goddamn skunk, standing there barely three feet away, rocking its body gently back and forth, fluffing its fur and stomping its feet, trying to decide if I’m a threat or not.

I freeze.

That’s right. I freeze with my pants and underwear down to my knees and a condom wrapped around my slowly deflating … well, you know.

Unable to see me, Tank says, “The hell’s going on in there?”

I whisper, “Tank, there’s a skunk in here. Don’t move.”

“What?” he says. “I can’t hear you. I’m coming in. The car’s getting closer. Might be a cop.”

“Tank, no!”

But he never hears me.

As soon as he busts through the evergreens, I yell “Skunk!” and make a break for it, coming at my stunned best friend with my … well, you know … bulging forward. The terrified skunk lets out a growl and finally decides to lift its tail. I push through Tank and force him backward through the stand of trees. The skunk sprays like a broken water main, but luckily for us, the evergreens seem to bear the brunt of the damage.

But the humiliation isn’t over.

Stumbling backward and out of control through the evergreens, Tank ends up falling and landing on his back in the grassy median. I follow him down, landing directly on top of him. It’s not a pretty scene. Making matters worse is the fact that at the precise moment I land on Tank, the car he was so worried about is a mere twenty feet away and approaching quickly.

So here I am, naked and wearing a condom, my body resting between my best friend’s spread-eagled legs.

The look of disgust on Tank’s face is unforgettable, and he immediately does what anybody in that situation would do. He pushes me off. But the timing is horrible, because as I battle with my pants and scramble to my feet, the car passes.

And it’s not a cop as Tank had feared, but it is a silver sedan, meaning it’s … no way … yes … shit … it’s Coach Hank Horton, and the look of horror that spreads across his face is worse than the one I just saw on Tank’s.

Horton slams on the brakes, coming to an abrupt stop in front of us. He rolls down the passenger-side window. I stand there, trying to pull my underwear up and over the condom, which barely clings to my … well, you know.

Tank looks defeated. He rolls onto his belly and stares at Horton’s car.