Self, Sex

The DISASTROUS Time I 'Got It On' In A 50-Gallon Soup Pot (Really!)

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Joelle and I hated each other, which is always a good way to start a fling. We worked together in the kitchen of our dining hall in college. We were both crew captains and had very different ideas about how we should run things, so we fought constantly, which was a source of much amusement to our hapless crews that had to sort out our competing marching orders.

I don't know how, but it started getting hot. Maybe I started to respect Joelle for her steadfast defense of her idiotic ideas. Maybe she thought I looked good in an apron. However we got there, it started turning into a thing. Looks became smiles, and smiles led to excuses to touch, and the next thing you know we were dating. Or more correctly, we started secretly fooling around in the kitchen after hours.

Our co-workers and fellow students had no idea what was going on behind the scenes—we were having much too much fun being public enemies and private lovers. We both had keys to the kitchen, so late night sex romps there were no problem as long as we kept the lights off and kept away from the windows, so we wouldn't alert campus security guards who were always trolling around.

Our dining hall made food for about a fifth of the campus, and we had these enormous soup pots that made soup in 50-gallon batches. We were always joking about how they were big enough to fit a person inside, and now I found myself wondering whether they could fit two.

Joelle had a lot of weird girly affectations, but the one that intrigued me the most was that she said she liked bubble baths. So I had the idea of filling up one of those giant pots with hot water and bubble soap for us to have a little fun. It seemed just the right combination of comfortable and decadent. So one night, I scored a couple of bottles of wine, and set the whole thing up.

I saw a big smile on Joelle's face when she saw what I'd set up for us; she looked excited and a little thrilled by the danger. Being here after hours was forbidden, remember, never mind fucking in the soup pots. As Joelle stripped down, I went and got the little radio from the kitchen's office so we could have some tunes. 

Just getting in, naked and half-sloshed, was its own battle, with me helping Joelle over the edge from a chair on the side, and then sort of half-falling in myself. And the water was unexpectedly cold; I'd put it in warm water but it had cooled off too quickly. It was disappointing, but this was about the fun, not comfort. The music was going and the wine was within reach, so in the dim light reflecting off the hanging saucepans we got down to business.

Sex in a soup pot is a little like sex in a sleeping bag, with the added fear that you're going to tip the damn thing over with your nasty gyrations. The pot we were in had a round bottom, not flat, so it made it hard to keep your footing; you are always touching and tangled. The cold water produced nipples that could cut like diamonds. We were laughing in our little stew of bubbles, buzzed from the wine and adrenaline, and making jokes about whether there was enough sausage in this soup and so on.

I imagined it a little different in my head; the water was really too cold for a relaxing soak, so by mutual accord we abandoned the romance and decided to get the deed done. Within a few minutes we were going at it, clutching together for warmth and splashing suds all over the floor. And literally, just when I started sensing she was close, we heard a noise from the back, and saw flashlight beams at the end of the hall.

It was the campus police entering the building.

I quickly shut off the music, and that's when it hit me: When I went back to the office for the radio, I stupidly left the light on, which they could see from the outside. We only had a couple of minutes before they'd get to us. So we clambered out of the soup pot, wet, soapy and naked, and me still hard as a long-handled spatula. When we hit the wet floor we started realizing just how drunk we were. But I grabbed the radio and the wine, and we padded as quickly and silently as we could down the hall away from the cops, around a corner, and into the ladies' room, where we waited with the light off, praying they'd leave.

But we had no such luck. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. "You guys want to come out and explain yourselves?"

The jig was up. How had they found us? When I cracked open the door I could see, glistening in the flashlights' glare, the twin sets of wet footprints leading them directly to this door. Duh.

So I had to go out and explain myself, buck naked, and beg the cops not to make my girlfriend come out naked too. They let me go back for her clothes and bring them to her, and then they grilled us both, and made us promise never to do such an unhygienic thing again.

Because they had to file a report, Joelle and I decided to tell our boss Marcia the next day, preferring her hearing it from us instead of them. She was marginally more amused than appalled, but she let us keep our jobs. She promised not to tell anybody, but the story was too good to keep, I guess. Within about three days everybody on campus knew. I suffered jokes about my "Chicken Noodle" and so on, and Joelle acquired the unfortunate nickname "Soup Pot." It's been a couple of years now, but that story still makes the rounds every year at the dining hall, whenever new sophomores warn incoming freshmen, "Whatever you do, do NOT eat the soup."

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