The pang of my blackberry alarm jolts me into consciousness and I jump up with a start. Where the hell am I? Oh, the sofa. Are you kidding me? Eight in the morning already what a damn liberty, I must have fallen asleep watching TV last night. The glorious box of light continues to show me insanely inhumane adverts of housewives bleaching floors and cereal bars that apparently fill you up all the way until lunchtime, what the fuck? I rub my groggy chocolate-fuelled coma-head and grumble to myself as my thumb finds my Blackberry to hit the snooze button and my eyes almost implode like a retreating ball-sack in an adolescent boy skinny dipping for the first time – I’ve out snoozed my snooze alarm, it’s nine-fifteen already! Shit cake!

It dawns on me that I’m not only late for work but I’ve just lost my billion to nil lead of winning streaks, my heavyweight title has been cowardly snatched from beneath my weary eyes by a new challenger who doesn’t fight fair. And as I stand like a new spring lamb taking it’s first steps my legs feel weak and give way before me as I tumble to the floor banging my head on the coffee table with a loud rock hard ‘dank’ on the way down. Mother fucker!

Oh God my stomach and back hurt, I’m weak from sleeping in an awkward crumpled ball on the sofa, my legs ache from being trapped under my arse for God knows how many unconscious hours and now my top lip has puffed up and is throbbing like one of Ann Summers finest vibrators. Seriously!?

I limp, hobble and suck back the copious amount of excessive saliva now building in my mouth from the impact as I frantically scoop up belongings and deodorant like a heavy-knuckled silverback gorilla along the way. Shit, shit, shit! I forgot to wash my uniform last night and it lays gloriously before me sprawling across the kitchen side like a treasure map and it’s body-part route marked out in dark brown shit-smelling blood that was yesterday a vibrant fresh red. I fumble clumsily through my wardrobe as I suck a wet tea towel trying to keep my head back in a vain attempt to pacify my thrumming top lip.

Why do I not own more white clothes than my single pair of leggings with brown blood across the buttocks and crotch in the kitchen? But just as I consider admitting defeated I catch the end of a pair of zebra print three-quarter lengths which possibly last saw the light of day when I was seventeen and ‘carnival trash’ was clearly in fashion. They’re garish, but I’ve got a fucking world title to win back. I’m already late for work, but I refuse to give Gaylord the opportunity to cut my holidays. Fuck it, zebra legs it is. I find a plain black vest top and throw it on, scraping back my hair into a ponytail and running to the car with my house keys between my teeth.

Arriving breathlessly at the meat counter I snake my way past the chiller and pull on a hair net as I crouch out of sight to look for a spare white tabard.
“Pssst! Sand! Where have you been?” Comes a voice from above me. It’s sex-God Ben, I can smell his body calling to me louder than his voice, my ears prick up and I run my self-conscious tongue across my swollen top lip not raising my face like a tarnished Quasimodo.
“Erm…” I stifle. Shit, I sound as though I’ve done ten rounds with the dentist and my lip burns furiously at the pronunciation of each syllable.
“Sandra, are you ok?” he leans onto the glass.
“Mmm.” I pathetically mumble to the floor and he makes his way around the counter to stand directly behind me as I crouch over distinctly pushing my head further under the counter into the stinking mops and buckets. What am I doing? I’ve committed to this now so I’ve just got to ride it out, brush him off and find a spare tabard, quench my top lip with a bag of ice and Angelina Jolie-Gardener will be back on top form to seduce him.
“Sandra you spoon, what are you doing? Gaylord’s out for your blood and I told her you went back to the locker room to get your canteen card. Get your arse out of there now, she’ll be back any second!” I cringe as I nuzzle myself further into the mops, crouching like a naughty dog on the cold tiled floor on all fours with the love of my life stood behind me, why can’t he just fuck off for once? I can feel the tension building with every passing second and my chin and throat are now drenched from looking down with a mouth-full of liberated saliva thanks to my thumping burning lip.
“Ips-oh-yay” I gargle.
“What the fuck Sand?” Ben suddenly lunges down and puts his hands around my waist to pull me out, the first time he’s ever touched me and I let out one hell of a shell-shocked banging fart to my sheer horror, that could be heard from across the discounted dairy on the other side of aisle seven. What do I do? He lets go of me like a confused dog that’s just been stung by a bee. Oh God, it’s so silent, my face is touching the shitty beef water bucket and I can recognise the definite smell of last nights pot-noodle through the lingering stench of my surprise.

The silence is broken by the squeaking sound of Gaylord’s clip-clopping Hush Puppies coming across the polished tile floor towards us.
“Shit! She’s here, get out now Sand!” Shouts Ben and he grabs my hips once more.
“Nuhhhh!” I muster and pull myself further into the dribble soaked mops.
“Fucking hell!” He shouts with annoyance and pulls me back even harder.
“Narghhh!” I reply as I grab hold of the grease-covered plumbing. He pulls, I lunge, he grunts I groan and the harder he fights me the more determined I become to remain undercover. We wrestle like violent porn stars banging and fisting into the clatter of cupboards and utensils, Jesus Christ this would have been hot if the cheap fabric of my zebra three-quarters hadn’t betrayed my cellulite arse cheeks as they burst their way out of captivity before his eyes. A newly broken teenage voice declares triumphantly from behind the counter “Look! They’re fucking!” Oh God! I clamber to my feet to hide my modesty as I come face-to-face with Gaylord, Ben and a crowd of gathering customers. My arse torn bare, my hair totally thrashed, my chest covered in saliva and my gorilla lip gloriously pumped tight and rubbery and now turning a deep shade of dark purple.

I stand silently reeling in the enormity of the moment as time stands still and all eyes search my battered face and eighties zebra draped arse for an explanation. Shit, I can’t believe he heard me fart!

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Tracy Kiss

Social influencer, Bodybuilder, Mother, Vegan
London, UK

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