Shower

Well, the journey home from India started badly. The meal we had before leaving to catch the 1:30am flight was very good, and we even kept our rooms so we could shower before starting the long trek (10 hours to Paris, 5 hours in Paris, 9 hours to Chicago, 3 hours in O’Hare and then back to St.Louis on a Friday night). We allowed two hours to check in and, after fighting through a throng of people in front of the terminal who had no discernible reason for being there other than to be a fucking pain in the arse, we checked in. We filled out the departure cards and were about to head to the lounge when we saw the queue for immigration.

First question: why are we going through immigration when we’re leaving? You’ll have to ask the Indian government about that but don’t hold your breath for an answer. If the length of this queue was anything to go by these fuckers couldn’t organize the proverbial in a brewery. It snaked back out of the Disney-style maze and worked its way all across the concourse and, as far as I could tell, out of the door and half way down the road. Clearly standing in it would lead to a missed flight, so we pushed in close to the front by pretending to know these three French girls standing in line. (This was at least partly true – we’d have liked to have got to know them…)

Even from this point the queue dragged on forever. When it reached 15 minutes before departure we grabbed a passing Indian immigration official and pointed out that we were close to missing the flight. “No problem” he said, “you have loads of time.” This comforted us right up until we saw him trying to take a family to the front of the line and being sent back by the bloke on the desk; clearly this clown had no clout, so what good was his confident assertion?

Anyway, we made it onboard just in time and the flight left only a few minutes late. Fuck knows how! Ten hours later I’m in Paris CDG airport. I make my way to terminal 2E through a series of corridors, escalators and a bus ride, pass security (again) and find my way to the (completely fucking un-signposted) Air France business class lounge. It’s early, and there are few people in. You can only eat so many little cakes to pass the time, and the newspapers are in French, so I decide to take a shower.

The showers are excellent here, I have to say, and they come with a little bag of accessories, including razor, toothbrush, tiny deodorant and body-splash. I don’t want to smell like a Patagonian goat-herder’s gusset all the way to St.Louis, so after the shower I decide to use both the deodorant and the body-splash. It’s not exactly a fine scent but I figure it’s better than nothing. I put some on; it smells OK. So I decide to put more on – I stand there and pour the little bottle on my chest. I look down and see alcohol-based body splash running off the end of my dick. This is not good. There’s a short delay and then a powerful burning sensation which I rapidly attempt to assuage by splashing cold water all over my prick and balls.

So as I write this I’m sitting in the Air France lounge waiting for the Chicago flight. And you know what? I may not be the best looking, funniest or trendiest guy on the flight but I’ve got the nicest smelling balls. I guarantee that.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison