It's not what it looks like...

I'm standing in an alley with my trousers around my ankles, both hands occupied with propping up my drunken date. I don't think I want to see her again. It has been a night full of self-discovery and horror.

"This isn't what it looks like, officer..." I just know the words are useless given his flashlight is burning on my moonlit moon.

Officer Schmitt does not believe my protestations of innocence, and I soon find myself in a comfortable, if spartan cell, downtown. My date is sobering up in an interview room, accompanied by a victim support officer trained to deal with 'this sort of crime'. What sort of crime? I nurse my ego, head in hands.

I knew I shouldn't have gone with the corduroy pants. I hadn't worn them since last summer; I lost a good few inches off my waist-line since then. However, Brian (former best buddy and the guy who hooked me up with Leona, my date) said they looked "edgy and gangsta", loosely gathered on my hips. OK, I wore the pants - and, yes, underwear may have been a wise choice. Hindsight is a marvelous thing.

She got drunker and drunker, and I just had the car valeted, so when she felt ill on the way home, I pulled into an alley. It's the last time I play the gentleman and hold a girl's hair back, while she's delicate and I'm wearing loose pants.

Hours later they open up my cell and I'm met by a rather sheepish Leona.

"Could I trouble you for a lift home?" She smiles, through blood-shot eyes.

"Sure. Why not? What's the worst that can happen?"

(279 wds)