Fresh, Like Morning Dew

I was stood at the bar in a well-reknowned club in London. A well-reknowned sex club in London, in fact. The Boyf has gone to the toilet, a new acquaintence of ours (in fact, it's The God. Dribble) has gone for a little walk round. We all know what that means, but he's told us not to go anywhere. Apparently he's not finished with us. The guy's insatiable, and frankly I'm not complaining.

So yeah, I'm at the bar, alone, drinking cider. The barman is leaving me be for a moment. Apparently he's had quite enough fun playing with my ears for a bit and has gone off to serve someone. (He has a thing about ears, took an immediate shine to mine, and then nearly wet himself when I revealed I can wiggle them).

So anyway, I'm at the bar, on my own. I think we all get that by now. I should add that it's very hot in The Hoist. Oops, named it. Oh well. Suddenly I can feel a very light shower hitting the top of my head and my bare shoulders. (No, I wasn't wearing that blue sequined halter-neck dress - I'd taken my t-shirt off). It feels like a very fine sprinkler system has been turned on, to cool the hot patrons at the bar. I close my eyes and tilt my head back to allow the mist to hit my face. I open my mouth and let out a very satisfied sigh.

At this moment The Boyf and The God both reappear (from opposite directions, I should add). They seem to be keeping a slight distance from me, and The Boyf is smirking. The God, looking vaguely disturbed, says to me, "You do know you're being pissed on, don't you?".

I back away from the bar and look up. On the mezzanine level lies a skinhead. Standing alongside is another skinhead, and he is pissing on the guy lying down, the spray from which I've just been standing under with my mouth open.

The Boyf and The God start to laugh, I complain that my pint tastes funny, and we all repair to a dark corner to give my poor knees another work-out.