"Not here, Corrine," I panic, falling off my chair, attempting to conceal the situation but failing uncontrollably.
"Where do you want to do it?" She's still smiling, "There's a restroom outside."
"You can't be serious. You cannot be serious, Corrine," I continue attempting to free myself of her grip with no success. Her hand has now slithered its way past my belt buckle and her thumb is brushing my pubic hair aggressively, "Stop it!"
A woman turns around, and when discovering Corrine, offers her a sympathetic blank expression. As soon as the woman's focus turns back to the service, Corrine extends her middle finger towards her and exposes her tongue. Her left hand is now gripping my entire shaft and working it skillfully.
"Corrine! This is your father's funeral," I begin to panic once again, "I'm not comfortable, you know, doing this with a close relative of yours cold and dead not three feet away."
"Outside. Now," she leads me out of the parlor and out onto the main drag, where the other soldiers are waiting for any hint of a disturbance by the revolutionaries. A rooster crows in the distance and a man with one arm pedals his bicycle in front of us. The sun reflects off my medals and blinds Corrine for a moment before she closes her eyes and kisses me on the lips.
It is then that the first missile raid begins.