Oh my fucking god. My bathroom walls are fuchsia. Fuchsia. As in…Jesus-Christ-Even-My-Bathroom-Is-Mocking-My-Sexuality-Fuchsia. Not even my flaming gay cousin has enough gay in him to paint his walls fuchsia.

Why did I not have a look at the bathroom before deciding to rent this place? Everything else in this apartment is perfect—the two bedrooms are great, the living room feels comfortable now that I've moved my furniture into it, and fuck, even the kitchen is exactly what I was looking for. But the bathroom is the epitome of disgusting.

I came into the bathroom hoping to take a shower, except now I don't know if I want to anymore. In fact, I don't know if I'll ever want to take a shower anymore. Hygiene? Sanitation? What are these foreign terms you speak of?

Grimacing, I slowly back out away from the bathroom. I'm not yet ready to face this new terror in the form of an unusually colored room, so I plan run away from the enemy like a coward.

A few steps ahead though, and damn—I remember exactly why I was planning on taking a shower: Because I reek of a nice, lengthy swim in the South Waste Ocean. After spending a whole day unpacking, moving furniture, and rearranging it, I did not emerge from the ordeal smelling of lilacs and roses.

Again, damn.

I'm in quite a dilemma.

Taking a shower is absolutely necessary, but taking a shower in that glaringly bright fuchsia bathroom could rival epilepsy in its ability to give people seizures.

What do I do? What do I do?!

I call my mom. Yes, mom as in mother. I am a big boy of course, but even big boys will encounter problems in their lifetimes that they themselves cannot handle. Who but the ones that brought them to life could help them through these tough times? But actually, I just really want someone to complain to.

The phone rang twice before my mom picked up.

"Yes, sweetie?" she answers. I frown, disappointed in her. She greets everyone that calls with a 'sweetie'?!

Oh wait, wait, wait. Hold on. I think she has caller ID. Nevermind. Fascinating, these 'technology' things are.

"Hey, mom? So I have a hypothetical situation I need your opinion on…." I tell her.

A that, she hesitates for quite a long time.

"All right, all right, let's hear it," she eventually says, sighing. I can hear the wariness in her tone. She doesn't like my hypothetical situations. She never does.

But I tell her anyway.

"So hypothetically, a hypothetical man moves into a hypothetical new house and he hypothetically discovers that his entire hypothetical bathroom is a sickeningly bright and disturbing fuchsia. This man is now in a hypothetical quandary, seeing as he does not want to face either death by ugly bathroom or death by smelly…smell. What should the man hypothetically do?" I grin. My usage of the word hypothetical makes me sound all pretentious, and I'm damn proud of it.

"Jesus Christ, Forrest, just go take the shower." My mom sounds annoyed. I can hear her glaring at the ceiling over the phone. My ears are just extremely adequate like that. But she really shouldn't be annoyed. Because I'm not annoying. Never annoying.

"Moooooom," I whine. "It's like…purple-pink. Can I go back home?? I can't survive in such atrocious living conditions."

No response.

"Mom?"

"MOM!"

…Dial tone.

Bitch. She hung up on me.

Heeding my mom's advice, I grudgingly enter the bathroom and will myself to forget its bright purple-pink interior decoration—which is pretty hard, since well, it's bright fucking purple-pink, but I take a quick, quick shower anyway because I'm such an obedient boy.

After the almost-two-whole-minutes-long shower, I find myself in an enlightened state.

I have found a way to solve this crisis!!

I will…

Drum roll

…repaint the walls normal.

And fuck you, that was NOT anticlimactic.

I'm walking down…

I squint at the street sign.

…2nd Avenue?!

I am very damn lost.

Before leaving, I'd asked my aunt Annie (She's lived in this area for almost five years now, but don't ask me anything else about her—I really don't want to tread on that subject.) where I might find a place that sells paint, and she gave me an address. Well, she also gave me some convoluted street directions, but one can only follow a certain amount of 'turn left's before all is lost. So basically I only have a street address and a map I can't read, 'cuz I don't know east, west, north, or south.

It's quite sad, really. Stick me in the woods with a map, compass, and an endless food supply, and I still won't be able to make it out of there. I'd build me a log cabin and stay there forever.

Since there's no possible way I can figure anything out on my own, I stomp my foot a couple of times and wail a bit before deciding to ask for assistance from my fellow pedestrians.

Two clueless people, one person with a horrifying accent, one hobo, and an entire large cappuccino later, I find myself standing in front an odd looking store.

Funnily enough, the hobo was the only one who knew what he was talking about. Well I mean the accent guy could've been a great help to me, if only I understood what "cohnir of di sipamahkit ind strit dahn" was supposed to mean. It was like a mix of twenty different accents, and I was not going to decipher each word one at a time.

Anyway. So I see the store in front of me. I squeal and pat myself on the shoulder all proud of myself before trying to kick the door open dramatically.

It doesn't budge.

I shove hard one last time before I glare and kick the door.

And that's when I notice the big blue sign that says "PULL" all bolded and huge like it was there the whole time. Fuck you. Of course it wasn't. It only appeared just now.

I can feel my cheeks burning. I don't think I can enter this store and still leave with my dignity.

…Buuuut...having a bright fuchsia bathroom isn't all that dignified either.

Damn.

I pull open the door cautiously.

…And my jaw metaphorically drops.

Leaning against the counter is a guy with hair black like a black hole and eyes blue like…blue…uh…a blue flower and skin pale and smooth as white copy paper and body hot like lava and lips made red by hemoglobi—

…Hey wait a fucking minute.

His lips are curled upwards and he's laughing at me. Yeah, well fuck you, asshole. So what if I open the door wrong? Everyone makes mistakes. I even have stationary with that phrase on the bottom of it.

I'm glaring at him. I'm glaring at him very damn hard. And I'm back to being embarrassed about that episode with the door.

"How may I help you?" he asks, and I almost start spewing terrible poetry again. It's the sexiest voice. Ever. And I almost tell him that he may help me with my growing erection. But that's lame. And I'm not lame. Never lame. Cough.

"Oh…erm…yeah…do you uh...have any paint?" I end up saying.

"What flavor?" he asks, smirking.

"Whit—Wait, what?" Paint doesn't come in flavors, you silly, silly boy. I tell him this, and he gives me an 'are-you-stupid?' look.

But then the look morphs into one of comprehension, and his smirk grows wider.

"Hold on, I'll show you our selection," he says impishly, and walks over to a glass cabinet, pulling out some tiny bottles then carelessly dumping them all on the desk.

What the fuck? Why are the bottles so small?

"Uh…are those samples?" I ask.

"No," he says simply.

Is he stupid? I can't paint a whole entire darn bathroom with that little paint.

And I tell him exactly that: "Erm…I…can't—too little paint…not enough……"

Okay, damn…maybe not exactly that. A rendition of it at least.

"Oh, so you need more?" He grins. There's a trace of suggestiveness in his tone, but I have no clue where that's coming from. I've honestly never heard of any innuendo or perverted jokes involving painting one's room before, and I don't ever want to hear one. In fact, I don't think I want to hear any kind of perverted joke for a long while. I still haven't gotten over that 'you make my software turn to hardware' one yet.

Anyway, so yeah. I'm suspicious at the moment. Very, very suspicious. I don't get it.

"Um…I guess?"

"All right. But you still need to pick a flavor."

Jesus Christ, why does he insist of calling colors "flavors"?

"Um…do you have any white?"

"Vanilla?"

"No! Not vanilla. White." I growl. I'm starting to get pretty annoyed.

"You mean vanilla."

"No, I do not mean vanilla. I mean white. White. White. White. I stomp my foot for extra emphasis.

He chuckles. "Are you sure you don't want chocolate? I have to say, it'd look quite delicious on you…" And he gives me this look. The one says he's imagining someone without any clothes on, under him panting, faced flushed and hoarsely screaming his name over, and over, and ove—–err…I might be getting a bit carried away. I think I'd faint if I hear him say "delicious" like that one more time though.

Mr. PrettyDamnSexy fishes out a little brown container from his pile of small-paint-bottles-not-enough-to-decorate-my-entire-bathroom and he hands it to me. I accept it from him and blink stupidly at it for a few seconds before reading the label—

—And I immediately drop it in shock.

WORST. REVELATION. EVER.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Kama Sutra Chocolate Body Paints?!

At this point, he bursts out laughing at the look of utter horror on my face. He laughs so hard that he has to lean on the counter for support, holding his poor stomach and gasping for oxygen.

Meanwhile, I just stare at the container in horror for a while, until risking a glance around at the rest of the store.

Hanging on the back wall is an assortment of different chains—thick, thin, long, short, fuzzy…And an entire other wall is devoted to their huge collection of handcuffs.

This is even worse than that nightmare I had that other day where I was assaulted by a mob of sentient tissue boxes that were genetically altered to have sharp teeth.

And Mr. StillPrettyDamnSexy is still laughing at my expense.

I throw a container of "Stacy's Delicious Red Cherry Edible Body Paint" at him. It hits him in the face, causing him to momentarily cease his laughter—until he sees what I threw at him and bursts out laughing once again.

Asshole.

I march around the counter to kick him. I don't think kicking people within the first ten minutes of meeting them is going to make me a lot of friends, but at this point I don't care anymore.

Before I can kick him however, I see the expression on his face and freeze. I'm getting vibes from him that I usually get from my mom when I'm in deep shit. 'Cept I don't think he's about to tell me to go clean my room. It's a different kind of deep shit.

I think I start unconsciously backing away. He grins wickedly, and I take a few more steps back.

Mr. NotGettingAnyDamnUglier takes the bottle of Delicious-Red-Cherry-Jesus-Christ-That's-A-Long-Brand-Name that I'd thrown at him and unscrews the cap. With that wicked grin still on his face, he tackles me to the ground and pins me down. Then he lifts my tee shirt up and paints a smiley on my stomach with his thumb.

Winking, he lowers his head to my stomach and licks it all off with his tongue. It's a nice tongue. I think I squeaked.

This is unbelievable. Screw Lord of The Rings, Narnia, Labyrinth…I'm being licked by some guy I met ten minutes ago in some sort of kinky sex shop store. This is the best fucking fantasy ever.

Before I know it, his lips are crushed against mine, and we're engaged in some sort of strange tongue battle that reminds me of thumb wars. I can taste traces of Cherry Paint in his mouth and I normally hate anything cherry flavored, but coming from his mouth, it's as delicious as its name states.

"…movie…mmm…Friday?" he asks.

I think I said yes. Or at least tried to.

End.