I ran up the stairs to our third-floor flat, cursing that I could be so stupid as to go out in a student town without ID. I'm nicknamed Grandma, what with being a bit older than your average student, so if I want the student prices I can't rely on anything other than official documentation to prove my youth. I'll let you know when I work out how I feel about that.
"We'll wait here," my friends chorused, and I couldn't shout back because it took all the concentration I had not to fall over in my Ridiculous Jigsaw Heels.
I jogged up the stairs, getting friction burn on my hand from the tight grip I was forced to maintain on the bannister and becoming aware of a feeling in the base of my stomach.
"Golly gosh," I thought to myself, "I peed twice before we left. I can't possibly need the loo again."
I turned the key in the lock, grabbed my cards from the dresser and pushed my way into the loo to dribble into the toilet for the third time in twenty minutes. "See. I knew I didn't really have to go," I thought to myself. I hop-footed it back down the stairs.
On my way down I idly wondered if I had wiped properly because even though I have been adept at going to the toilet unaided for many years now, I was very aware as the breeze made it's way up my skirt that I wasn't wearing underwear and absolutely ANY missed parts would embarrassingly haunt me. "Do I have a VPL?" I had asked my roomies before we left. They had replied, "Laura. Look at your arse in that. OF COURSE we can see your knickers." So I stood in the hallway and took them off. "Right then," I had declared. "Don't let me get so drunk that I regret doing that." And then I had another pee and we left for the night. Except that we didn't because I forget my ID and we had to go back.
No knickers, I reminded myself as I pushed the door open into the cold. No pubic hair, I then suddenly remembered, what with the "Welcome Back to England" Hollywood I treated myself to last week. I did the math in my head, adding the two factors together. Another icey breeze tickled the tops of my thighs and as I reached my girlfriends again it hit me.
"I'm turning myself on by just walking," I laughed. "We might have to take this slow." They laughed at me. But actually, it wasn't funny. IT WAS DAMNED SERIOUS. It was a whoooooole other kind of friction burn. A coupe of hundred meters in and the chafing really slowed us down.
We carefully and considerately made our way to the bar.
I ordered two drinks when we arrived. One for me. One was for my very alert clitoris.
She says hi.