Turds in the Punch Bowl (A Story of No Ordinary Friendship) by Jen Ashton Page B

was off to bed. They weren’t far behind me, laughing their way up the stairs.
    “I like your paintings,” she called up to me, admiring the art lining my staircase.
    “Thanks,” I said, kicking off my shoes at the top of the steps. I hoped she wasn’t into fine art. She might mistake my Monet knock-offs for the real deal and leave with a couple hundred in stolen paintings.
    Suddenly, the laughing stopped. She stood still in the middle of the stairs for a moment seemingly stunned, but she didn’t speak. She swallowed hard and her eyes widened.
    “What’s wrong?” Joe asked her.
    “Nothing,” she answered. “Nothing,” she repeated again, shaking her head. She finished her ascent in silence. They shot past me in the hallway, went into Joe’s bedroom and closed the door.
    As long as he kept her contained in his room, locked the door and constantly supervised her, I would be able to sleep. But I wasn’t holding my breath. I threw my shoes on the floor and slid under my sheets. I decided it was best if I slept with my clothes on, just in case she tried to burglarize us and I needed to chase her out. The thought of my neighbors witnessing me running outside in my chonies didn’t necessarily thrill me.
    Just as I was getting comfortable and beginning to trust the situation, I heard Joe’s door open quickly. That was quick. I didn’t take him for a two-pump chump, but apparently he had already cuddled and snoozed too. I perked up. I knew it! As soon as he fell asleep, she would sneak out and rummage through our valuables. There was no doubt in my mind I would also catch her clinching his diamond nipple rings in her thieving little hands.
    “I just can’t,” I heard her say. “It’s too weird.”
    I was wrong. Joe was still awake, and worse, hadn’t gotten laid. And by the sound of things, he also wouldn’t be getting laid. I quickly rose to my feet and peered through the crack in my door to witness what was happening in the hall.
    “I’m fine with it,” Joe assured her. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”
    “To you maybe,” she argued back, “but it’s a big deal to me. Take me home.”
    “Home?” he asked. “You mean back to Sierra Gold?”
    “No, I want to go home.” She crossed her arms and pouted like a little girl.
    “But what about this ?” Joe rightfully inquired, pointing to his boner. She ignored his raging hard on as it protruded from his pants like the low branch of an old oak. I regret this moment because this was when I found out that Joe was well endowed; something I neither wanted to know, nor cared to have seared into my eyeballs. On a side note, I used to swing from the low branches of old oak trees, upside down even, while growing up in the Midwest; a thought I would later share with Joe as a suggestion to try as a new sexual position with his conquests. I do what I can to help.
    “Okay, but wouldn’t it be easier if I took you back to work to get your car instead?” he hoped, trying to save himself a trip across town.
    “I got a ride to work,” she answered too proudly. “I don’t have a license anymore. The cop took it when I got arrested. Just take me home.”
    She turned to walk down the stairs and saw me in my doorway. Now she was standing between his peeping tom roommate and his giant stiffy. Not the best place to find yourself.
    “I see you, Jen,” she announced, shifting her weight to one side and placing her hand on her hip. “You probably think I’m the biggest whore now. Great!” she exclaimed, whipping her hair around and high-tailing it down the stairs. Joe followed abruptly, huffing in defeat.
    I sat back down on my bed for what seemed like eternity playing scenarios in my head. What had gone so terribly awry in those few moments alone in Joe’s bedroom? Had he shown her his ladder? (The three barbells pierced into the shaft of his penis.) Had he told her about the time he got crabs from borrowing his friend’s Speedo in Texas? Maybe he