Laundry Room Crotch Eating

As per Steph's request, here is the Ricola underpants story.

After I graduated from college, Husband and I moved in together. We couldn't afford anything because he still had a semester of school to go (I graduated a year early thanks to a shitload of AP credits; he graduated a semester early) and I was planning to attend law school. (I dropped out on my third day. Long story, but one of the best decisions I ever made.) We managed to secure ourselves an illegal sublet of a ground floor maid's quarters in a fancy schmancy building on Central Park West. It was 200 square feet (260 including the oddly large bathroom that I kept my Ikea wardrobe in because there was no other space), and had no stove or oven, but it was safe, clean, in our price range (a thousand smackeroos a month), had doormen, and 3 blocks from the law school I dropped out of. (Ooops.)

To get to the apartment, you went into the stairwell that led to the basement. Then you walked by the stairs to a door on the back wall marked "Private." Behind the door was a narrow long hallway with four rooms, three of which were connected to form our living space. (The fourth was a tiny room used for an "office" by the freak who owned a massive condo upstairs. He'd come in and out at all hours, and initially proposed using our bathroom, to which I adamantly said no to, and fortunately he relented, or I would not have rented the place.) It was an odd situation, to say the least. The building staff definitely wondering what our deal was, as we clearly did not fit in with the other tenants and lived in a stairwell. We lived there for three years.

I'm sure it was no surprise to the staff when I had my laundry incident. Steph's building didn't have a laundry room, so she often came over to do laundry with me in my building. One day, I pulled a pair of underwear out of the drier. Something was stuck to the crotch.

"What the fuck is this?" I wondered aloud, peering at it closely and poking at it. It was hard. I smelled it. "Smells medicinal… maybe I left a Ricola in a pocket and it melted onto my granny undies."

It was feasible. I had just recovered from a cold. "There's only one way to know for sure," I said and then I licked the object.

"You know," Steph said through fits of laughter as she picked herself up from the floor, "the security camera is pointed right at you. I'm sure the guys at the front desk are enjoying watching you eat out the crotch of my underwear."

I shrugged. "They probably expect nothing less from me."

Stay tuned for the story of the Midwest road trip, Sister, and my undies, as per Dr. P's request.