Face-palm!

Last night something very disturbing happened. No, it was not my watching of "Jennifer's Body" for a second time, despite the fact that my first viewing made me want to call Diablo Cody up and tell her it was ok, she was still awesome, and I could totally see what she'd been trying to do with it all. No, it was not the realization that my teeth are turning brown and that in itself is motivation to make some mother-fucking changes up in this bee-yatch. (That actually happened on Sunday night, but whatever) No, it wasn't learning that there is such a thing as corn whiskey and people with more disposable income than sense will pay dearly for it.
Nosireebob. Here is the thing that happened and, for some reason, has shaken me to my very core:
I wet the bed.
Not even MY bed. Forthright's bed. Forthright's nice bed with the high thread count sheets and ergonomic pillows. Forthright's bed that he lets me sleep in with him even if all we do is sleep. My really good friend and occasional grade-A fuckbuddy Forthright's bed. Face to the g.d.m.f palm, with a slap so loud it echoes.
I don't know what happened. I wasn't drunk. I've never been so drunk I've wet the bed, anyway. I wasn't, like, sick or anything. I had consumed about a litre of diet soda throughout the evening, but that's hardly unusual for me and has never had such soggy results ever before. Bed-wetting wasn't a problem for me past the age of about four, and even then, I think I was a pretty standard child in that regard.
All I know is I woke up cold and clammy, desperately hoping I'd just sweated a lot. I went to the bathroom, took off my sodden underwear and freaked out very, very quietly. I then went back into the bed room and lay down smack in the middle of the mattress so as to form a wall between Forthright and the incriminating damp patch. I lay awake wondering whether he could smell it, if I could somehow launder, dry and replace his sheets between eight thirty and ten am the following morning, and if not, could I somehow just clean the nasty part and dry it with a hair-dryer? I watched the clock, waiting for the night to be over so I could sort out this gross and confusing issue.
I must have fallen asleep at some point because I woke up to Forthright shifting his sleeping position so he was facing me, legs entangled with me. Normally this would make me a happy camper, but not this morning, no way, Jose. I froze and tried to figure out what to do. Eventually he woke up and smiled at me, at which point it was pretty much beyond me to think of an elaborate ruse. Forthright doesn't have many limits, but he loathes being lied to with the fire of a thousand suns. I don't know if that hatred extends to urine-related mishaps, but I wasn't about to find out.
"Um...so I have something really gross and embarrassing to confess. Last night I...well, I guess I wet myself. And the bed. I'm sorry."
He seemed fairly unpeturbed, to the effect of, "Well, that's ok. It happens. It's no big deal."
"No, it doesn't! Not to me! I wasn't even drunk! I'm sorry."
"It's really ok. Don't worry about it."
And then he went back to sleep for another hour before getting up and going to work, at which point I sprawled out on his side of the bed and slept the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted. Upon waking up, I removed the sheets, left them at the foot of the bed, and went on my merry way.
I am very confused right now. I am also hoping Forthright never tells anyone about this or starts making Depends or Pull-ups jokes, because then I would have to murder him and make ear-muffs out of his curly scalp.