New prompt from Scoot for the 4th!

Damp Squibs

The old Bolsheviks posited that in the communist society to come, sex would be as simple and strings-free as taking a drink of water. That certainly described Mel’s world. Except no sipping for our Mel. He guzzled straight from the Brita. He’d been diagnosed of course. This was not a challenging case for the headshrinkers. They’d bat around the why with him once a week, never really finding an answer, and by Friday night he’d head out and about to work on the how.  The first gal he saw triggered his mania. Before long he’d moved next to her and against all odds she appeared to be a kindred spirit. They commenced some mid level canoodling with aspirations of raising the stakes but perhaps predictably their inappropriate overtures were gilded with consequence.

The driver stopped the coach and walked back to the libidinous couple, prying them apart with a broomstick he usually reserved for fare skippers. “Don’t talk,” he said to Mel who had started to explain his disease, adding, “This isn’t the time or place for fireworks. We will not be having any Mile High Club on my bus.” In the movies they would have shown the jitney speeding into a tunnel, but in real life it merely lurched the last few steps to the corner, swung open its doors, and expelled its noxious passengers like so much exhaust.