apparently my blog didn't want this story to be revealed...this is my retaliation
Part 2:
So as I said in my “Buck Neked” entry, that was my “first attempt” at the naked mile. I used the word attempt because two more would follow the first. I invite you to drift back into a wavelength dream sequence with me and observe my second time running the naked mile. Now, after the 4-5 weeks it took my foot to heal, I for some reason thought it was high time I strip down and run this mile again. This time, I was influenced by one Lauren Klingman. For a mental picture, see photo above and below below.
Now, Lauren and I had first met each other during our first week of college orientation, and struck up an immediate bond over the fact that we were both from the west coast and said “hella” in our daily vocabularies, teaching me to never under appreciate unintelligible slang, and its power to bring people together. The two of us also seemed to be the only two freshman that weren't intimidated or ashamed to put our pocket change together and have an upper classman buy us a handle of vodka for the first party, which would later result in me being walked home by two noble do-gooders, followed by a quick vomit in the dormitory bathroom, and to finally fall asleep with my contacts on, disabling my eyes' ability to shut all the way during sleep, causing my new roommate to contemplate whether or not I was lying on my bed, breathing heavily, and staring at him for over an hour. But I digress...
Lauren and I are hella west coast beszties for realzies lolz xoxo 69@aol.com
And after that little tangent, I steer my ponies back on track.
So, it was now October... or November...the whole abroad experience is a little hazy due to the unnatural amount of substance abuse, but whatever month it was you can be sure that it was capital F Fucking COLD. And interestingly enough, Lauren Klingman, also known as Miss Cleavage California 2006, had yet to run the naked mile. Judging purely on the fact that Lauren's breasts tread a fine tight rope almost daily at whether or not they will reveal nipple, I was shocked. SHOCKED. So naturally I adhered to her request of me running the mile with her on a cold, and yet again, drunken night.
And this time...I was prepared. I had on tennis shoes, I held my briefs and sweaters tightly in my hand, and fit my pants snugly into my mouth.
It. Was. on.
I will reveal at this time that Lauren didn't run the mile completely nude. So she was just trucking along beside me in her bra and panties, which I think is cheating but that has nothing to do with the unfortunate events to follow. This run was going along quite smoothly, and we almost completed the whole mile...almost. Right near the end we saw a shadowed figure walking towards us, and in his hand he held a flashlight. Instinctively thinking that this was one of the manor's security guards, Lauren and I made a mad dash into the wild English shrubbery that littered the side of the road. If anyone has been to the English country side, you may have encountered a certain plant known as the stinging nettle. For those of you that haven't, here is the wikipedia definition of it:
Stinging nettle or common nettle, Urtica dioica, is a herbaceous perennial flowering plant, native to Europe, Asia, northern Africa, and North America, and is the best-known member of the nettle genus Urtica. The plant has many hollow stinging hairs called trichomes on its leaves and stems, which act like hypodermic needles that inject histamine and other chemicals that produce a stinging sensation when contacted by humans and other animals
So...
Naked.
Stinging Nettle.
Lauren and I had been crouched next to a small brick wall when we realized our new found predicament. I wish I had an appropriate analogy to describe what crouching naked in a patch of stinging nettles felt like....it's like...as if tiny tiny bees were tap dancing on your skin, while stinging you, and their tap shoes were also stinging you, over and over and over again. So, we were torn. Do we risk getting caught by the possible manor security guard, or do we sit in this patch long enough to dress and sneak away. For me, being COMPLETELY naked, despite a pair of tennis shoes, the answer was clear.
Riley: ow...whatthe...WHATTHUFUCK...no fuck it...FUCK IT LAUREN I'M GOING I DON'T CARE!
It was like an acrobatic, top secret spy escape. With one sweeping aerial movement I slid on my boxer briefs, threw my pants in my mouth, grabbed my sweater and was on top of the short brick wall. I ran like there was no tomorrow, up the road to the part of the manor grounds where my dormitory was located. It was at this point that I realized I had no idea where my key was, and therefore no idea of how I was going to get into the building. Fortune seemed to be with me, however, as I saw a slender girl in a baseball cap heading for the front door. Surely she'd be sympathetic to my plight. Certainly she'd laugh, maybe make a joke, maybe threaten to not let me in and then proceed to open the door with a smile and a quick slap on the ass. This was a study abroad experience after all. So without hesitation, as I made it to the gravel pathway that led to the front door I yelled out, through a muffled, pant filled mouth, “Hey!! Wait! I need to get in!”
And this, dear reader, is the poetic way my life often goes.
The slender girl in a baseball cap that turned around to greet the stranger yelling at her in the night, turned out to be none other than the assistant dean of students at Harlaxton College. A tiny, athletic woman by the name of Bronwyn. Her smile disappeared as she looked at the image in front of her. A panting, 19 year old boy standing before her in his tennis shoes, white boxer briefs, holding a clump of clothes in his hands, while his pants hung loosely in his mouth. She then heard him exclaim through a muffled denim filter...
“ Awwww FUCK.”
And this next moment, I will never forget in all my life. She looked me up and down, let out a heavy sigh of annoyance, covered her eyes with her left hand and flagged me forward with her right while saying, “Alright....well...you made it this far, you might as well go all the way.”
No need to tell me twice. I shot past her, through the door, down the hall and into my room. Where I would find out in a matter of minutes, that somewhere along that naked jog through hell, I had lost my wallet containing all of my credit cards and my only other forms of Identification besides my passport, with a plane trip to Dublin coming up the following afternoon.
To be continued...
