You’ve seen it and laughed at it a thousand times, in sitcoms, in funny movies, in comic strips. It’s a joke, and it’s hilarious, isn’t it?

"Haha! Dude’s gonna get a good old ass whooping now!"

Caught with his pants down, shoved into a closet, husband’s footsteps up the stairs. Hilarious indeed.

Unless you’re the dude.

I was the dude.

I was twenty at the time, so it’s close to two decades ago. She was thirty-five or forty or so, and the wife of my younger brother’s jiu-jitsu instructor.

Now I want you to rethink the 'Dude’s gonna get a good old ass whooping'-joke, with yourself as the dude, and your friendly neighborhood jiu-jitsu instructor as the ass-whooper.

Still hilarious?

Didn’t think so.

There are a million ways these things happen, and I’m sure you can imagine at least a couple dozen of them, so I won’t bore you with the details. I don’t remember much of that part anyway, only that I drove my brother to jiu-jitsu class, and somehow ended up driving the instructor’s wife home, where she started sobbing about how she wanted to divorce him.

I knew I had just under an hour and a half before I had to go back to pick my brother up, and she knew it’d be over an hour and a half before her husband was home.

A million ways to get to where I’m pulling my sweater and T-shirt off while kicking my jeans and my boxers off my feet, while the jiu-jitsu instructor’s wife, let’s just call her Ann, pulls her pants and panties off and positions herself in bed, legs spread wide, her hairy and neglected pussy beckoning me.

I remember crawling on top of her and putting the tip of my cock to her pussy. I remember feeling the heat practically radiating out from it. I remember praying to every god I could think of and whatever ones I couldn’t think of to please, please, please with sugar on top, don’t let me come too quickly, let me hold on for at least a minute. Maybe two? Oh dear god, gods, goddesses, can I have three?

I remember entering her, all the way. I remember thinking it felt as if I had stuck it into a burning hot furnace. And then I remember the look on her face.

Surprise. Fear. Mind-numbing panic.

I'm sure I had heard the car door slam too, but I thought nothing of it. Where I lived, car doors slammed all the time. Traffic roared, neighbors banged on walls, kids shouted in the playground, ambulances wailed.

Yeah, I didn't care about the sound of anything but the buzzing in my head and the sploshing between her pussylips.

Until she pushed me away and I landed on my bare ass on the floor, and before my cock had time to even begin to shrink, I was standing in a closet, holding my breath, and holding my socks and pants and boxers and everything else in a bundle in my arms. But when I heard his voice, "You upstairs, honey?", my cock withered away, and one final, spiteful drop of precum trickled down my balls.

A minute later he was in the room with her, or rather, with us. She was telling him how she had gotten a terrible migraine in my car on the way home, and how she had crawled into bed to try and sleep it off, but she was feeling much better already, and why was he home so soon anyway?

He said something about the fire alarm having gone off. False alarm, of course, probably one of those assholes in art class on the second floor again, and so they just cancelled.

And whoever that asshole was, to this day I hate him, or her, or, for that matter, every art student in every art class that ever existed, with a passion.

Now, these things usually end in one of two ways: either the husband somehow realizes there's some poor bastard in the closet, and you get that hilarious ass whooping I mentioned earlier. Or he leaves the room none the wiser, and the wife has time to sneak that poor bastard, that poor, innocent, ill-fated victim of circumstances, out the window, and the scene ends with him running naked down the street, thanking his lucky star.

But there's a third way; the husband and wife leave the room together, and there's no window. In fact, it's not even a real bedroom, because it's one of those California ranch-style houses, so basically the whole house - living room, kitchen and all - is just one effin' room, and the bedroom is just a mezzanine above all that and you can't do anything in any part of the house without being seen from every other part of the house.

Yes, you may begin to weep for me now.

So while they were somewhere downstairs growing old and grey together, I was stuck in a hell about fifty by eighty by twenty-five inches, with coats and dresses and suits, and something I must have knocked over that felt like a broom or an umbrella or something leaned against my back - waiting, nay, hoping for a fatal heart attack.

I don't know for how long, but it was several hours, three or four, maybe. My back hurt, my knees were aching, and I had pins and needles in my feet and my hands.

And I had to pee.

I couldn't hear what was going on either. I heard them talking, but couldn't make out the words. I think they had dinner. And I heard the TV for a while. And then I heard them coming up the stairs and the springs creaking as they crawled into bed.

A few minutes later, I heard him say, "I'm horny, babe. C'mere."

What a sweet talker he was. Then they had sex. For about thirty seconds. I heard him go, "Hnnngh, hnnngh, fuu-huuuckhhh!" and then a grunt, and it was over.

Thirty seconds, tops. Definitely not enough time for her to get anything out of it; she didn’t even make a sound. Not a moan, not a sigh, not even a polite, "Mmm, well done, honey," afterwards.

But enough time for me to get hard again.

Don't judge me too harshly. I was twenty. Back then I got a hard-on just by watching a lion mount an uninterested, drowsy lioness on the Discovery Channel.

And I know the situation I was in was the opposite of sexy or erotic, but again, I was twenty. "The opposite of sexy" didn't exist.

Thirty seconds was more than enough time for me to get hard, hold all my clothes in just my left arm, and sneak my right hand down and start jerking off.

It wasn't the sound of his grunts and groans, of course. It was knowing that she was there with his cock inside of her. Inside of her, where my cock had been earlier that day.

It wasn't enough time for me to come, though. It probably could have been, but that would have been pushing my luck, so I let go of it, just as I heard him mumble something and her say, "I'll get it for you, honey," and then the doors to the closet opened.

I almost passed out. But he was out of sight, and she acted like I wasn't there. Didn't even look at me, but picked up a blanket from the floor and shut the doors again.

Another thirty seconds went by, and I heard him snoring like a chainsaw trying to cut through iron bolts.

This was my chance, of course. My now or never. He was asleep, and I could sneak out. Out of the closet, down the stairs, out of the house and into the sunset.

I got as far as putting my hand on the door when a horrifying thought hit me.

What if that wasn't him snoring?

What if it was her?

What if she had fallen asleep, and he was awake, reading a book or something, and then a naked man - oh, look, what a coincidence, it's that young, handsome guy who drove my wife home - comes tip-toeing, cock semi-hard, out of the closet?

Can you really tell a man's snoring from a woman's? I froze, realizing I was going to be stuck in that closet all night.

But it wasn't her. She suddenly opened the doors and stood there in front of me, naked and unfulfilled. She put a finger to my lips, as if she really needed to tell me to be quiet, and then she grabbed my cock and pulled and stroked it for a while. I glanced over to the left, where their bed was, and all I could see behind the open closet door was the end of the bed and two nasty, hairy feet sticking out from under a blanket. He was asleep, and by the sound of his snoring and snorting, it would take a nuclear bomb to wake him up.

Hopefully.

My cock, clearly unconcerned with my plight and predicament, quickly got rock hard again, and when it did she moved close, stood on her toes, tucked it between her thighs and thrust her hips until it slid inside her. The angle was all wrong, and it only got an inch or two in, but it was amazing. She squeezed it between her thighs and rubbed her clit along the root of it, and then she came. With her hands on my shoulders, hardly moving at all, just squeezing her thighs together and slow, almost microscopic thrusts, she stared into my eyes and whimpered.

I didn't come, but that was okay. I didn't need it. Looking into her eyes, glazed with satisfaction and fulfilment, maybe even, dared I think it - love - I felt happy. Proud. Warm and fuzzy, in that self-congratulatory way. Ready to roundhouse-kick any and every jiu-jitsu instructor who was foolish enough to cross my path.

But she knew better. She smiled, put her finger on my lips again, got down on her knees, and took my cock in her mouth. After a few licks around the tip, she let it go in and out of her mouth with breathtaking speed while she gripped and massaged the shaft with both hands.

Her idea, bless her heart, was of course to give me a quick release. Have me blow my load so I could think straight again, and then get me the hell out of there.

I did indeed blow my load, and not a sound escaped my lips as I did.

But it was like a volcano erupting, and when the first spurt filled her mouth, I doubled over as if I had a sudden stomach cramp. The thing that had been poking my back since I first entered the closet wasn't a broom or an umbrella. It was a vacuum cleaner the size of the Titanic, and when it didn't have me to lean on any more, it came tumbling. I saw it plunge to the bedroom floor in the corner of my eye, and tried to catch it with the hand that was still holding my clothes, but only managed to propel it further in the room.

Startled and terrified, Ann lost her balance and fell on her ass, and since she all-out forgot to let go of my cock, I plummeted forward, and the last load of my cum ended up in her hair as I tried to twist my body so I wouldn't crush her completely. I fell face first with a loud thud that was utterly drowned out by the ear-shattering sound of the nuclear bomb that was the vacuum cleaner crashing to the floor, and the last thing I remember from that day was a loud, angry roar from behind me.

"What. The. Fuck?!!"

And then I didn't have to pee anymore.

So, Ann got her divorce, my brother still blames me for getting kicked out of jiu-jitsu class, and me? I can't hear too well in my left ear, my jaw hurts when I yawn, and I have what my therapist calls the worst case of claustrophobia she's ever seen.