Sticky to the Touch

Last month, Lena, Lisa, Michael, and I were in the park for some late night mischief. While everyone else sat on the baseball bleachers, I climbed onto an overhead tree limb and shook it, accidentally dropping a lot of sap onto my companions below, causing them to become sticky. Lena complained that everything was now “sticky to the touch” which led to a highly philosophical debate as to whether it is possible for something to be sticky but “not to the touch” as stickiness is a sensation determined by touch.

Before this matter was settled, I wandered off to a tree with a curved spine. Since it appeared to be the perfect implement on which to scratch my back, I made like a bear and rubbed my backside against it vigorously. Once satisfied, I returned to the sticky-to-the-touch bleachers where upon I was ridiculed for humping the tree. Adamantly, I defended my legitimate back scratching action and denied any humping, explaining that my crotch never touched the tree. “You were reverse humping!” Lena countered. Though I will admit to doing nothing inappropriate, I did concede that it must have looked strange and perhaps even sexual in the dark from a distance, a fact I should have taken into consideration considering there were other people similarly meandering in the park.

It was a pair of these other people in particular that caught Michael’s eye. He claimed that in the distance, people were having sex on a picnic table. Everyone debated whether intercourse was actually happening, except for me who couldn’t even make out where the alleged incident was occurring, so I kept pestering for someone to point it out. (Don’t act like you are above taking a gander at a potentially fornicating couple.) “Right there,” Lisa said as if it were occurring immediately in front of me. “Where?” I said, seeing nothing. “Right there.” Lisa repeated, a little more irritated. “I don’t see anything,” I whined. “Right there!” Lisa stated firmly. Unable to see the subjects in question and unwilling to let the opportunity pass me by, I asked for her to give me an “o’clock” so I’d be able to pinpoint the location. Lisa responded again with only an angry “Right there!” Frustrated, I raised my voice, too. “Give me a time! Give me an o’clock!” Angriest yet, Lisa retorted, “Right-there-o’clock!” which sent everyone into fits of laughter. Right-there-o’clock is totally the best way ever to describe someone’s location.

For the record, those people were not having sex, although when we went to hang out at the same picnic table an hour later, Lena put her hand under the table and brushed against a substance she swore was jizz. I told her it must just be gum, but when she challenged me to feel it to prove my theory, I was unwilling to do so. After all, just because something’s is sticky-to-the-touch doesn’t mean I need to touch it.