Flashed on my wedding night
(That oughta clear the room...)
No, not that. Well, not that I'll discuss here, anyway.
Back when we got married, things weren't all newfangled and digitimatized like they are nowadays. This was, after all, the '80s. What we lacked in technology, we made up for in voluminous hair. Consequently, when we set off for Detroit on our wedding night (What? There was a Lou Reed concert at the Fox), the only flashpower we were packin' was a little 110 camera.
After we zipped down to our deluxe suite at the Dearborn Red Roof Inn, we found ourselves with several hours on our hands before the concert. Hmmmm...what could two newly married people find to do with a little spare time in a room with passably clean sheets? A little hip-hopscotch, maybe? Mattress meringue merengue? Oh, quit your whinin' and gaggin' out there. At least I didn't say rectal rhumba.
So, after we did things y'all'd rather not hear about, I was wanderin' the room in my unselfconscious, 23-year-old still-hardbelly nakedidity. The sink and mirror were just around the corner from the bedroom, and not in a separate room, and as I bent over to turn on the sink, because everything is built too short for me... POOF! the camera flash went off behind me.
I whipped around to behold my new husband, the complete fuckin' prick, holdin' the 110 and grinnin' like a smug, self-satisfied dickhole.
"Did you just take a picture of my bare ass?"
Grin, grin, not talkin', not lettin' me have the camera, either. He snapped a few more random room pictures, and then pocketed the camera. In the meantime, I was havin' a slight fit about how that roll was almost full, and now we couldn't have it developed, all that suddenly modest bullshit. If only I'd realized what good shape I was in then, I'd have been proud to take 'em in for developing!
So, Jim managed to take the film out and mix it in with several other rolls we had ready to develop. I had no bloody idea which one had my ass mugshot on it.
I took the rolls in one at a time, over a long period of time, always holding my breath when I came in to pick up my pictures that this wouldn't be the time I got the looks from the photo clerks. All the while, Jim teased me without mercy about how he was gonna put the picture on milk cartons with the caption "Have you seen this ass?" (though I did point out to him that he would feel very foolish indeed when everyone called and said, "Oh, yeah, I've seen that ass alright, heh heh heh!")
This went on for nearly a year, and still no ass picture. It was like Russian roulette with my ass spinnin' in the chamber. And then there was one.
This had to be it. The motel pictures hadn't been on any of the other rolls we'd taken in. So, if I just didn't take it in, I was safe. I let it sit for a long time. And then one day, I couldn't stand it anymore. I am, without a doubt, my own worst enemy.
I took the roll in and dropped it off, avoiding all eye contact with the clerk. The next day, I came to claim my packet of shame, steeling myself for the inevitable clerk smirks, or maybe even downright rebukes for daring to bring pornographic photos to a family drugstore. Said my name, let the pixie behind the counter thumb through the envelopes, braced myself for her reaction...and there was none, beyond the standard pleasantries and gathering of cash for said photos.
Once in the car, I ripped open the envelope and began flipping through the pictures. Nope, nope, nope, nope...motel picture. My heart beat a little faster. This was the one! Jim posin' in the room, me posin' in the room, the suitcase. Where was my ass?
Then I found it. A picture, in the motel room, where the camera was pointed toward the ceiling, and captured nothin' but plaster. Not my ass. Just plaster. Jim had been stringin' me along for a whole year with this, and I'd played into his hands smoother than a custom accordian.
Say it with me now: Suckahhhhhhhh!