The Closet Show: Not as Awesome as You’d Think It Would Be

When I was in college, a buddy of mine inexplicably found himself dating one of the hottest girls on campus. I’m talking Victoria Secret-meets-chick-riding-the-bird in Heavy Metal hot. Not quite sure how he landed her, but I assume it had something to do with the fact that he was rich and spoke often about his “family business” which, depending on what day it was, ranged from modeling agency to dry cleaning franchises.

But I digress. Fact is me and some of his other friends figured his relationship with her was the closest any of us would get to seeing such a fine example of femininity unconstrained by clothing. So we asked him for the closet show.

“The what?” he replied, arching an eyebrow.

“You know,” I explained, apparently the group’s spokesperson. “When you let us hide in the closet and watch you bang her.”

Amazingly, he agreed, no doubt proud of the premium trim he’d somehow aligned himself with. So the die was cast. And I spent the next few days watching his girlfriend sashay across the campus on clouds of awesome and sunshine, feeling that warm feeling that can only come from knowing you’ll be seeing a hot woman’s naked ass.

Finally, the agreed-upon Saturday night arrived. And while he and she were out on the town, me and two other guys entered his apartment and set up shop. In the closet. We found an agreeable seating arrangement, set ourselves up as comfortably as we could and out of reach of anything we might knock over to give the game away, and settled in. And later on, when we heard his key working the lock (not a euphemism), I carefully closed the door over, opened just enough to allow excellent viewing of the bed.

The two of them, visibly (and audibly) intoxicated, stumbled through every room in the apartment, it seemed, before reaching the bedroom. She leaped on his bed, accidentally sitting on the TV remote, and firing up a porno DVD he apparently had been watching earlier.

That was, sadly, the highlight of the evening.

The next few minutes were spent watching her fumble her way out of her clothes, straining for a glimpse of her body in what little light the TV screen would allow. At one point, I thought I spotted an elaborately awesome tramp stamp on her back, but it turned out to be a sock that was stuck there. Once they finally got down to business, my friend had the brilliant idea to get on top, treating us to a dead-on view of his gyrating ass for the next twenty minutes and raising the level of disgust in the closet to “palpable.”

And so it went. The bedframe squeaked. The headboard shook. She moaned. He grunted. Someone farted. My stomach started rumbling and I wondered why the fuck I threw away a half-eaten Snickers bar earlier in the day. And awkwardness flooded the closet. At one point, I lost track of where I was and what was going on and why the hell I thought this would be such a great idea in the first place. I mean, the chance to ogle a fine-ass lady aside, my friend on the bed is the guy getting laid. On the other hand, I was packed in a closet with two other sweaty guys–a story that would hardly rate even a casual mention on the list of “5,000 Greatest Things That Ever Happened to Me.”

Even worse, after the main event, my buddy shuffled off to the bathroom, leaving her there, in his bed, wide awake, and flipping through TV channels while the three of us remained trapped — dare I say caged — in the closet. And let’s just say there’s a limit to how much time I need to spend in a closet with two other guys.

Roughly an hour later the girl got up to take a whiz. And the three of us stumbled out, pausing only for a moment to dope slap my buddy after he gave us the “thumbs up.”

And, just like that, my brilliant career as a voyeur came to an end.

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