> She Left a Puddle Where Her Butthole Sat

Went into the coed sauna today and the whole room was empty except this smoking hot chick. Thigh gap, real curves, two-piece bikini, skin already glossy from the heat. She sat there like she owned the bench and the oxygen.

She stood up and left. Right in the wood, dead center where her ass had been, there was a little pool of sweat. Not a smear. A puddle. You could see the exact outline of where her butthole had been parked, dripping into the grain like the bench had been blessed.

Nobody else in there. Just me and that shiny little lake of her. I sat there staring at it like a man who found a twenty on the sidewalk and started doing the math on whether God wanted him to keep it.

I wanted to lick it up. Civic duty. Tidy the place. Help the next guy not slip and break his neck on premium-grade ass juice. Public service. Hygiene. Courtesy. Whatever word lets you live with yourself after you consider drinking a stranger's crack sweat off a cedar plank.

The heat makes you honest. You sit in 190 degrees and your brain sheds the polite layer. All that's left is the animal that notices a thigh gap and a wet spot and starts writing poetry about both. I did not do it. I thought about it long enough that the thought counts as a crime in some counties.

She walked out like nothing happened. Bikini still perfect. No idea she left a relic. I sat there with my towel and my dignity and a puddle that was already starting to soak in. Missed opportunity. Or a narrow escape. Depends how hungry you were when you read this.

Next time I am bringing a straw. For the wood. For the community. For science.