I Love to Pee
I decided to take myself out tonight for another dinner at a restaurant that David and I used to frequent fairly often, a lovely French establishment called Le Lyonnais. Although it is about a half hour's drive in nearby Acton Massachusetts, I didn't mind the short commute -- it is a clear, calm, starry evening, with Orion hanging large and lusty, in total domination of the eastern sky. Le Lyonnais itself is housed in a former colonial-style home and is comprised of several small and cozy rooms located on the ground floor. There weren't too many customers when I arrived, and we were all seated in the same location, which is a closed-in porch, overlooking a small stream that runs behind the building, now mostly iced over. In addition to myself, the patrons consisted of an older woman and, if I had to guess, her son or daughter with their spouse; two couples in their late 20s or early 30s; a middle-aged couple, the husband of which had the bright, florid countenance of a skier who obviously employed no facial protection during his wind-swept jaunts; and another couple who seemed to me to be clearly on a date.
My waiter was Girard, a tall, attractive man in his mid-to-late forties with a lovely shock of thick salt-and-pepper hair, pale blue eyes, and a voluptuous butt off of which I would happily eaten my dinner. I did not get the sense that he was gay, but I subtly flirted with him anyway, and although he didn't reciprocate, he seemed quietly amused by my banter.
Because I was alone, and being in such close proximity with the other guests, it was difficult not to hear their conversations. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I eavesdropped like crazy. What else was I to do between courses? The older woman spoke about how expensive condos were going for in her native Gloucester Mass; the couple whom I assumed was on a date discussed their favorite films (his were more mainstream and prosaic then hers -- Tropic Thunder is his latest cinematic pet, while she is hotly anticipating Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli movie he has never heard of -- uh oh, I thought); Mr. Red Face spoke about his job as a senior software analyst, whatever that is, and the sad array of meatheads that he has to supervise.
I was beginning to tune out the chatter around me as I dived into my chateaubriand, cooked to perfection and surrounded by mushrooms, rice, green beans, and baby red-skinned potatoes, when one of the women at the "Two Couples" table arrested me with a fervent declaration:
"I love to pee!"
I was certain I had misheard her and took another sip of my Bordeaux.
But then she continued with happy abandon.
"I think it must be like when men ejaculate -- peeing is so... freeing... it's such a wonderful release..."
At this point her spouse quickly and embarrassedly shushed her, for the entire room had become silent and was listening with rapt attention to this rather odd outburst.
I wish I had been paying closer attention to their conversation prior to her remark so that I could comprehend what had prompted this discourse regarding the esoteric pleasures of female urination. Girard himself could not have heard it, as he was hovering out of earshot in the wait station near the registers, but, apparently responding to the astonished look on my face, he hurried over to me and asked worriedly if everything was satisfactory.
That's when I began to laugh.
I couldn't help it. It was too ridiculous. I tried to assure him that everything was fine, but I had to cover my mouth with my napkin and pretend to be coughing. Mr. Red Face also seemed to be on the verge of losing it, and I briefly wondered if all the patrons were going to erupt as well. Order was somehow restored, though, but admittedly only with Herculean restraint on my part.
As a postscript, I note with satisfaction that, when presenting me with the check, Girard smiled at me very warmly and said, "Please visit us again very soon, and when you do, please ask for me."
How did he know I was going to leave him a major tip? I mean, honest to God, that rear end of his should be framed and in the Louvre...
My waiter was Girard, a tall, attractive man in his mid-to-late forties with a lovely shock of thick salt-and-pepper hair, pale blue eyes, and a voluptuous butt off of which I would happily eaten my dinner. I did not get the sense that he was gay, but I subtly flirted with him anyway, and although he didn't reciprocate, he seemed quietly amused by my banter.
Because I was alone, and being in such close proximity with the other guests, it was difficult not to hear their conversations. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I eavesdropped like crazy. What else was I to do between courses? The older woman spoke about how expensive condos were going for in her native Gloucester Mass; the couple whom I assumed was on a date discussed their favorite films (his were more mainstream and prosaic then hers -- Tropic Thunder is his latest cinematic pet, while she is hotly anticipating Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli movie he has never heard of -- uh oh, I thought); Mr. Red Face spoke about his job as a senior software analyst, whatever that is, and the sad array of meatheads that he has to supervise.
I was beginning to tune out the chatter around me as I dived into my chateaubriand, cooked to perfection and surrounded by mushrooms, rice, green beans, and baby red-skinned potatoes, when one of the women at the "Two Couples" table arrested me with a fervent declaration:
"I love to pee!"
I was certain I had misheard her and took another sip of my Bordeaux.
But then she continued with happy abandon.
"I think it must be like when men ejaculate -- peeing is so... freeing... it's such a wonderful release..."
At this point her spouse quickly and embarrassedly shushed her, for the entire room had become silent and was listening with rapt attention to this rather odd outburst.
I wish I had been paying closer attention to their conversation prior to her remark so that I could comprehend what had prompted this discourse regarding the esoteric pleasures of female urination. Girard himself could not have heard it, as he was hovering out of earshot in the wait station near the registers, but, apparently responding to the astonished look on my face, he hurried over to me and asked worriedly if everything was satisfactory.
That's when I began to laugh.
I couldn't help it. It was too ridiculous. I tried to assure him that everything was fine, but I had to cover my mouth with my napkin and pretend to be coughing. Mr. Red Face also seemed to be on the verge of losing it, and I briefly wondered if all the patrons were going to erupt as well. Order was somehow restored, though, but admittedly only with Herculean restraint on my part.
As a postscript, I note with satisfaction that, when presenting me with the check, Girard smiled at me very warmly and said, "Please visit us again very soon, and when you do, please ask for me."
How did he know I was going to leave him a major tip? I mean, honest to God, that rear end of his should be framed and in the Louvre...