“Before he bent me over, he was kind enough to tell me, ‘I’m going to bend you over now.’ Then he lifted me up and started thrusting.”

I could not for the life of me stop laughing. In front of the class and every important administrator at the school, I was stuck in a cycle where I tried to suppress the schoolgirl giggle machine but with every forced serious or sobering thought (dead grandmother, a puppy run over by a freight train, a genocide of gerbils, taxes) spilled another successive spell of laughter.

I blamed Rena.

Ten minutes ago, we were asked by our Red Cross instructor to place a plastic sheet over the mouth of our shared mannequin. Following the directive perfectly, Rena began the CPR cycle with thirty chest compressions. Her form in this act was as flawless as her figure, but flawlessness is a myth and just like the grating sound of her voice, a mistake appeared after she gave the dummy its two rescue breaths.

It was then that I noticed the overabundance of saliva on top of the sheet. The collection of water gathering could’ve easily passed for a puddle due to a leak in the ceiling as the spit was now covering more and more of the plastic. With each cycle of compressions and breaths, the amount of spit multiplied as the slobbering began to slide beyond the plastic and onto the rubber of the mannequin.

“Okay, stop. Now switch partners.”

Rena, unaware of the mess she had created with her mouth, first looked up at the instructor and then at me. I looked at her and pointed with my eyes for her to look at the dummy.

“Oh my God! Oh goodness… Oh God.”

Hurriedly, embarrassed Rena reached for the sanitizing wipe in the bag and vainly tried to clean off her saliva. Instead the wiping began to spread her spit over an even vaster surface area. With each hasty attempt at cleaning up the slobber, came a darker shade of red on her face and more inches of mannequin real estate spewed in gobs.

Luckily, before I knelt down next to the mannequin, most of the spit was left on the edges of the rubber torso. I smiled at her in an attempt to offer some comfort, my eyes lying to say it was okay, that slobbering all over a mannequin like a rabid dog happens to the best of us.

Before I began my compressions, I wondered whether I would feel more disgust than humor in this scene if I was paired with a 300-pound woman.

Just as quickly as Rena’s wipes, I dismissed the thought. But my whole mind was covered in spit.

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