Pretty recently, I started seeing this new guy (yeah, yeah add one more to the list). We’ll call him Mister. I take that back. Let’s call him Mister P.

One night, a few weekends ago, Mr. P and I decided to go to a bar downtown.  It was harmless, 20-something fun: a typical casual date. Let’s just say Mr. P had one too many cocktails. He started slurring his words a bit, and maybe I should’ve known better, but I’ve seen other guys in way worse shape so I went to his place for a little one on one time.

After we finished with the full court press, he cuddled up behind me and assumed the “big spoon” position. Now ladies, let’s be honest, we all know how good it feels to be the little spoon. Being covered and protected by that big spoon feels so natural and safe. The thing is, I should have decided to be the big spoon that night.

At around 6:30 am, he got up from bed, walked over to the wall and leaned against it with his hand. Then he started to unzip his pants like he was in front of a toilet. I stared at him thinking, “I really want to see where this goes.”  At the time I thought it would be funny.  Yes, I think it’s funny to watch a drunk, man-child pee all over his wall (and you would too, ya liars). Finally, he realized what he was doing and walked out of the door.  I decided to roll over to get more comfortable, perfectly pleased with this unexpected and hilarious turn of events. Then I felt it. Warmth. All over my back and my ass.  Warmth and wetness.

My mouth dropped and my eyes grew wider than the last marathon medal that I never won.  He pissed himself. He pissed the bed. He pissed on me. IN THE BED.  By the time I’d realized what happened, he crawled back in to bed and went back to sleep. Horrified, I stayed in bed and waited for him to start snoring so I could pull my famous disappearing act.

And THAT, my friends, is how I know what it feels like to date R. Kelly.

I never heard from Mister P again and I’m pretty okay with that