Bathroom Affairs

I am the product of too much Eggnog and Bourbon balls consumed before 10pm. Conceived between the flimsy, paint-chipped walls of a men’s bathroom during the office Christmas party. Under the mistletoe, he breathed into Mama’s mouth that he had to take a piss, and she, drunken by his words, followed, not even allowing enough space between their trips to avoid curious glances and scandalous whispers from their co-workers.

At least Mama wasn’t slutty enough to do it in the urinal. She stood barefoot on the seat of the toilet, not wanting her high heels to slip on the porcelain, stretched her other leg over the wall, posing like a cheerleader atop of a pyramid. He climbed aboard, balanced one foot on the seat, the other leg wrapped around her waist, foot pressed on the tank cover. He never took his pants off, just unzipped his fly, flung out his dick and rhythmically thrust it into Mama for a minute and a half until his convulsing body caused him to slip and flush the toilet with his big toe.

If only it had flushed half of me down that drain, but his DNA was already mingling inside her fallopian tubes, racing for an egg to fertilize by the time the water returned and Mama was pulling down her dress.

The company hasn’t invited temps to the Christmas parties since.

Mama was never that smart. She was hired because she was cute, fired for the same reason. Maybe it was a pitiful joke to herself, or a vindictive reminder to her non-child support paying, married then divorced bathroom lover, or maybe she just couldn’t spell. Nevertheless, she named her only daughter Merry Crystal. I was cursed before I ever exited the womb—feet first, I might add.