I just had. An experience.
So a woman comes in to my work and asks to use the bathroom. Okay, normal. She happens to be a beautiful woman—not my type, but, you know, classically beautiful in the way that makes you a little bashful to talk to anyway.
She comes out a little bit later to say that the soap dispenser is empty. She’s holding her hands up—purple nail polish—clearly distressed by her exposure to filth and unwilling to touch anything until that can be fixed. I am nothing if not eager to help (knight complex) (beautiful) (purple nail polish) so I leap up and run to the supply room for the refill bottle.
I wedge the bathroom door open, you know, for her comfort, she’s standing there (beautiful) watching me, I’m silently pretending that she must be secretly impressed by my ring of keys (like the song), I’ve got a bit of a swagger on maybe (purple nail polish). I open the soap dispenser expecting an empty canister. It doesn’t look empty. I stick my fingers in (looks can be deceiving) and it’s completely full, freshly refilled, now I’m suddenly aware that she’s still watching me over my shoulder and I’m sticking my fingers into a hole (purple nail polish) and ha-ha-ha, it’s only a little suggestive with the soap, forget about it.
I struggle with the soap dispenser, she’s still watching me, I realize that whoever filled it last didn’t prime it. “I have to prime it,” I say, for some reason I have to explain out loud (beautiful).
I reach for the, uh, tube at the bottom. It hangs down about four inches. It’s rubbery. Yielding. But, uh, firm. I have to. Squeeze it. Repeatedly. She’s watching me still. Soap is leaking out of the release valve on the cap and onto my hands. Still no soap is coming out.
There’s probably congealed soap near the tip blocking the opening, I realize, and try to covertly squeeze it to check. Like. An udder. I’m massaging it (purple nail polish) and she’s still watching me. I glance up in the mirror. Her expression behind me is unreadable. Her eyes are fixed on the little rubber phallus I am stroking. I’m sweating.
“I have to…” I begin. I panic. I don’t know how to finish my sentence. I can’t say anything that can be construed as sexual. “…Milk it,” I say. A mistake. Now it somehow sounds more sexual than if I had said “jack it off”. I could have played that as a roguish joke. Milk it doesn’t sound roguish, it sounds creepy. The clogged soap comes free. White translucent liquid soap spurts all over my hands. There is a terrible sound accompanying it. She says “eugh!” over my shoulder. I try to rinse my hands and the soap container off with water before putting it away but soap just keeps leaking out, it’s everywhere. Why does it have to be white? Why does it have to be this consistency? Why is the suspensor tube shaped… like that (couldn’t it be just a little bit bigger if it had to be shaped Like That?) Why did she have to stand there watching me?
From here on out I’m just buying fucking pump bottles for the bathroom. Jesus fucking Christ.
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