There's a gay Mexican orgy going down in my bedroom.
Limbs are flying in every which direction, appendages flapping with a wet thhack, thaack thaack...there's also the smell of suspiciously sweet seaweed.
I stand there in the corner, my mouth utterly agog. Who are these people? More importantly, who gave them permission to have a Mexican orgy in my bedroom?
"Look at the chulo, papi," one submissive bottom goes.
I don't know these people from Adam, but I decide to join in. The vocal Mexican guy cringes as I bend over to kiss him.
There's suddenly a loud rap at the door.
"FBI. This is the FBI."
The gay Mexicans dart like mad little ducks, trying to find their clothes. Appendages are flapping, but this time in a not so pleasurable way.
I usher them out my bedroom window ("Wouldn't the house be surrounded by FBI," my rational mind thinks) and slowly open the bedroom door.
"Were there gay Mexicans in your room?" a plainclothes officer asks through the door crack.
"Um, no," I say, biting my bottom lip.
At this point, a visually distraught Mexican woman barges into my room. She's shaking all over.
"Oi, mis ninos," she warbles over and over again.
I point to the FBI agent with a look of what's-up-with-her.
"Oh. That's their mother. These gay Mexicans go across the country, breaking into residential houses and performing sex acts on each other for pornographic Web sites."
I look contemplatively out the window. Should I tell them? But by that same card, it would implicate me in some way, right?
I guess I learned my lesson. The next time strangers are having sex in my bedroom, I won't join in.