"I don't think I deserved to get shot."
I really didn't think that was something I'd ever find myself thinking. In fact, I believed until quite recently that I'd constructed such a mild-mannered, family-friendly existence for myself that such an occurrence was virtually impossible.
Well, let me tell you friends and neighbors...it ain't. I have done been shot.
By my man.
Because I asked him to.
Allow me to elucidate. On a few, rather unsettling occasions I caught the husband sending little BB's chasing after the odd, stray dog. I'd admonish him and without fail he would respond, "Baby, I used to shoot my brothers all the time and it never hurt them. Heck, I shot Carl almost in the eye and it didn't even break the skin."
This was intended to be a ringing endorsement of the general harmlessness of BB guns? I reckon so. But on this chilly midmorning there was to be a demonstration. "C'mon," he said. A merry grin played on his big, handsome face. "I'll let you shoot me. You'll see." Then he placed the Red Ryder (Oh yeah, we've got one of those) confidently in my hands and began trucking down the path to the gate at the end of the garden.
He turned his back confidently and hollered, "Let 'er rip...right in the asscheek." He slapped the haunch in case I was unsure.
I was totally unsure.
"You sure about this?" I called down the path.
"C'mon girl." He was laughing. I admit now I felt a little thrill of anticipation. What would happen when projectile met posterior?
I raised the little rifle to my shoulder and peered down the sights. I do love that ass of his and did sincerely hope I would do it no lasting harm. I exhaled and took my shot.
I saw the cloth of his nylon sport shorts move as the BB hit directly in the center of his right buttock, exactly where I had aimed. Other than that, there wasn't a bit of motion from the big fella in front of the gate. He turned, smiling oh-so smugly. "See there," he said, syrup in every word. "Didn't hurt a bit, did it? Didn't even really feel it."
Well I couldn't believe it.
I mean, I really couldn't believe it. I was utterly incredulous, so I uttered the words that will ring in my head every time I think to myself that if the man already tried it, then it must be okay..."All right, now shoot me so I can be sure."
So confidently I strode down the garden path. So carefree was I in handing him the gun as we passed one another. He even tipped me a little wink as if to say, "See, I told you so." I positioned myself as he had done in front of the gate at the end of the garden. Distantly, it seemed I heard him call, "Put your hands on your head. Don't wanna hit one of your hands."
I braced myself, ready for a thump even for a bit of a sting.
Let me go ahead and stop the narrative here to note the difference in wardrobe choices made by the man and me that day. The nylon sport shorts aforementioned? Well they're three layers thick, made for absorbing lots of sweat and offering discretion for active males.
I, on the other hand, was clad in whisper thin, combed-cotton pajamas and no underthings. I mention this bit of information not to titillate...oh, no...but to accurately convey exactly what lay between my sweet, round ass and a steel projectile travelling at roughly 220 miles per hour.
"Holy Shit! Oh my God, What the hell was that? OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW!" I hopped up and down clutching my bottom which had certainly caught fire. Big, tears of hurt and shame started welling up in my eyes against my will and my bottom lip started trembling like a little girl.
"You shot me!" I knew exactly how ridiculous that sounded. That had, after all, been the game plan. But he'd just stood there when it happened to him. It felt like he really, REALLY shot me.
I will say to his credit, the man looked horribly contrite and just as shocked as hell that my experience hadn't mirrored his own. He hurried after me into the house where an immediate examination was made of my bottom.
Upon the smooth flesh, there now was a rapidly deepening purple/black bruise with a knot in the middle of it hard enough to make me think the BB was actually lodged in there. Had there been one drop of blood, I'd have been certain of it. Oh, the man was horrified at what he'd done. I was just terribly embarrassed, and oh so very hurt. But he couldn't be satisfied to let me suffer it alone. He gallantly dragged out the First-Aid kit and made a meal out of slathering the wound first with disinfectant, then with a generous portion of Neosporin (with pain relief) and a ridiculously large Band-Aid.
He was so proud of the job he'd done, he couldn't help himself from doing what he normally did when he was particularly happy about something.
He slapped me square on the ass.
The hurt part.
After I got done with that spate of hollering and hopping about and both of us were well and truly worn out from the whole thing, I got him to promise me, though half-hearedly, he'd find some other way of discouraging strays.
Honestly, couldn't have we come to this conclusion without me getting shot? Another question I really thought I'd never need ask. But I'll try not to complain. After all, without foolish things like this happening to me every day I'd have absolutely nothing to write about.
And that, gentle reader, is the name of the game.