One Saturday night (pre-twins), the hubster and I were sitting at home. We’d watched our movie, eaten our dinner, and were proceeding to get down to the kind of business that newlyweds do.
Mid-kiss, after my shirt had come off, I had an idea.
I sat up. “Be right back! Just gotta get something from the kitchen.”
The hubster was not amused. “Can’t it wait? What are you doing?”
I unhooked my bra the rest of the way and threw it around the corner. “Just give me a minute. I’m hungry.”
“You’re hungry, like, for food? Now?”
Too busy rooting around in the refrigerator to answer, I finally spotted what I needed. You see, we’d watched Varsity Blues a few weeks earlier (and if you’ve seen it, you know where this is going). In the movie, Ali Larter plays a cheerleader who tries to seduce a football player with the aid of a whipped cream bikini:
This seemed like a great Saturday night scene to re-create for the hubster. Certainly something a Cosmo girl would do, no?
In my excitement over finding the Reddi-Whip, I neglected to think about how Ms. Larter’s costume for the movie was actually constructed. It was billed as whipped cream, and we had whipped cream. There were maraschino cherries in the pantry. This was going to knock the hubster’s socks off.
Reddi-Whip at the, well, ready, I began to construct the bikini. It only took about two seconds to realize that refrigerated canned whipped cream and 98.6 degree skin do not play well together.
I worked faster.
“What the hell are you doing?” the hubster asked, raising his voice to be heard over the pfftttt of the aerosol can.
“Um, just making you something.” The left breast was a little wonky, but more or less covered, so I moved on to the right.
“I’m not hungry. I am, however, in the mood for you to come back over here. What the hell is that noise?”
Pffffffttt. Pfffttttt. Pfffffttt. I could swear I was getting lightheaded by the time I was done with the right breast. I set down the can to go for the cherries, and felt something wet land on my foot.
Looking down, I saw the remains of the whipped cream melting off my breasts, dripping down my stomach, and pooling on the kitchen floor.
But I’m nothing if not persistent.
Pfffftttt. Pffffttttt. Pfffttttt. Damn. Still happening. If anything, the second batch slid off even faster.
I heard his footsteps a second too late. “Wait a minute, I’m just–”
Hubster rounded the corner and came face to face with me. I jutted one hip out and brandished the can of Reddi-Whip. “Are you in the mood for dessert?” I asked, using my best Angelina Jolie come-hither tone.
He tried not to laugh. For about five seconds. Then he just let go, leaving me dripping melted dairy onto the hardwoods and feeling about as sexy as the bottom of an ice cream carton.
“What…” he choked out, “were you trying to do?”
“Um, well,” I started to giggle, too, “obviously, this is a whipped cream bikini.”
The hubster looked from me to the puddle on the floor, and we both started howling with the kind of laughter that makes your face hurt. The kind that makes you feel as if you’ve done thousands of crunches the next day. The kind of laughter you can only really have in a safe space, a space where you know it’s ok to make a fool of yourself in front of your spouse, because even if you’re dripping whipped cream onto the floor, you’re in it together.
Some time later….
“So do you think they used, like, shaving cream or something in the movie?” I asked, staring at the ceiling fan in our bedroom.
“Um, yeah. Or maybe Spackle. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t,” he started laughing again, “whipped cream.”
**This was written for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. The prompt: a wardrobe malfunction