I've pissed myself a hundred times so far in twenty-two years, twelve
times alone this past year. Ask those who know me, they'll tell you
the stories of how I was so drunk I couldn't even interrupt an
argument or conversation to release the urge, how I couldn't pause
Playstation's Vigilante 8, or how once I couldn't even control my
bladder long enough to unbutton and unzip my pants, so I sat down
on the toilet and pissed right through my cargos, underwear and all
One time when I was seven, I pissed myself playing Barbies. Even
though I had to go, I couldn't pull myself away from Ken's hot tub
party. I kept pumping the bubble valve over and over and soon
enough the bubbles were fast like real jets and the next thing I knew
I was sitting in my own piss, content with the party's success. I knew
better than to not bolt to the bathroom, but I didn't. I still don't today
even though I know the repercussions.
* * *
This past fall, Stokes and I would walk her dogs, Bailey and Teeters,
at Bradley Woods. Teeters would gallop around in that crack
smoking puppy way, sniffing random dog poop or Bailey's ass. He
never lifted a leg on the uprooted trunks or broken beer bottles.
Bailey, on the other hand, marked his territory, appropriately back
scratched with his hind legs like a cat to cover the scent, then walked
away without ever looking back. It was an animalistic, instinctive
response to being in the wilderness. He gave little thought to where
he'd pee or what on. If a broken shoelace or pen cap smelled just
right, he'd pee on it and go about his business. That's always been
my own philosophy on peeing– do it and get back to what you're
doing; ain't no big thing. Stokes must have recognized this in me
because she made it my job to leash and unleash Bailey.
* * *
I wanted to go home with you tonight. I wanted to undress in your
bathroom, pop a squat on your toilet, with you in front of me aiming
towards that small hole between my pelvis and the seat. I wanted to
see your cock in the flourescent light, touch it in jest, just to feel the
hard flow, just to see what your penis looks like in the light. I know
it's small, even when hard, but I wanted to see its mushroom head
and the veins. I wanted to tuck it into your pants while you were
laughing and watch you cluelessly piss yourself. I wanted to see you
in that light, grinning and drenched like a river without the falls, a
steady stream, consistent and raw.
But you went home with another girl at the bar, right in front of me.
In your back pocket was a Bukowski quote I had sloppily hand-
written in my penmanship. Indulge me– you fingered it on the way
to her car. You knew I would be crying trying to unlock my front
door as you flipped off her bedroom light switch. You knew I would
barely make it to the toilet and be vomiting Long Islands
uncontrollably as she opened her lips to accept your cock in her
mouth. You knew I would piss myself on the flower print linoleum
and pass out just as your dick shuddered and she swallowed your
cum.
Last week, I pissed in your dark bathroom, alone, while you were in
bed waiting for me. I wiped on your bath mat. You left me with no
toilet paper. You left me with no choice but to mark my territory, to
stake my claim on fabric that absorbs the water running off your balls
every morning. But I wiped and didn't give it a second thought, even
though you know I deserve more than this.