An Open Letter to My One Night Stand

Summary

A man writes an open letter to his one-night stand to clarify a misunderstanding about a suspicious stain on the bed sheets.

Abstract

The author addresses Raina, possibly Rihanna, to explain the true origin of a stain found on the bed sheets after their encounter, emphasizing it was not a result of bedwetting. He recounts a previous incident involving a dream about his mother on fire, which once led to him wetting the bed. However, the recent stain was due to a burst bag of ice used to combat the heat during a night where the room temperature was exceedingly high and his makeshift cooling system failed. He details his innovative yet unconventional method of using ice-filled Ziploc bags to cool down and fall asleep. The woman, possibly named Raina or Rihanna, misinterpreted the wet spot as urine and left hastily after a night of heavy drinking, leaving the author to regret the misunderstanding and miss the chance to clarify the situation.

Opinions

The author believes that the unusual cooling method he used was rational given the circumstances.
He humorously blames the parakeet's strike for the lack of cooling, indirectly criticizing the situation's absurdity.
The author appears to be self-conscious about the possibility of being perceived as strange or a bedwetter, hence the need to clarify.

There’s a Perfectly Reasonable Explanation for that Stain

Dear Raina (Or possible Rihanna),

I didn’t wet the bed. I never wet the bed.

Okay, I wet the bed once. It was two years ago, and I was having a dream where my mother was one fire, and the only way to put her out was for me to piss myself. It was only when I woke up that I realized that made absolutely no sense.

But I didn’t wet the bed the night we slept together. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that circular stain on the sheets, and it has nothing to do with the three Mountain Dews I drank to try and calm my nerves and reduce my sperm count before we had sex.

It was hot that night. Remember how hot it was? It was 100 degrees in my room and my improvised fan decided to go on strike. Apparently you have to pay parakeets more than a cracker an hour to hold a paper fan in their beak and bob their head up and down for eight hours. Thanks Biden.

You didn’t seem to mind. As I recall you drifted off to sleep right away. Must have been those 13 shots of Fireball you had. I can still taste your cinnamon breath at the back of my nostrils.

I, on the other hand, was a balmy mess. I needed to do something to cool myself down, so I went to my freezer, grabbed two ice cube trays, and upended 24 gloriously cool cubes into a half dozen Ziploc bags.

Then, quietly and respectfully so as not to disturb your obstructive sleep apnea, I slipped back into bed and placed the six bags on strategic locations throughout my body. Two in the pits and two over the tits. One on my head, and the other betwixt my bum and the bed.

Call me crazy. Call me loony. Call me riddled with perceptual cognitive abnormalities bordering on schizophrenia — but the bags worked beautifully. In five minutes my body temperature dropped, and I was off to Snoozeland.

They laughed at Edison too. Photo Credit: Author. (sadly)

The only drawback to this system is that a bag of ice on a hot body doesn’t stay a bag of ice forever. By sunrise I was sleeping with six bags of warm water on me. I must have rolled over, because next thing I know one of the bags burst.

I was simply relieved that my kidney hadn’t exploded. But you Raina –possibly Rihanna, possibly Rachel — must have been terribly confused. In your confusion, you assumed that a stain on bed sheets must have been urine, and even though you had a terrible headache and a hell of a time keeping your equilibrium, you gathered up your clothes, purse, wig, red sponge nose, and comically oversized shoes and waddled right out of my apartment.

My love Rachel. Or Rihanna. Or Raina. Photo: David Fagundes

I never saw you again. I never got a chance to explain. I don’t wet the bed! I’m not a weirdo! I just put bags of ice all over my body whenever my fan waving parakeet goes on strike, just like everybody else!

I’ll leave the Fireball on the windowsill my dear, always searching out beyond the dumpster that blocks most my window, knowing that some day my Punchinello will return.

Sincerely,

The Ice Man

Enjoyed yourself? Then read this Stupid:

Sexual Misunderstandings

An Open Letter to My One Night Stand

There’s a Perfectly Reasonable Explanation for that Stain

Sex: How Everybody Else Is Doing It

Feet, Foreplay, Furries, and Female Condoms