Of course— why wouldn't something go horribly, horribly wrong?

No matter how badly I wish for the short trip to Hall-C to remain uneventful, or at least unexciting, that's just not how things go for me.

As I'm moving down a side path through the con, a short, red-headed woman enters the building using an immense glass door that connects the interior of the convention to the exterior; causing a powerful gust to sweep in from outside.

The blustering wind blows hard in my direction, and the **** of it flips my miniskirt up to my chest, revealing to everyone around my lack of underwear, and, to my deep mortification— my privates.

A sound somewhere between a scream and a moan escapes the mouth of not only the woman who just entered the building as she gawks at my bare penis, but also the two other women flanking her, and Natalie!

My breath catches in my throat, the all-consuming embarrassment halting my lungs functions when I see the women's expressions of shock metamorphose into glee. God, they can see everything.

The redhead places one hand over her laughing grin as I begin to panic; if anything, the wind is gaining speed. A "Whoa! Nice ass!" from Camila kicks me into action, and I move to hide my shame before any more girls turn my way.

Posed just like that iconic picture of Marilyn Monroe, I blush crimson and shove downwards on my white satin miniskirt, feeling the chilly outside air gust across my cock; I make a **** bid to cover the treasure between my legs, but the squall is irresistible, and I don't manage to put my skirt back to its proper position until the door closes on its own, after what feels like hours— giving those wide-eyed ladies a grand peepshow.

The numerous attendees who saw my humiliating display—basically every single last lady in the vicinity— wolf-whistle, applaud and cheer as I sprint red-faced ahead of my friends towards the entrance to Hall C; above the din of impassioned catcalling and adulation, I can faintly hear Raquel, Camila, and Natalie taking chase.

By the time I've escaped the cacophony of blissfully aroused women, I'm only a few feet from the door to Hall-C, and take the moment to myself to try and not completely lose it. My friends, dressed in their skimpy Witch, Werewolf, and Frankenstein regalia arrive just as I've stopped palpitating, and though all three of them appear commiserative, only Camila directly addresses me.

"Sorry for shouting Ahab, but like, I didn't get to see your ass earlier. I was seriously missing out."

A flat "No." Is the only response I can grant her ridiculous idea of an apology as I turn to get the door.

Inhaling from the depths of my lungs, I gird myself to enter the tournament room; the double doors leading inside are the only buffer separating my friends and me from the screaming throng we were about to join in cheering on fighting gamers. They're also the only buffer between me and that heroic mystery woman I yearn to meet again.

I exhale my deep yet unsteady breath, placing the flat of my palm on the broad oak door before I push. Crossing the threshold feels almost like an expedition's end, but a glance from the crowd-crushed, standing-room-only floor of Hall-C, down to the scant, barely-there costume I'm wearing confirms in my mind that the worst may be yet to come.