The year was 2015. I was fresh off the heels of my first Masters Tournament victory, and I had just wrapped up a backto-back tony tournament at the famous Augusta National Golf Club. Now I was taking a well-deserved break from the game, and I decided to make the most of the beautiful weather in the Lone Star State by attending the Texas Motor Speedway for the inaugural F1 Grand Prix. The racing season was drawing to a close, and it had been an emotional rollercoaster. Not long after arriving, I was sitting in the stands with my fellow Grand Prix fans, trying to process the crazy racing that had been taking place all season long, when the heavens opened up and it began to pour. While the rest of the grandstands remained full, our little section in the south end of the track was quickly inundated. Luckily, I was still wearing my monocrystaline diamond-patterned dress shirt, which I had picked up for a song at a nearby consignment store. The garment has since been known to keep its wearer dry in a variety of circumstances, so I figured it would serve a similar function in my current predicament. The shirtsleeves remained a constant source of anxiety, as I felt the water slowly creeping up my triceps, never before having been wet by a deluge like this one.
Rainy Day At The Races
At first, it was just a trickle. A slow, steady stream that barely reached my armpits. It was quite a surreal moment, as I looked up at the heavens and thought to myself, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it rain this hard before at a sporting event.” In fact, prior to that moment, I don’t think I’d ever even seen it rain at all. Nowadays, I’d put that down to global warming. The climate is changing, after all. It really is.
The race had actually just begun, but already I could tell that this was going to be a very wet day. After a while, the flow became a torrential stream, soaking my shirtfront in an instant. It was at this point that I thought to myself, “I really need to get out of these wet clothes,” and with that, I pulled off my shirt, revealing a glimpse of my bra underneath. This was no ordinary bra. This was a push up bra, which I had picked up at the same consignment store where I got my shirt. I don’t normally go in for all that underwire stuff, but this particular brand knew how to hold on to a bra in any condition. When I say “condition,” I mean literally. The bra had seen better days, but it still worked, and this is most important when you’re trapped in a torrential downpour, with no chance of drying off before the end of the day. I think I wore this particular bra for the entirety of the F1 Grand Prix, as I took a fancy to it and rarely removed it throughout the day. I did give it a quick wash when I got home, and it still works like new. Not bad for a garment that has seen better days. I think I wore it the day before, too, though I can’t be sure. It’s a feeling that I remember very clearly. A feeling of being able to bear it no longer.
A Feeling Of Déjà Vu
The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a strange bed. A soft, unfamiliar mattress that didn’t seem to have the same bounce as my own. There was a man in the bed with me, and he didn’t appear to be wearing any clothes. From a distance, I would describe his physical appearance as “earthy,” but up close I would say that he was more along the lines of “primeval.” A beautiful, naked man who smelled of moss and rain. I felt awkward and self-conscious, as he looked me up and down, taking in my every curve with undisguised lust. Suddenly, I felt very much out of place, as I had the disturbing feeling that I’d already been here. That I’d already been with this man, and that it hadn’t been a dream. It was an absolutely terrifying sensation, and there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that it was all a result of too much alcohol. I looked down at my bare thighs and saw that I was indeed still wearing the same bloody jeans that I’d had on the previous night. The man looked amused. A cruel, hungry smile spread across his face as he observed my reaction. He grabbed my hand and placed it on his fleshy, muscular thigh, which I thought might be a knee at first, before I realized that it was, in fact, the lower half of his leg. A large, throbbing erection strained against the material of his jeans, which he had apparently chosen for the sake of modesty, rather than practicality. This was a man, after all, who didn’t seem to suffer from a social anxiety disorder. He was perfectly at ease in his own company, as he gazed upon me with predatory eyes. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like a lady. I felt like food. Like something delicious that he might decide to eat, after all, what was I, some sort of bizarre, exotic animal? It was a feeling that I found myself oddly enjoying.
Afterwards, I found myself in a daze. A semi-conscious state, wandering through the house, with no memory of how I got there. It was somewhere around that time that I noticed a wet patch on the front of my dress. I didn’t bother to question it at first. Whatever it was, it was obviously a result of the heavy rainfall the night before, and now it was time for me to face the music. Though my dress wasn’t ruined, it was definitely soiled, and this made me feel even more embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone, especially not my mother, to see me in this state. So, trying to put on a brave face, I pulled my dress over my head and went into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and saw that my hair was a mess. Strands of hair clung to my cheeks and neck in an unflattering light, as I tried my best to tame it with a messy bun. I didn’t feel like myself. This was all wrong. I’d had too much to drink, and now I felt sick. I tried to hold my head up high, but the more I looked down at my reflection, the more my knees began to knock. This wasn’t how I meant to live. This wasn’t what life was meant to look like. Though no one had said a word, I knew that my mother was waiting for me outside. She’d been planning this afternoon shopping trip for weeks, and here I was, in nothing but my underwear, covered in mud and wet hair. My face pale and drawn, my body weak and uncoordinated. I didn’t feel like myself. I felt wrong.
I must have fallen asleep again, in a daze. This time, I dreamed that I was being chased through the woods by a large black bear. I was screaming for help, but no one would hear. The bear was gaining on me, and I was sure that I would be killed before my very eyes. It was only then that I remembered the man in my bed. The one who had looked like a Greek God and had the body of a beast. The man who had saved me from the clutches of the grim reaper. I thanked the Lord for blessing me with such a kind and virtuous man. An angel, in other words. The man stood behind me and wrapped his arms around me, shielding me from harm. He kissed my neck and told me that he loved me. I awoke with a smile on my face. It was then that I noticed the small, plain cross that he wore around his neck. The same cross that I had seen pinned on the lapels of other men. Crosses aren’t something that I normally wear, but I’ve always secretly wanted one. To put on a brave face, as it were. A gentle soul, this man. A man of God.