Nausea

I was on a date the other night…

Beautiful girl. Colorful. Engaging. Intelligent. Together. The type I can see myself cohabitating with for the next ten years until we break down in a bitter separation…but also the type I can see fucking until my eyes turn red and I shit firecrackers.

You know, romance novel stuff.

Sorry mom.

Unfortunately my friend from New Orleans had been in town the night before…now I don’t get down like I used to but I can still wreck it when challenged. And challenge he did.

I won.

Until a 6 o’clock date the next day with a princess I had no business entertaining….at least not in my state.

We sit. Exchange the typical pleasantries. The waiter comes and it’s a double water for me while she’s drinking the pinot.

Fair enough…however it’s criminal. I could blow a breathalyzer and instead of a reading it would give me the finger and a 90-day sentence in the county pokey. However I’m getting away with it.

Until it begins.

It starts as a slight rumble, barely audible and ever so slightly more uncomfortable. It grows exponentially over the next 15 minutes from a gentle wave to a tsunami percolating through my digestive system. I don’t know which end it’s coming out of, I just know it’s coming. Fast.

I smile.

“I’m starving!”

Amanda smiles back, unassuming of the warning sirens sounding from my belly. So sweet. So beautiful. So undeserving of the thunderbolt shitstorm that is about to encompass her evening.

The meals arrive. A nice pasta dish for my queen. A plate of fish for myself.

How fucked am I?

I never eat fish…I don’t even like fish…I don’t remember ordering it.

I almost yak as soon as the plate hits the table, but I hold. Politely, I eat. Slowly. Making sure each swallow is concise and unflinching to the nastiness in my gut. Inevitably, the walls crumble.

BRRROOOOOOWLLLUHRRHGH!!!

Yep, no going back from that one. Amanda hears my soul bellowing. Everyone in the fucking restaraunt hears it. A shotgun blast sounds less ferocious.

“You must really be hungry!”

I smile…even though I simply want to plead guilty at this point.

“I’m sorry Amanda. I wanted tonight to be special and I really am interested in you. But honey, I’m afraid I am going to shit myself like a hand grenade at any moment and this fish is about to make me vomit on your breasts….if you’re still interested in fornicating two hours from now I’ll be at this address….”

Pride gets in my way. I can do this. I hold throughout the course of the meal, pay the waiter and leave the eatery with my head held high and my asscheeks pursed like Fort Knox.

We go for drinks. The wave has subsided and I’m feeling good about myself. Obviously inebriated throughout the course of the evening to everybody but the gorgeous, naive Amanda, the pulses of rum invigorate my spirit. Amanda is obviously interested, touching my hand and thigh, laughing at my nervous attempts at humor and at ignoring my gut’s obvious calls for relief.

I’m fairly certain if I can keep from soiling myself I’m going to get laid in a way that’s befitting a man of my regard. Then I imagine the unthinkable…

What if I hold until we’re slapping it like monkeys? What if a purile wave of dysentery erupts while she’s getting off on my dick?

The very thought sends my mind racing into a mad panic. Without warning, my body reacts accordingly. My rectum burps, I throw my drink to the floor as if I’m having a seizure and I’m off, running the 100-yard dash to the nearest commode in a time that could’ve set a new landspeed record.

Ferrari ain’t got shit on my gravy ass.

For the next 40 minutes, I am my own victim. Faceless voices laugh at my plight. My soul cries. I pray to Jesus to forgive my transgressions, but the big man has no mercy for me. I become a trumpet, jazzy but off-key.

I weep silently.

Sober, sweating and pale, I emerge from the restroom. I find Amanda. Suddenly, I am lucid. I don’t mince words.

“I’m sorry, but that fucking fish made me throw like a fire hydrant. Do you wanna grab some beers on the way home and watch a movie at my place? I hate fish. Fuck that asshole fish.”

She smiles, strokes her hand over my ear and whispers, “Oh you poor thing. I’ll take care of you.”

She bought it.

The struggle hadn’t been for naught. A prisoner of my own flesh set free. Proudly, I exit the bar while assorted males point and giggle like schoolgirls.

The cool night air hits my face and I know I am safe. I had survived. We drive to the nearest gas station. Amanda tells me to relax and stay in the car. She returns to the vehicle and hands me a 12-pack of beer and a bottle of diahhrea medicine.

Damn.