Choking on Cake

Tomorrow’s my birthday, and as is customary at my work, a bunch of us usually pitch in to get each other giftcards as a gift. I was sitting up in my office talking on the phone when they called me to go downstairs. Walking down the stairs, it was like the whole “Miss America” routine, only with my co-workers singing “Happy Birthday” instead. Mainly because I left my good evening gown and heels at home. If I had those on, I’ve no doubt that I would have won the pageant and worn the crown until the sex tapes came out in some scandal.

So I’m there cutting the birthday cake, and handing out pieces and one of my co-workers says that he’s watching his weight and doesn’t want one. Mind you, he works out like every day at the gym and does Capoeira and gymnastics and god only knows what else to stay fit. He looks like a smaller version of the Incredible Hulk with dreadlocks. Then our principal, a 50 something full-figured woman, asked him if he knew anything about the health club down the street from here. She lives closeby and doesn’t want to travel across town to get to the gym. Only problem is that the “health club” that she was talking about is actually a bathhouse. Like where men went to have sex in the 70’s, only without the disco and Bathhouse Betty belting out tunes while the boys took breaks between fucks. I just about choked on my cake when she talked about wanting to go and check it out. And there was no graceful way to tell her what it was without everyone wondering why exactly I know what it is.

That would’ve been fun to try to explain.

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