A Million Inches Delicious

I’ve worked at a backpacking camp in southern Colorado for the past three summers, farrowing teenagers through high alpine forests and the creamsicle wrinkles of canyonlands. On the very first morning I woke up there last summer, lilac shades of dawn gently nestling my cabin, I woke up exhausted, a cold and viscous residue resting between my thighs. I sighed. Either a depressed jellyfish had blown its brains out in my lap, or I had once again succumbed to the roving succubus of nocturnal emissions. I opted for the latter, and rubbed my eyes indignantly. Just like that, requiring only slight sinus pressure and the dry mountain air, my nose broke into a violent nosebleed, the crimson spring spurting from my nostril like a Martian battle cry. I sat up quickly to slow the bleeding, and in doing so planted my palm in a puddle of testicular outcasts. I tried wiping the sin-paste from my fingers, but by that point I was so cloaked in personal fluids there was really nothing better to do then admit defeat, lean back, and swallow the copper-tinged cocktail of blood and pride. The sun had not even risen on my summer, and here I was, stuck in my own private and entirely unwelcome strawberry shortcake.

Then there was the time I woke up to the muffled grunting of my best friend having sex with my ex-girlfriend. The two had been dating for almost a year when she and I decided to spend spring break with Kabir at his university. Our first night in, even though the guys down the hall offered me plenty of crash space, I decided it would be best to just sleep on the floor of Kabir’s dorm room, right next to the bed they were sharing. I was stirred out of sleep twice that night to discover that I was an idiot, stapled to sucking noises and paralyzed by awkward. I found out later that these were the sounds of anal sex. Anal sex with the girl I had never achieved more than a handjob with. Anal sex with the girl who had been my first serious girlfriend.

There is no snooze button for unpleasant.