The Fireman. Part II

Do you remember the fireman?

How could you forget my hot-and-sweaty Backdraft style tryst complete with multiple orgasms and a firetruck?

Impossible.

If you haven’t read that post you’ll need to stop right here and do so in order to understand the true hilarity of this next story I’m about to tell you.

Go ahead, I’ll wait for you…

Jennifer Jason Leigh Ain’t Got Nothin’ On Me

So now that you’ve refreshed your memory, or finally read the story of the Fireman, I should say that he is still one awesome dude. I’m not really sure where things went wrong with us, aside from the fact that several other awesome dudes came into my life at the same time I met him and I found myself wanting to choose which one I liked best. I’ve never been able to juggle several men at once. My heart and vagina just aren’t wired that way.

The problem is I never really told the fireman I just wasn’t that into him because, of course, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Instead I distanced myself from him slowly and surely. I’d feel worse if I thought he was really that into me, but if he was I’m sure he would’ve reached out to me when I started to slip away.

In the end, I chose a non-fireman, who ultimately turned out to be the wrong man.

Surprise. Surprise.

Because I became so fixated on the aftermath of that wrong choice, I never really thought about the fireman again until months later.

I live in a small town somewhere in New Jersey and every year we have a Memorial Day parade down our main street. People come from all over the area to partake in the Memorial Day festivities, which mainly consist of a parade with some old cars, some emergency vehicles and a fuckton of people you don’t really care about traipsing down the street.

So what’s the draw? CANDY.

Glorious sugar laden treats are flung through the air by the parade marchers and everyone runs to get a piece. Ok not everyone, it’s basically just me fighting with a bunch of under-ten-year-olds. Still, I take my son every year and this year was no different.

Except this year my ex came with us.

Of course he arrived to my house thirty-minutes late in true selfishassholewhorefucker fashion, costing us our usual prime candy catching spots. By the time we got down to main street we were forced to stand between the town slut, whose breasts were desperately trying to escape from her restrictive tube-top, and a couple who had brought their five children, a six-foot-long sub, and a cooler filled with Budweiser, but had somehow managed to leave their teeth at home.

As the parade began, my son and I tightly gripped our plastic shopping bags with anticipation of the soon-to-be airborne candy while my ex stood beside us and looked on as if we were crazy. I’m not going to lie; I started to drool a little.

First came the veterans dressed in their military gear, yielding guns instead of treats.

Move along.

Next were the mayor and his wife, being driven in an antique car, smiling and waving as if they were Mr. and Mrs. President and actually meant something.

Where’s John Wilkes Booth when you need him?

Shortly after were the Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts, and the Brownies, who brought with them a steady rain of Dum Dums, Twizzlers, miniature bags of M&Ms and plastic airplanes.

This must be what heaven is like.

Then came the musical portion of the parade where several marching bands from neighboring towns put on a show for us as we began to stuff our faces with candy.

I stuck my head through the crowd and squinted my eyes to see what was next, only to be blinded by all the shiny red paint. And that’s when it hit me.

The firetrucks were coming.

And not just from our town, but all the neighboring towns, meaning I was about to face the fireman I had ditched and the firetruck I rode him on, while standing between my five-year-old son and my ex.

Only me.

Panicked, I looked around for somewhere to hide or a way to escape, but there was none. I decided my best option was to keep my head down, avoid any eye contact, and busy myself with my bag of candy.

Maybe he’s not here. Maybe he won’t see me.

Dear God, if you get me through this I will never fuck another man on a firetruck again.

As the trucks pulled up and the firemen threw their candy, my heart began to pound. I wasn’t sure which truck was which, who was on it, or from where, and I wasn’t about to look up to find out.

Until someone hit me right in the head with a Tootsie Pop. And then another. And then another.

At this point I looked up knowing exactly what I would see.

There stood the fireman, grinning from ear to ear, along with his firemen buddies, who were also grinning, with Tootsie Pops in hand, on the #7 Engine where I had touched his lengthy hose and came several times on our infamous date.

What happened next can only be described as an assault by Tootsie, as they pelted me with their candy.

“Lollipops!” cried the children.

“Kill me,” I mumbled.

“What the fuck?!” yelled my ex.

And that’s the story of how I was reunited with the fireman.