Two weeks ago, Mrs Jones and I attended the evening wedding
reception of a friend’s daughter. Such events always provide a valid excuse for
dusting off the glad rags and slipping into our favourite outfits. On this
occasion I opted for my buttock-hugging royal-blue slacks, providing firm hold
around the nether regions and an arse shape that screams ‘squeeze me’ to the
ladies in the vicinity.
‘Not bad at all for someone nearly 60’, I muttered as I
admired myself in the bedroom mirror prior to departure for the venue, an
upmarket country hotel.
Two hours into the event, and four pints of cask ale
imbibed, I needed my first pee of the evening. The toilets were opulent, all
tiles and gleaming porcelain, the pedestal basins adorned with a variety of
scented hand washes. I was the only one there, unexpected given that the
occasion was well attended. I approached the urinal and pulled on my zipper; it
wouldn’t budge. I tugged harder, several times, but it refused to go south.
Standing there, shoulders hunched, I inspected my groin in
search of the source of the obstruction. Drops of perspiration appeared on my
forehead. As tends to happen in such situations, the awareness of being denied
the opportunity to urinate was making the desire to do so more urgent. In
anticipation of the embarrassment should someone enter the toilet, I moved into
a cubicle so as to permit a more thorough intra-trouser exploration. With one
hand on my zipper, and the other down the front of a (very tight) waistband, I
pulled and yanked in a to-and-fro motion, an action that might have been open
to misinterpretation if observed by a
third party. But all to no avail; the zipper refused to move, as if welded
shut.
The fumblings of the hand down the front of my trousers –
already growing numb through the lack of blood supply – had identified the
problem: a flap of material near the fly hole that had entwined with the zipper
along its full length. With increasing desperation, I reviewed my options.
Perhaps I should call Mrs Jones on her cell phone, requesting she comes to my
aid armed with a pair of scissors? (An option I quickly dismissed, on the basis
that she would only piss herself – excuse the pun – laughing).
As my desperation escalated, catastrophic images pushed into
my mind:
Wedding guests
pointing at my gusset and shrieking in disgust as my trousers morph into
two-tone, a deeper shade of navy extending in waves from the abdomen.
Firemen armed with
heavy-duty cutting equipment rushing into the hotel to free me from my contour-hugging
slacks.
Lying prostrate on the
table among the Singer sowing machines at the local textile factory as the
seamstresses debate how best to unpick the stitching. (Or maybe that was a
fantasy rather than a catastrophic image?)
Mercifully, after a 10-minutes ordeal – one that felt like
an age - my repeated tugging released the zipper and I was able to relieve
myself in the appropriate receptacle. (Is there any human experience more
pleasurable than emptying a full bladder after a period of inhibition?).
And
the next time I wear my favourite blue slacks, I will replace vanity with
practicality, focusing on that rogue flap of material under the zip rather than
the shape of my arse.
Image courtesy of
hin255 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
