Early Memories - Part 2

I eventually got into the habit of mostly holding on all day at school and not going to the toilet. I think this probably started from spending so much time with the boys. While girls often tend to go to the toilet together, boys are much more haphazard. For example, if we were in the middle of a game of cricket or something during lunch time we’d keep playing as long as we possibly could after the bell rang, and only when it was too late to go would I realize I really could have done with a visit to the toilet. The only acceptable option then would be to just hold on for the rest of the afternoon, which I always managed to, refusing to ask to be excused during class. Having always been quite a tomboy I was well accustomed to sustaining minor injuries, and to putting up with the resulting pain and discomfort. I guess the discomfort of a full bladder was just another one of those things I got into the habit of routinely putting up with, without letting it bother me too much.
One afternoon at school when I needed to go rather more than usual I found myself fighting against a very persistent urge to pee while I was trying to find something in the storeroom. Thinking I was alone in there I pranced and held myself relatively uninhibitedly, then was startled to see a boy watching me, grinning widely. It was Kevin, a boy who I often kept company with out of school, as our families were friends and we lived almost opposite each other. He came close and quietly asked how badly I was bursting, could I wait, etc. and urged me not to ask to go. (I had no intention of doing so anyway) When we finally got out of school Kevin met me at the bikes, quietly asked if I was still bursting and then said we should ride back to the public telephone (nearly a kilometer in the opposite direction from home) to ring the time and some other free recorded messages. I agreed.
Having Kevin unexpectedly finding me holding myself in the storeroom had been strangely exciting, and now that we were out of school, although bursting I knew I could still wait longer and was actually feeling a bit ‘adventurous.’
When we got into the phone booth I was disappointed at first because now I didn’t seem to want to go too badly after all, but by the time we’d made a couple of calls my full bladder had really started pushing again and I started bending and lifting my legs without restraint. Then, pretending I didn’t know Kevin was watching me I abruptly clutched myself a few times, as if having to suddenly prevent an imminent accident. Kevin started laughing and wanted to know if I was going to wet myself. I don’t remember what I replied, but I suppose when it became evident that I wasn’t about to lose it after all he suggested I do a little bit in my pants on purpose as it would make it better. I said I’d do a bit if he did first. After a bit of stalling he obliged and then I had to deliver my end of the bargain. I spread my legs so it wouldn’t go in my shoes and let go, but on my first try let out only a tiny squirt, which was all absorbed into my pants. I let go again, so that some would fall down from under my uniform for him to see, but this time it was right there and started instantly; my usual full–blooded gusher. With quite a full bladder it was hard to stop too, and I must have done about a second’s worth before I managed to cut it off, and the brief but heavy waterfall made quite a wet patch on the cement floor of the phone box. Kevin hooted with laughter and I glanced nervously around, hoping no one else was near enough to see or hear. Then I giggled too; the whole thing had been great fun, well worth the mild discomfort of having to ride home with wet pants around my bum on the bike seat. That was my first experience of deliberate wetting.
There was a heated swimming pool about fifteen minutes drive away, which we quite often visited. I had long had a bad habit of swallowing a lot of pool water. I had always tended to do this, just by accident, but then when I realized it made me want to pee I started swallowing more on purpose, often a mouthful virtually whenever I came up through the water, just so that I would need to go. I would hold on until I needed to go solidly, and then enjoy just letting go and doing it in the water. And I would keep swallowing more water so I’d need to wee again as soon as possible. One day, a girl friend’s mum took us both to the pool and I secretly did my drinking/peeing routine in the pool. However when we left, instead of going straight home as we did when my mum took us, Jenny’s mum wanted to do some shopping. I’d probably been swallowing heaps of water right up to the end, and although I would have left the pool with at least a relatively empty bladder, you guessed it, while we were out shopping I started needing to wee again. At first I didn’t take much notice but then when it started getting bad and we still didn’t seem close to going home I started getting uneasy. I REALLY didn’t want to ask Jenny’s mum to find a toilet for me, so I just held on without saying anything to her, but tried to enjoy the experience by light–heartedly mentioning it to Jenny and then backing that up by making a variety of ‘bursting’ movements whenever I didn’t think I was being observed by anyone else. Jenny thought my predicament was great; she was grinning and kept watching me, and asking me how bad it was and how much longer I could wait.
After a bit she said she needed to go too, and started making some movements of her own, but I didn’t really believe her; I was sure she just wanted to be in on the act. I was the one holding an increasingly full bladder as we walked around! At last we were out in the car park, but now I was bursting so much I couldn’t stand still for long. I remember walking around the car as Jenny’s mum loaded the shopping in, and holding myself while I was around the other side and out of her sight. It was only about ten minutes drive home from there, but I was decidedly edgy about being confined in the car for even that long, and had virtually resigned myself to having to tell Jenny’s mum I really had to go to the toilet before we went home. I was still plucking up the courage to make the move when she bustled us into the car and I just seemed to get swept along without getting around to saying anything. Now the difficult decision had been taken out of my hands and there was nothing for it but to hold on and hope for the best.
Thankfully once we were under way I felt like I had reasonable control, but as we neared Jenny’s place the pressure worsened with a vengeance. I was just glad I was sitting behind Jenny’s mum and out of her sight, because I started having to squirm around like mad! Jenny thought it was hilarious, and she had to make up some other reason to reply to her mother’s enquiry about what the joke was. As soon as the car was parked I was out like a shot, and from then on so desperate I couldn’t stop walking. We helped carry the shopping in and several times when I was out of sight of Jenny’s mum I held myself. I think I remember accidentally doing a couple of spurts as well. Then as soon as we were finished Jenny said to her mum that we were going down the back. That was a welcome move for me, as I was sure I couldn’t hold on more than about another minute, and knew I would have to ask to use their toilet if we delayed. We escaped, me setting a fast pace and feeling as if I was almost losing control even as we walked. I had my sights on their big old poultry shed, willing myself to be able to hold on until we got around behind it, out of sight of the house. The moment we got around the corner I started preparing to pull down my pants and squat down, not realizing that Jenny had other plans. Suddenly realizing what I was doing, she abruptly pulled my hands away from my dress, wanting to force me to hold on longer. But I’d barely managed to hold it in that long, and I simply couldn’t hold it any longer. I struggled with her momentarily but then feeling myself about to lose control simply squatted down anyway and did it through my pants. Jenny laughed and giggled with delight, and I started laughing then too. I thought I could have stopped part way through if I’d really tried but by then I didn’t care; it was more fun to just do the lot. Jenny then made out she was desperate too and squatted down to relieve herself, (pulling down her pants first) but true to my earlier suspicions it was all put on – she didn’t start immediately or wee nearly as much as I had. She kept laughing about the spectacle I’d made for the rest of the day, and would often remind me for months afterwards, taunting me that she’d tell others.
In 1988 we went up to Brisbane for a week to go to World Expo ’88. It was a really big event with heavy crowds. There were queues for everything, especially the most popular sites, but also the food stalls and of course the toilets. We had a three day pass, and on one of the days Mum went off by herself for a couple of hours looking at women’s stuff that the rest of us (Dad, me and my 2 brothers – one older and one younger) weren’t interested in. After a while my younger brother said he needed to go to the toilet so we found some and joined the queues. The men’s one was quite short and quick, so of course by the time they were out I was still way back in the women’s queue, which seemed especially long. I was also getting uncomfortable by then as it was about lunchtime and we’d been there all morning, but it was by no means urgent yet. After about a minute of watching my brothers and Dad waiting for me I gave up and left the women’s queue, confidently telling Dad it was okay, I’d just go when we came to a toilet with a shorter queue. Soon after that we met up with Mum again at our agreed place and time, and soon after that came upon the New Zealand site. This was one of the best and most popular exhibitions of the whole Expo, and always had long queues. Today was no exception, but as the line seemed a little shorter than it usually was we decided we’d never get a better time than that, and so joined it. By then Dad seemed to have forgotten I hadn’t been to the toilet when he and the boys had, Mum hadn’t been there so she didn’t know, and I’d put it to the back of my mind. By the time we were near the front of the line up though, over an hour later, I wanted to go more and was getting a bit concerned about how long we might be inside once we got there. I considered saying that I needed to go, but was afraid by the time I’d got to the end of a toilet queue and got back the rest of the family would have gone in, so I said nothing, reassuring myself with the thought that I routinely held on much longer than this at school, with no major difficulty. What I didn’t take into account though was that I’d earlier been taking frequent swigs of water from the bottle we carried, or that Dad had bought us something to eat and a can of soft drink each to have while we waited in the queue.
We finally went in, and true to its reputation it was an exhibition worth seeing. For a while I was so absorbed I managed not to think too much about the worsening fullness of my bladder. Then, while we were moving from one section to another, standing on a crowded, moving walkway taking us slowly through some clear statue things, I had to hold on hard against a really persistent urge to wee. I think it was then, realizing that it was much worse now than it had been before we came in, that I put two and two together about how much I’d had to drink. Suddenly feeling decidedly edgy about my predicament I at last confided to Mum that I needed to go, but although sympathetic, she didn’t of course have any magic solutions. We were in the middle of a progressive tour; we just had to stay with it. With having told her, I began stepping repeatedly from one foot to the other, which I thought wasn’t TOO dramatic in front of everyone else around. That reminded me of how I had sometimes enjoyed showing off needing to go in front of friends, so I imagined I was simply in one of those fun situations with them. I think that made me feel a bit better about it for then. I wasn’t yet in any danger of not being able to hold it; I was just very uncomfortable, and uneasy about how much longer I would have to wait.
The next section was a sort of moving picture theatre, with a whole lot of wooden “sheep” at the front, covered with woolly sheepskins, to sit astride while watching the film. I got one (I wasn’t so bursting as to be have to miss out on anything) and quickly realized that with sitting astride it I could lean forwards and put pressure on my outlet. It was as effective as holding myself, but without having to let anyone see! I was by then at the stage of having to constantly hold on and wanting to wriggle, so this was a great help. Nevertheless I was very relieved when the end came and we started moving out, as by then I really needed to pee extremely badly. It proved to be a torturously slow procession though, as everyone was stopping all the time to look at the extra displays along the way out, and it was too crowded to easily get past with a whole family. All I wanted to do was get to a toilet, quickly! With having reached the end and knowing that relief was at last in sight, I was rapidly becoming desperate. I just couldn’t stop stepping, even when I couldn’t walk anywhere, and several times I held myself while relatively hidden amongst the crowd. Again I tried to imagine myself as somewhere just with my friends where I could make fun out of it and just go if I really had to, but by now my situation was too serious for that thought to help. With me pressing forwards all the time we all got a bit separated, and then had to wait to be reunited (me constantly stepping around) until we could move off to find some toilets. Of course when we did there was the inevitable queue for the women’s, and although I’d expected it I didn’t know how I was going to be able to hold on long enough. Mum came with me, standing behind me in the line, and although I knew I had her understanding and sympathy, once again I felt very self–conscious about looking too desperate in front of her and all the other grown ups around. As the line inched painfully forwards I must have tried every maneuver and trick I’d ever used as I struggled not to wet myself, while all the while trying not to look TOO obvious. I stood with one leg bent then the other, I crossed them, jiggled them, stepped from one to the other, squatted, jumped, and eventually resorted to openly holding myself for a second or two now and then. I felt Mum’s hand on my shoulder and she said comfortingly to me, “It’s all right, darling.” I knew she was urging me not to be too upset if I did wet myself, but I was absolutely determined not to let that happen. I was just too grown up to do something like that! I fought back the tears that her understanding sympathy had induced and realized that I was now actually trembling with the desperate effort I was making to hold on tightly enough. I knew Dad and the boys were out of their toilet and were waiting nearby but I didn’t dare look over at them. By the time we were near the front of the line I was holding myself frequently, and for longer periods of time, struggling to deal with the increasingly frequent waves of feeling that I was about to helplessly lose control. And I knew it was only too real; a couple of little spurts had already escaped which I knew I’d barely managed to stop. At last inside the main doorway of the toilets, the woman in front of me offered to let me go in front of her. I was embarrassed, but overruled by my desperate need and I gratefully moved in front of them. Even with that reprieve though, the last minute or so was like a nightmare. I don’t know if it was just anticipation from being so close or if my overstressed bladder had absolutely had enough, but I couldn’t help doing several more little spurts in quick succession and was really afraid that I was going to completely lose control before I got in to a toilet. In total desperation now I gave in to holding myself almost constantly as I squirmed. I could now feel the crutch of my jeans a bit wet under my hand and only hoped it wasn’t noticeable. Finally it was my turn. I rushed in and got my jeans down as quickly as possible, starting to wee before I hit the seat. It seemed to go on for ages, and my characteristically loud peeing noise seemed especially noisy, even with the sound of flushing toilets around. Before leaving I checked my jeans – there was definitely a damp patch visible, but it wasn’t too big and I hoped it wouldn’t be too noticeable so long as I made sure I didn’t spread my legs apart if I was standing or sitting. I waited outside for Mum and then we rejoined Dad and the boys. I was expecting some teasing from my brothers, but it didn’t come, in fact they seemed unusually quiet. Dad had probably warned them not to give me a hard time. What I wasn’t prepared for though was how Dad put his arm around me and quietly apologized to me for putting me through it by forgetting to find a toilet for me after they had gone but I hadn’t. That, and I suppose the stress I’d just been through was almost too much for me and I felt unexpected tears fill my eyes and sudden, silent sobs well up from my stomach. (And I rarely cried about anything.) I looked away for a few seconds as I fought to regain my composure. We moved on to see other things, and it was not mentioned again, although I thought of it a great deal. As weeks and months passed afterwards I still often went over it in my mind (hence my accurate recollection of it) and it was to lose its terror and take on a new aspect of fascination for me.
Helen