About 12 years ago I was dating a girl. She lived in a house with her Father, near my Father's house where I lived. We were at her place and we were making out on the couch.
I became self conscious about my breath, so I excused myself to use the restroom. My plan was to find some toothpaste and swish it around to make my mouth a more refreshing environment in which to tongue joust.
I go into the bathroom and hit the light switch. The light was apparently burned out. I couldn't see a thing, but it wasn't that big of a bathroom. I reached up to the medicine cabinet and with what little light I had, I found what felt like a tube of toothpaste. I took off the cap and squeezed some paste onto my finger. I then rubbed the compound onto my tongue and roof of my mouth.
It tasted awful, but these were hippie type people. I figured that it was some of that "Tom's of Maine" shit. Then I noticed that the stuff wasn't spitting out and was rather sticking to the surfaces of my mouth. I couldn't spit it out and had resorted to using my fingers to scrape the crap off of the roof of my mouth and tongue.
Now I'm worried that I'm taking too long in the bathroom and the girl is getting turned off by the thought of me taking a major shit in her bathroom. I'm having a fucking crisis, however, in that I've coated my mouth with denture cement and not the minty freshness of Crest or Colgate.
Once the panic subsided, I figured that the girl would have a sense of humor about the situation and sounding like, well, someone whose mouth was coated with a rapidly hardening adhesive, I explained what happened during my ten minute ordeal in the restroom. It was all good, we got a chuckle out of the story, but it took a long time for that shit to come out.
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