Don’t Worry Darling, You Or Your Husband Aren’t My Type
I’m not going to steal him from you despite what you think, I swear
--
I walk into the bathroom to have every other woman having the same thought as me with a burlesque intermission. The speakeasy music plays in the background and fades as the door opens. I enter to see the legs of women squatting through the small slats from behind the stall door. Two other women squeeze in behind me. The stall door opens, and I’m the first to go into the vacant stall.
“There’s no toilet paper in that one!”
One of the women still standing outside call out.
“Really?”
“Yeah, thought I’d let you know.”
“I’ll just wait then, and I’m not in a hurry.”
I chuckle to myself as women shuffle between each other in the tightness of the bathroom. The one without toilet paper is the largest stall, and I knew to avoid it this time from my first excursion into this bathroom. I make quick business of things and pop outside.
“Your patience is rewarded!”
I quip quickly. I slide into where the next open sink is. The woman next to me has a stunning deep blue geometric long shirt with black pants and boots. I give a nod of approval to her.
“Love that outfit! The colors are amazing on you.”
This is the thing about women; we sure love to complement each other. I think that one of the astonishingly beautiful things about women’s bathrooms is the comradely way we make small talk like it’s nothing.
“Oh, thank you! I love yours too.”
“Thanks, burlesque shows allow me to have my tits out. And my mom always taught me how to get them just right. Bend over, scoop them up like ice cream.”
I demonstrate this by bending over and grabbing the soft mounds into position. I should have probably done this stunt in the stall, but it’s a bit too small since I wouldn’t have been able to bend forward fully.
