Maybe They're All Aliens?

It's the last day of my winter break, and I'm sitting in a bar with a couple of friends.

"I think I'll get a Blowjob," one of my friends says, referring to the alcoholic drink.

"You would, wouldn't you?" I quip. The girl next to me smacks me in the arm.

Another friend at the end of the table orders an Orgasm. I wonder if the bar makes an attraction around sex-based drinks. I furtively look for a Rusty Trombone, or a Dirty Sanchez. Nope. I settle for a pitcher of Rickard's Red, my preferred choice of beer.

We spend the next few minutes catching up. After months away at school, it's nice to see old friends again, and I've known most of them for almost 13 years. We reminisce about old times, bringing back waves of nostalgia. There was that time a classmate yelled "FUCK" really loud into a silent room, or the year where I had to dress up as a girl in our school's rendition of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Good times.

"Excuse me," I interrupt, getting to my feet. I'm feeling slightly woozy. "But I drank too much liquid and now I need to piss."

My friend stands up. He's wobbling. "I'll come with you."

The girls start to laugh. I pause. "Hey, you ladies always go to the bathroom in pairs. Talk about double standards."

As we stagger off to the washrooms, the thought stays on my mind. Why do girls go to the bathroom in groups? Are they plotting the domination of men? Performing mystical rituals? Are they sharing makeup tips? Making out?

I shake my head. Maybe there are some secrets better left untold. I'm a guy anyways - I'll never figure it out, and I'm sure as hell not dressing like a girl again.

I pee and forget about it.