How To Get A Firefighter Into Your Bedroom

Oh, my! Is this the title for a new erotica book we have decided to write, with one of those hunky sweaty firefighters in calendar pin-ups gracing our cover?

The male half of our writing team is invoking the immortal Sergeant Shultz from Hogan’s Heroes: “I know NOTHING, I see NOTHING, I hear NOTHING!!!”

Well, this isn’t about a new book nor book cover. OK, I admit, this is my story (the female half of the writing team). Did I happen to mention a hunky pin-up firefighter?

Was the bedroom on fire because I left candles burning too close to the draperies, which the fire department would arrive just in time to put out? And, oh, my again! If they actually did they would see me in that horrid flannel nightgown! Shudder!

Sigh. Unfortunately; it was not the first, dammit. Thankfully, it wasn’t the second one either, whew.

No, as with most things in my life, I just had to go and do something different! Well, there I was, soundly sleeping, dreaming of sugar-plum fairies…wait, that’s not right, and those of you who know me know I would never dream of something so, well, sweet and nice. No, friends, I was properly dreaming of dining with Hannibal Lector, and we were eating pig brains and eggs. No “yuck”, please! Really! It’s a southern delicacy! You gotta try it to appreciate it, y’all. But, I digress.

My deep slumber was severely interrupted, and I went straight into full awake panic mode. There was a horrid wailing noise in my bedroom! No, I wasn’t hearing myself snore in my sleep, although that is a horrid sound all its own. It was the dad-gum smoke alarm screaming at decibels nothing could ignore and still sleep. The four cats and I bolted from the bed, waiting for Robot B9 to yell, “Danger, Will Robinson, danger!” (Oh, come on now! Everyone’s heard of Lost in Space!)

Flipping on all the lights, I went searching for that thing that’s supposed to make a smoke alarm go off: smoke. But there was no smoke: I didn’t leave the coffee pot on all day again; no forgotten pan of grease charring on the stove; the toast wasn’t stuck in the toaster like last time (had to get a new toaster from that). So what set the blasted thing off?

One by one, the cats exited out the cat door in the kitchen to escape the deafening smoke siren; those little feline wusses, abandoning me in my time of panic. I go back to the bedroom. All I can do is stand there and stare up at the evil, screaming object. Why the hell did it decide to start bellowing at two o’clock in the morning? “Well I’ll be a suck-egg mule,” I said aloud. Yeah, sorry; another southernism, y’all.

So, there I was in my nightgown (the flannel one I mentioned earlier that I never wanted a hunky firefighter to see me wearing) standing atop a six foot ladder at two o’clock in the morning attempting to dismember the earsplitting fiend. Righty tighty…lefty loosey; I remembered the educational episodes of Tim the Tool Man on Home Improvement. Nope, it didn’t budge. Tried the handgrip jar opener (the thing for old people with arthritic hands), but apparently I’m not arthritic enough because it didn’t work either. Next came the hammer; oh, that wasn’t good, now there’s a hole in the ceiling next to the smoke alarm.

Well, fine, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Oh, I’m glad the cats didn’t hear that. What to do? I couldn’t simply let it shriek all night, it would wake the ghosts that haunt the forest behind the house. Wait! The fire department, that’s it! Where there’s a smoke alarm, there’s a beefy fireman to fix it. Before I could even make the call, there was a loud banging on the kitchen door. What the hey? Lo and behold, there’re three beefy firefighters on the porch, and a tanker truck in the yard, parked dangerously close to where the septic tank is buried. Did I mention there were three beefy firefighters?

I’d forgotten about the home security system that calls 911 for you, should one need to have a fire extinguished; or a cop to shoot a burglar; or an EMT to give me CPR because the blaring smoke alarm gave me heart failure. Hum, a cute young blonde EMT giving me CPR… ok, that’s gonna be another fantastic blog.

And they’re off to my rescue! Those three brawny firefighters are in my bedroom (every girl’s fantasy, right, girls?). I dreamily sat on the edge of the bed and watched the operation in full 3-D (dammit, where did I put my iPhone? I should be video recording for future entertainment!). Pure muscle in action (iPhone, where fore are thou, iPhone?) Within a minute, they were done. (Dammit, NOW I find the bloody iPhone!) The rescue was complete. “OK ma’am,” said one of my heroes. Did I mention they were beefy? “Had to turn it in the other direction; it’s one of those strange models. Took the batteries out. Looks like you have an electrical problem; you’ll need to find an electrician to fix this.” Do electricians come in beefy models?

WAIT! What? Did that mean they all were about to abandon me? They’re leaving me wide awake at two o’clock in the morning? Dang it all. And I was lucky enough to get the one dumb liberal smoke alarm in the store. Oops! No profiling! Lefty-loosey, indeed. Did I mention my rescuers were all very beefy?

“Thanks, y’all,” I said, ere they drove out of sight. Cheers to all, and to all a good night…gown. Oh, hell! They saw me in my awful flannel nightgown! Crap! I gotta find my nice lacy nightie for the next time the smoke alarm goes off… maybe tomorrow night? Night, y’all…

(Hope you enjoyed our foray into frivolous fun prose! This was based on a true event… can you guess which part was true?)


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