Terrorists at the Parental Wedding

My parents are getting married again. Not that they were ever divorced. Just that they wanted another wedding event and reception. So things are being organized, and everything is in chaos. And visitors are pouring in from every corner of the globe. They are celebrities, maybe? All I know is that our tiny hometown is overrun by visitors who have appeared for what has been termed and capitalized as The Wedding.

Among these visitors is an evil element. Saboteurs, terrorists who want The Wedding to fail. Who want to cause death and destruction on the participants and their visitors. We find this out by anonymous tips. And we set out to protect the lives and futures of all these dear people.

I am underground, chasing the fleet-footed terrorists in abandoned subway tunnels. I shrink into the shadows to become practially invisible. Like a ninja. And I chase them surreptitiously — hoping they will lead me to their leader. Or at least give me some clue how they intend to attack. My nerves are frizzling with energy. My hearbeat is in my throat. I am chasing evil men. And I am on the side of the right. Go, me!

Everytime You Bend Over, My World Goes to Hell

A flash of pink. Or is it orange? I can’t tell for sure. I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or remembering a real incident. Everything is fuzzy.

All I know is that she dropped a piece of cloth onto the floor and bent over to pick it up. And her miniskirt hiked up over her ass a little. Just enough to see color.

Color in my cheeks. It’s like a snapshot fires in my brain and all I can see is the 5 second video on replay. Drop. Bend. Show. Drop Bend. Show.

I go hard in seconds.

The train lurches to life. She is catapulted to her seat from her standing position. She falls into the lap of one of her friends. And the surprise of the lurching allows her to show me more.

Definitely orange. With elastic bands that are rainbow colored.

I can feel my own elastic stretch — it’s trying to limit, to suppress — but it doesn’t work.

She puts her hand to her face in shame. Maybe realizing she’s shown her panties to me. To the world. But it feels fake. She won’t look me in the eye so I can know for sure if she’s flirting or just clumsy.

I stare straight on as if I saw nothing.

But my pants are tight and confining. And I can’t get her orange panties out of my brain.