Remembrance of a Summer Night Past

Joe was a good guy, an older friend always willing to take some risks on our behalf. He said he’d be glad to pick up a case of beer for us. We were all under 21 and too young to buy beer in the state where we lived in the Northeastern United States.
At the senior prom dance that June evening in the mid–1950s, I danced only with Maddy, a girl I’d been going with for about a year. We were kindred spirits, similar interests, but where I was shy and retiring, she was bubbly and outgoing. I was very comfortable with her. She drew me out and helped me overcome my shyness. However, we never had sex.
Charlie and Lisa, Phil and Marge, and Maddy and I left the prom about 11 p.m. and piled into Charlie’s 1954 Mercury and drove to Joe’s house to pick up the beer. Charlie was the senior member of the group at 19. The rest of us were 18. Charlie drove into Joe’s garage as prearranged so we could load the beer in the Mercury’s trunk unobserved. We removed 12 cans and brought them inside the car and scattered them around the seats and floor.
Charlie backed out of Joe’s garage and headed for the rural roads outside of town. A can opener (this was before tab tops) was passed around and six pops and fizzes were heard. Bill Haley and the Comets blared on the radio. It was 1950’s America – a “simpler time”, the Eisenhower years. But it was also a time of fear – fear of the Red Menace, nuclear war, and getting drafted. The conversation was animated but meandering. In my usual shyness, I listened but remained mostly silent.
Uninhibited Maddy was the first to announce she had to pee. The other two girls quickly expressed the same need. Although each was only on her first beer, the girls, unaccustomed to alcohol, were already getting giggly. “You’re shittin’ me,” said Charlie. “You’re still on your first beer. Jesus, what amateurs!” Nonetheless, he pulled over by a hedge–lined field and we all piled out.
Maddy just spread her legs and proceeded to pee in the soft gravel by the side of the road, spattering mud over her shoes and ankles. “What are you doing?” cried Lisa. “Aren’t you wearing panties?” “Sure I am,” said Maddy, “but I’ll be damned if I’m going to drop them here.” Lisa and Marge conferred briefly, then both decided to follow Maddy’s example. Lisa stood, but Marge chose to squat, carefully spreading her dress around her to avoid getting it wet.
We three guys were surprised to say the least. Charlie seemed disgusted, Phil amused. I stared, transfixed. Fortunately, I was wearing tight briefs that concealed my fast–growing erection. Phil insisted the girls show us their panties. I overcame my shyness to second the motion. There was some resistance at first, but once again, bold Maddy, even more uninhibited than usual thanks to the beer, stood directly in the headlights and raised her dress, thrusting her pelvis forward. A large wet spot, faintly yellow, was plainly visible in her crotch, causing the fabric of her full–cut, white cotton panties to cling and reveal the shape her pudendum and the darkness of hair. Girls didn’t shave that area in the 50’s.
Following Maddy’s lead, the other two girls stood facing the headlights and lifted their dresses. Lisa’s pink panties had a small wet patch in the crotch. She was wearing a garter belt and nylons, and the stockings were plainly pee–streaked. No wetness was visible in Marge’s light blue panties. “You didn’t pee,” accused Phil. “I did so,” said Marge. “Well I can’t see anything,” retorted Phil. “How about this?” asked Marge. She turned her back to the headlights, lifted her dress high and bent forward. The entire seat of her panties was wet, clinging to her shapely butt, the wet fabric sinking into her crack.
We three guys then stepped into the concealment of the hedges, unzipped and began to relieve ourselves. There were hoots and taunts from the girls, who threatened to charge into the hedges and peek. They didn’t.
We all got back in the car and Charlie drove on. I was on one end of the back seat, Maddy in the middle and Phil on the other end, absorbed in a private conversation with Marge in the front seat. Lisa was seated in front between Charlie and Marge. These were the days of 6–passenger cars, with ample room for 3 in front and 3 in back. “I smell piss,” said Charlie. “That stink better not stick.”
I worked up the nerve to whisper a request in Maddy’s ear. “Could I feel your panties?” I asked. To my surprise, she acceded. She spread her legs slightly and raised her dress just to her crotch line. I slipped my hand between her smooth legs and gently fondled her cool wet crotch. I could feel the folds of her labia. She moaned slightly. I was in a fever pitch, my erection now becoming painful as it strained against the fabric of my briefs.
We rolled along the rural roads in the warm evening, windows open, while I continued to fondle Maddy’s wet crotch. The girls became teary–eyed when Mark Dinning crooned “Teen Angel” on the radio.
“Just sweet 16, and now you’re gone They’ve taken you away I can no longer kiss your lips They buried you today”
Near the end of her second beer, Maddy needed to pee again. With much grumbling, Charlie pulled over. Maddy climbed over Phil and out the door and once again stood spread–legged and let go on the side of the road. She climbed back in and flopped beside me. This time with no prodding, she slung one leg across my lap and lifted her dress high. A fresh wet patch now spread high in front of her delightful soft cotton panties. I felt it. It was still warm. I ran my hand down her leg, smooth and slippery with pee.
Conversation began to slow, fatigue took over, only half the beer had been consumed, and we all decided to call it a night. Maddy was the first to be dropped off at her house. I got out of the car to let her out and watched her walk toward her front door. Her father frowned on young men walking her to the door. She walked slightly spread–legged as though her wet panties were starting to chafe. The rest of us were driven to our homes. Charlie was going to return the remaining beer to Joe’s garage and go home himself. Denial of sexual release left me with the soreness and tenderness in my testicles we called “blueballs.”
The wetting incident was the subject of my masturbation fantasies for months after. Maddy and I continued to see each other for about a year and then tapered off. Our relationship was pure ’50s – sweet and innocent. She never wet herself for me again. It would be another five years before I finally lost my virginity. It was not with Maddy.
I soon lost my wetting fetish and it didn’t surface again for more than 40 years. It came back in a rush when I stumbled upon wetting sites on the Internet. However, to say it revived only a fetish would be trivializing it. It brought back a time and a place – guys I bonded with, the fragrance, musical voices and bubbly laughter of girls who seemed to ooze femaleness from their very pores, rocking to Bill Haley, becoming misty–eyed to “Teen Angel,” an era and attitudes that now live only in memory.
Bloom