Sarah Stops Being Sensible - Part 1

Sarah sat on the toilet. She had finished her rather modest pee, but she was in no hurry. Like most evenings, she had nowhere to go. And she was busy thinking about something – something that had been preoccupying her more and more over the last few months.
Why couldn’t she get a boyfriend? Lots of men asked her out, some asked a second time, but then they seemed to get bored. Nobody wanted a serious relationship with her. She was twenty–five and beginning to get anxious.
It wasn’t her looks that were at fault. She was five foot nine high, with black hair, a good figure and very nice legs. She dressed smartly and took a lot of care with her clothes. And it wasn’t the sex. When a relationship went that far, she knew how to give a man a good time. But she wasn’t going to make herself cheap by rushing into sex, and most of her boyfriends seemed to lose interest before it got to that stage.
Sarah pulled up her knickers, straightened her skirt and pressed the flush, the washed her hands. As she went into the kitchen to make tea, she was still asking herself the same question. She would have thought she was a good catch. As her Mum had always told her, she was a sensible girl.
Sarah thought back. She had indeed always been sensible. She had worked hard at school, and passed all her exams. At University she had studied hard, while most of her friends spent their time clubbing and enjoying themselves, and had got good qualifications. She had a good job, and was in line for promotion within a year or so. She had a good income, but she always took good care of her finances, and never let herself get into debt. She was no killjoy, and liked going to parties, but she never drank too much; she always liked to be in control – in every sense of the term.
That reminded her of the previous evening. She had gone to the cinema with her friend Jenny, whose boyfriend had gone abroad on business. As soon as they got to the cinema Sarah had gone to the ladies’ room. She didn’t feel any particular need – it just seemed like a sensible precaution. (In fact it was her Mum who had always reminded her to use the toilet before a play or film – “You don’t want to spoil the ending by being uncomfortable,” she used to say.) Although Sarah had asked Jenny if she was coming, her friend had said no, she didn’t need to.
Then half way through the film she had realised that Jenny was fidgeting a lot. Then Jenny whispered in her ear: “I’m bursting for the loo.” But the cinema was full, and they were right in the middle of a row. So Jenny had hung on; but Sarah had been aware of her crossing and uncrossing her legs ever more frantically. As soon as the movie ended, Jenny had rushed off to the toilet, where she had inevitably had to wait in a long queue with other equally improvident women.
Afterwards, when Sarah had asked Jenny what she thought of the film, Jenny had confessed that she had been in such pain she could hardly follow the last part. Sarah shook her head at the memory. Jenny had spoilt her evening, but it had all been her own fault.
But that was typical of Jenny. Last summer Sarah had gone on a coach trip to the seaside with Jenny and another friend Marion. After an afternoon on the promenade and amusements, they had gone to the pub. Jenny and Marion were drinking pints, but Sarah stuck to half pints. And when it was time to leave, Sarah had gone to the lavatory again, even though she had been only about twenty minutes earlier. The other two girls hadn’t bothered. The consequences were predictable. The bus got stuck in heavy traffic almost as soon as they left, and Marion and Jenny were soon desperate. But they were still in a built–up area, and the driver couldn’t let them get out to pee on the pavement. Jenny wanted to jump off and knock on someone’s door to ask to visit the bathroom, but the traffic was moving irregularly, and she would have risked being left behind. So Jenny bounced up and down on her seat, repeating over and over again “I’m desperate, I can’t wait,” while Marion just sat there with her leg folded up on the seat and sticking into her bum, looking very miserable as though she was about to start crying.
Eventually they got out of the town, and several of the men persuaded the driver to stop. They just lined up against a hedge, but there was no cover anywhere, and Jenny and Marion had to get out and squat beside the bus. They both produced absolute torrents, and seemed to go on for minutes. When they got back on the coach, everybody clapped for them. How humiliating, thought Sarah, she was very glad she had been sensible. Some grown women just did not seem to understand that what goes in must come out. By the time they had their scheduled stop at the service station, Sarah was needing to go quite badly – even half pints build up – but she was still in full control, and walked elegantly to the ladies’ while some of the other girls were running.
By now Sarah had finished making her tea, and her mind switched to other things. She remembered that Jenny lived with her steady boyfriend, and that Marion was getting married next summer. It didn’t seem fair. Surely there should be some reward for being a sensible girl.
The following week she dropped round to see Jenny, whose boyfriend was still abroad. She had a cup of tea, and then after about half an hour, was getting ready to leave. “I’d better go to the toilet before I go,” she said, “I don’t want to get caught short on the bus.” Since the bus service was pretty regular, and the journey home only took about a quarter of an hour, this was probably unnecessary, but Sarah could hear her Mum’s voice reminding her to go “just in case.”
So she ran upstairs to Jenny’s very elegant bathroom. Her pee didn’t take long, but her eye fell on a pile of magazines that Jenny kept next to the toilet. They were the sorts of celebrity magazines that Sarah never bought, but a front cover with the headline “WHAT TURNS MEN ON” caught her eye. In view of her recent anxieties, her curiosity got the better of her and she picked up the magazine.
The article was a pseudoscientific one giving accounts of various male fetishes. A lot of them seemed bizarre or just plain revolting, but her gaze fell on a paragraph that read: “A surprisingly large number of men are sexually aroused by a woman needing to urinate. While only a relatively small number of those surveyed were so sadistic that they actually wanted their girlfriends to wet themselves, a lot of men admitted that they found it very stimulating if their partners only just made it to the lavatory in time. Repeated pleas for the toilet, or movements associated with desperation, such as jiggling, leg crossing, bouncing up and down or the so–called ‘pee–pee dance’ were all described as being ‘very exciting.’ And if the girl had to take really desperate measures, such as relieving herself behind a tree, that was even more stimulating.”
Sarah was absolutely astonished. It had never occurred to her that men might feel like that. She had always assumed they found her bodily functions nothing more than a mild nuisance. She always apologised when she had to go to the toilet, and took good care not to get caught short at inconvenient times. Her eyes stayed glued to the article as she tried to imagine whether it could possibly be true.
There was a banging on the bathroom door. It was Jenny. “Are you all right, Sarah? You’ve been in there for ages. I was promising myself a pee as soon as you’d gone, and now I’m on the verge of wetting my knickers.”
Feeling very embarrassed, Sarah hurriedly put the magazine back, flushed and opened the door. Fortunately, Jenny was far too desperate to ask any awkward questions, and with an apologetically mumbled “sorry” Sarah went downstairs and let herself out.
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Sarah didn’t give much more thought to the article, although when in male company at work it occasionally crossed her mind to wonder if some of her colleagues would get excited if she showed signs of desperation.
Then about a week later she had a phone call from Simon. They’d been out once previously, but didn’t really seem to click, and Sarah had expected that as usual that would be the end of it. But Simon suggested going up to central London to see a film and have a drink, and Sarah accepted happily. It wasn’t as though she was besieged by offers. It was only later that it occurred to her that this might be the opportunity for a little experiment.
Simon and Sarah lived quite near each other in North London. The cinema they were going to was located in the West End, so they met at the tube station and travelled down together. When they got to the cinema, it took all Sarah’s will power not to go into the ladies’. She could hear her Mum’s voice ringing inside her head, telling her to be sensible and pay a visit “just in case.” She hadn’t been before leaving home, and in fact it was now about four hours since her last pee. She wasn’t actually feeling a real need, but if she thought about it she was aware that she was going to need to go quite soon. But she was determined to stick to the plan she had made, and walked passed the door to the toilets without even a glance.
It was quite a long film, lasting over two hours, and by half way through Sarah was beginning to wonder if she was quite mad. By now she did really need to go – the whole of the lower part of her body seemed to ache. She wondered whether to get up and walk out, but decided she could hang on. But as the film moved oh so very slowly towards its climax, she became ever more fidgety, crossing and uncrossing her legs at regular intervals and shifting about in her seat. It wasn’t the first time she had ever been desperate – no woman, however well–organised, can avoid occasional desperate moments, but it didn’t happen often, and she was surprised just how much pain and discomfort an aching bladder could produce. As she wriggled about in her seat and kept sneaking glances at the clock on the wall beside the screen, she was sure Simon must be noticing. To her delight, he turned to her and whispered, “Are you all right?” “Yes,” she whispered back, “I’m bursting for a pee, but I can hang on.”
There was a moment about ten minutes before the end when she seriously wondered whether she had been too optimistic, and she feared that a squirt of urine might escape into her knickers, but she hung on like grim death. The final climax of the film, with the heroine hanging on to the top of a skyscraper, was genuinely exciting, and it actually took her mind off her predicament for a few moments. But then the danger was over, and there was what seemed to her (though to be fair she was judging as a desperate woman and not as a film critic) an unnecessarily long scene between the heroine and her lover who had rescued her. At last the credits began to roll, and she immediately stood up and announced “I’m off to the toilet; wait for me.” She was not the only woman who had had that idea; by the time she got to the ladies’ the queue was extending outside the door, which enabled her to make sure that Simon got a good look at her dancing from foot to foot as she waited her turn.
When she emerged from the ladies’ she felt extraordinarily good, as girls generally do after a very long and much needed pee. She found Simon, and said: “Wow, that’s better. I really thought I was going to wet myself. Now let’s go to the pub and fill up again.”
When they got to the pub, Simon went to the bar. Sarah had asked for a pint, although it was not her usual habit to drink pints, even if she didn’t have a long journey ahead of her. But she was quite thirsty, and drained her glass rather quicker than Simon. They were having an interesting discussion of the film; Sarah had managed to remember quite a lot of it, despite her ordeal.
When they had finished their drinks, she asked Simon if he wanted another. “Just a half,” he said, but she bought another pint for herself. When Simon had finished his half, he got up and went to the men’s toilet. Sarah drained her pint before he came back, and as soon as he reached their table, she stood up and said: “Right, let’s make a move. I’ve got to go to work in the morning.”
“Are you ready to go?” he asked, looking meaningfully at the sign for the ladies’ toilet, but she just nodded and made for the door.
The walk to the tube station took about ten minutes, perhaps a bit longer as they stopped for a few moments to look at the moonlit river. So by the time they were on the station platform, Sarah needed to go pretty badly. There was no train due for several minutes, so she began to pace up and down on the platform.
Simon was still trying to discuss the film, so he was a bit distracted by this. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Not really,” said Sarah. “I’ve been really silly. I should have gone to the ladies’ in the pub. I feel quite desperate now.” The word “quite,” she thought, was a bit of an understatement. For the second time that evening she was feeling a gut–wrenching, agonising need to get herself to a toilet.
Simon looked worried and solicitous. At least, thought Sarah, he’s not one of the male minority who actually want their girlfriends to wet themselves. She was beginning to feel that the article had been all nonsense, and that she was making a fool of herself. Probably Simon was just thinking that she was an airhead who couldn’t plan her visits to the bathroom properly, and was a being a bloody nuisance as a result.
“Do you want to go back upstairs and look for a toilet?” he asked. The thought was very tempting, but the train was due in a couple of minutes. “No, it’s all right,” she said, “the tube only takes about twenty minutes, and then it’s about ten minutes walk to my flat. I’ll survive.” A spasm of pain hit her bladder, and she winced. “Just about. I hope.”
The train came in and Sarah rushed to sit down, legs tightly crossed. Luckily there were not many people in the compartment, so she didn’t feel that she was being watched. “Talk to me,” she said to Simon, “take my mind off it. But don’t expect too much mental effort. I need all my concentration down below.”
Simon, she had to admit, responded wonderfully. He began talking about his childhood. He had grown up in the country, and he talked about the pleasures of country life, especially of walking, of which he was very fond. He talked of the splendid woodland walks near his native village, saying to Sarah that she must come and visit it some time and enjoy the beautiful scenery. Through a haze of pain, Sarah noted with some satisfaction that he seemed to want to see her again. “And of course,” he added teasingly, “There’s no problem about waiting for the toilet. You can just nip behind a tree.” Sarah managed a weak smile, but she was frantically counting the minutes before their estimated arrival. Five, six, seven–
The train juddered to a halt, and all the lights went out. Such breakdowns were quite common on the London tube, and nobody bothered much about it. The lights soon went on again, and Sarah was hoping frantically that it would only be a very brief delay. But when seven or eight minutes had elapsed without any sign of movement at all, she began to panic.
“What can I do?” she said to Simon. “I’m really, really desperate. I’ll never hang on till I get home now.” When making her plan for the evening, Sarah had considered just acting desperation. But she was a very bad actress – she had been a disaster in the school play. She knew she couldn’t convince unless the need was real – and now it was all too real. Had she ever been so desperate in her life? She remembered a car journey some years ago, when she and her sister had demanded a toilet break, and her Mum had refused, saying that now they were old enough to vote they would have to learn to take precautions in advance or suffer the consequences. By the time her Mum finally relented, the girls had been on the very point of wetting themselves. That had always stayed as a bad memory, reinforcing her Mum’s constant reminders to go before a journey. But this was worse, far worse. She was in serious danger of an accident. That would screw things up with Simon once and for all. That would be a pity, because despite the distractions of the evening, she was starting to like him quite a lot.
Eventually, after about twenty minutes, the train began to move. Simon, who had simply been chattering away about the countryside to try and take her mind off her bladder, now said decisively. “Right. The next stop is Kings Cross. We get off there and go up to the main line station. The ladies’ will still be open.” Sarah’s head was not clear enough to think properly, so she just did as he said. When the train stopped he took her hand and guided her quickly up the escalator. All she could do was stand on the moving stair and do the pee–pee dance.
There was building work at the station, and the whole place seemed like a labyrinth. She was about to break down and cry – and maybe lose other fluid as well, but Simon quickly guided her through the maze of corridors, and up to the station. She didn’t often use the main line station, and she couldn’t remember where the lavatories were, but Simon seemed to know every inch of the way, and soon guided her to the ladies’ room. He pulled a twenty–pence coin from his pocket and gave it her, to save her the time of looking for one.
Sarah ran to the entrance, just found time to turn and give Simon a flirtatious little wave, and vanished down the steps. Thankfully there were no queues, and within seconds she was in a cubicle. Just in time. As she sat down, the water began to flood from her. It hissed into the bowl as though she were a fire hose, and went on… and on… and on… In fact she probably only peed for about a minute, but it felt like five or more. As the wave of relief surged through her body, she began to wonder how Simon had known so precisely where the ladies’ was. It wasn’t next to the gents’ room, which was far away down the platform. Maybe it wasn’t the first time he had been out with a desperate lady–friend.
When she had finished, Sarah noticed that she hadn’t been quite in time. There was a little – actually not all that little – damp patch on her knickers. Well, she didn’t need to mention that to Simon.
She ran back up the stairs, feeling wonderfully relieved. Simon was standing there waiting. She flung her arms round him and gave him a kiss. “Thank–you, thank–you, thank–you,” she said, “you really saved me from a fate worse than death. I’d never have thought of getting off here, and I’m sure I couldn’t have hung on till I got home. You’re my Guardian Angel.”
As they went back to the tube, she continued to thank him. Elated with relief and a little bit tipsy from the beer, she repeated again and again that he was her Guardian Angel, and compared his rescue of her to the way the hero of the film had rescued the heroine from the top of the skyscraper.
When they got to her stop, he offered to walk her home. She accepted gratefully, and gave him a big hug. As she did so, she felt a huge bulge pressing up against her. She had been wondering whether to ask him in; now she realised she had better do so.
By: Jay–Gee