a golden (shower) oldie...but a goodie...

Apologies for the re-hashed post here...but some people haven't read it...and it needed updating and including in this important body of work...so bite me...


Now, while we’re at it, I may as well get all the urinary skeletons out of the water-closet…
My wife, whom I shall call ‘Lady Fingers’ (LF) and I preferred to sleep in our birthday suits.
Just as in our waking lives, for the majority of the night I was restless, disturbed and burned like the coals in a furnace; she was for the most part motionless, content and colder than polar bear shit. And by cold I don’t mean her general demeanor; she had poor circulation and a core body-temperature of about 75 degrees Fahrenheit. One of her favourite nocturnal moves was to plunge an icy hand between my thighs to warm it up, which for a sleeping man, generates a surprise-coefficient similar to that of having your prostate examined with a Popsicle.
Also, a few months into our marriage, LF developed a habit of going to the toilet for a tinkle in the middle of the night. A quick 4am pit-stop, no flushing (in consideration of my light sleeping habits no doubt) after which she would return to the bed, apparently un-wiped, throw a leg over my thigh and re-attach herself to my body like a heat-seeking oyster. At first I thought it was cute; the tiny wet spot created during the docking manoeuvre didn’t bother me. After all, what’s a little bit of wee between friends…
Then it happened again.
And again.
And again and again and again…
Finally I’d had enough; after yet another dabbing I casually inquired, ‘Is there any fucking danger of wiping your cunt, you filthy animal ??’
LF looked at me a little stunned, eyes defocused, claiming ‘There was no toilet paper.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about; there are mountains of the stuff in there.’
‘Well I didn’t see any.’
At this point I should mention that we had two toilets. One was in the main bathroom down the hallway and the other, substantially smaller was situated just off our bedroom; a 1.5-metre by 1-metre micro-bathroom with just a toilet and micro-basin inside.
The next night, as had become her wont, LF rose from the bed at precisely 4 am, waking me in the process and trotted off to do her thing. That afternoon, I’d purchased six-dozen rolls of toilet paper, half of which I’d stacked along one wall of the micro-bathroom, the other half of which I’d placed in the bathtub next to the toilet in the main bathroom.
Meanwhile, I sat in bed and waited for LF’s return, mentally daring her to come back with a set of wet beef-curtains and drape them across my thigh. After ten minutes there was still no sign of her…
Now feeling like a wee myself, I slid out of bed and headed off down the hallway to the micro-bathroom, which I found to be unoccupied. On completion of my urinal duties, I decided to visit the main bathroom and see whether LF was alright. Amazingly, she wasn’t in there either; the rest of the apartment appeared to be in darkness too.
Puzzled, I went into the lounge room; more darkness.
It was then I noticed a faint glow coming from the kitchen…
Figuring LF was making herself a something to drink and feeling like a bit of a snack myself, I crossed the lounge-room floor and entered the kitchen, where to my utter disbelief I found my wife having a pee in the fridge. There before me was the love of my life, stark naked, semi-squatting, her gorgeous ass thrust through the wide-open fridge door…taking a piss on the vegetable draws.
‘What the fuck are you doing, darling ??’ I asked…more than a little shocked.
‘What does it look like ??’ she replied, completely unfazed.
‘It looks like you’re pissing in the fridge,’ I continued, trying to remain calm.
‘There’s no toilet paper again,’ she informed me, glassy-eyed, unmoved.
‘I see…I’ll just go and get some then.’
‘Thanks…and can you please NOT close the door.’
‘What door…there is no door on the kitchen, darling.’
‘Well just don’t close it or the light will go off.’
‘OK, I’ll just get you that toilet paper now.’
‘Thank you’…
At this point three things became clear: firstly my wife was apparently a sleep-walker, secondly the slightly discoloured liquid I had been removing from the drip-tray under the vegetable drawers with a ‘Wettex’ for the past two weeks was not quite as harmless as I’d previously thought and lastly…I was not going to make myself a salad sandwich that evening.
I’ve always wanted to get this story off my chest; if only to provide an answer to the age-old question, ‘Fingers…why is there toilet paper next to the milk on your fridge door’…