Patience and Prudence: My New Boyfriend Part 2

So there I was, my jeans drenched and tears flooding down my face – it was like being submerged under water. It was a well–lit street, and though nobody actually stared, people could easily see that I was standing in a puddle of my own urine. I had never felt so humiliated and so totally isolated in my whole life. Then Paul put his arm round me and said: “Come on, Peach love, let’s get you home.” It was so wonderful to feel that he wasn’t disgusted with me that I just cried all the more. Paul wisely recognised that there was nothing he could say that would make things any better, just shepherded me silently back to his flat.
When we got there, he led me straight into the bathroom. I pulled off all my clothes and threw them on the floor; Paul picked them up and went to put them in the washing machine, while I got into the shower and tried to scrub every last trace of my shame from my body.
I was just getting out of the shower when Sally came into the bathroom, carrying some of her clothes, which she was lending me till mine were washed and dried. She obviously realised what had happened, for she put her arm round me and said:
“Don’t worry about it, Paish. It happens to most of us one time or another. I remember a few years ago my then boyfriend was going to take me to the seaside in his car. It was only supposed to be an hour’s journey so I didn’t bother going to the loo before we left. Of course we’d only been gone a few minutes when I started needing to go but I didn’t say anything because I thought I could hang on. Then we got stuck in the most horrendous traffic jam. After about an hour I was in agony, but we were in the middle lane, and there was no cover in sight, so I just tried to hold it. Eventually I couldn’t, and it flooded out all over my boyfriend’s car.”
I was quite touched by Sally’s confession and the way everybody was being so kind. Then she added: “Of course that was the last time we ever went out together.”
Thank–you Sally, I thought. She had revived my fear that Paul might be disgusted by my accident. But when I dressed in Sally’s clothes and went to join Paul, he was wonderful. We talked about books, music, travel, everything and anything to take my mind off my mishap. I was starting to feel better but I was still very anxious. I went to the toilet twice more before we went to bed, and each time as I sat there I began to wonder if I was turning into Prudence. But I was also worried that I might be losing control – what if I wet Paul’s bed?
When we got into bed Paul didn’t immediately reach out to touch me as he usually did. I was in such a state that I started to sob again. “Don’t you want me any more?” I asked plaintively. Paul held me tight and replied: “Of course I want you – you know how much I love you. And it’s no secret I get excited when you show what a big strong bladder you’ve got. And it’s really sexy to watch you crossing your legs and dancing about. But I could never, ever take pleasure in you being in pain, or in you being embarrassed and humiliated.”
Then we did make love, but it wasn’t very good; I could feel that Paul’s mixed emotions were somehow holding him back.
Slowly things returned to normal, or almost. The next time we went to the pub, I drank two halves, instead of my usual pints – and I went to the Ladies’ before we left. Paul was too sensitive to make any comment, but I had the sense that he was mildly disappointed, and that disappointment seemed to be reflected in the rather half–hearted sex we were having.
A couple of weeks later we decided to go for a long country walk one Sunday. We took the tube to the far side of London, and then set off through some woodland in the summer sunshine. We stopped at a pub for a late lunch, and I had a couple of halves of lager. I didn’t go for a pee although I hadn’t been since when I got up that morning.
We carried on walking across open meadowland. So it was no surprise when, after about half an hour I felt a distinct need for the toilet. There was no cover around, and quite a few other walkers, so there was no question of just squatting down, as I would have done quite happily if we had still been in the woods. Normally, this would have been no problem; I would just have held on till an opportunity presented itself. But very quickly I found myself getting desperate – very desperate. Lager does tend to run through me like this, and I usually just clench my sphincter and carry on. But now I was starting to panic. Suppose I wet myself again. Late at night was bad enough, but out here in broad daylight would be far worse. We passed two very respectable–looking middle–aged ladies walking the other way, and I just imagined their look of contempt if I had had a big wet patch on my jeans.
Panic in my brain and pain in my gut. My heart started to pound and I was on the verge of tears. I explained the situation to Paul and, as ever, he was wonderful. Although we had a route planned out, he led me off the main path, promising me it would only be ten minutes and urging me to hold tight. Eventually we reached an area that was pretty deserted. There was an old stone wall which seemed to be a remnant of an abandoned farm, and I skipped off to squat behind it. I tore down my jeans and underwear and prepared for a torrent. To my surprise I just did a squirt that lasted a few seconds, and then stopped. How had such a small quantity caused such agony? Obviously it was anxiety and memory of my mishap that had caused me to feel so desperate.
We carried on walking for some hours, and gradually, as I took pleasure in Paul’s company, I began to forget my worries. I was starting to need to pee again but it wasn’t unbearable and didn’t seem to justify another open–air squat.
Then Paul took me to a delightful restaurant, one his favourites, for dinner. I went to the Ladies’ as soon as we got there, and this time I did a real gusher – it seemed as if it would never stop. When I emerged from the cubicle the young woman waiting outside must have been listening, for she said: “You must have really needed that. That’s the trouble with the countryside, nowhere to wee.” And she hurried in to do her own fountain.
We had a delicious dinner; walking had given me a real appetite. I had a couple of glasses of wine and a cup of coffee, nothing that seemed to justify a second visit to the Ladies’. We had to get a bus to take us back to the tube station, and by the time we had stood waiting for one, and then travelled about three–quarters of an hour over bumpy roads, I was feeling the familiar discomfort in my lower body. But when we got to the tube station, there were no conveniences there.
So I got on the tube, prepared for an hour and a half of discomfort. But after about twenty minutes the need was getting rapidly more acute, and I was seriously wondering if I could hold it for the rest of the journey. Again panic was setting in. A couple of young lovers were sitting just opposite us. How would they react if I proceeded to do a huge puddle on the carriage floor? The train was halted for a few minutes. It was nothing serious, but panic really began to take hold. I turned to Paul and explained the situation. Luckily the two lovers were far too engrossed in each other to hear what I was saying. “So I simply can’t wait; we’re going to have to get off at the next station.”
Paul, as always, perfectly understood. It never seemed to have crossed his mind to ask why I hadn’t gone before leaving the restaurant. So we got off at the next stop. I knew there were lavatories at this station, as I’d used them before in an emergency. But when we came up the escalator we found that the toilets were already locked up. Why do they shut the toilets in the middle of the evening, when nine out of ten cases of urgency occur in late evening when people have been drinking??
I was about to collapse into tears, but Paul led me out of the station. There was a pub about fifty metres down the road, and he guided me there. But as I went through the front door a rather ferocious barman greeted me. “We’re closing,” he said. “I just want to powder my nose,” I answered. “Toilets are for customer use only,” he snapped. “I’ll buy a drink when I’ve been,” I promised, but he just responded that they were closed. Catch 22. I told him I was desperate, but he seemed utterly unmoved. I even offered to make a donation to charity, but there was no way that he was going to let me in.
I ran back to Paul, now on the very brink of wetting myself. There was a car park just next to the pub. It was quite busy, with the people leaving the pub and going to get their cars. But Paul led me to the far corner, which was more or less deserted. There was an obviously abandoned car there, and I went behind it for my second outdoor pee of the day while Paul kept a lookout. Just in time. As soon as I had got my jeans and underwear down, a jet of urine gushed out of me. But, like this afternoon, it seemed to last only a few seconds. The relief was tremendous, but again I felt that what I had been suffering from was panic rather than genuine desperation.
We got back on the tube and went home. By the time we got back I needed to go again quite badly. Sally was in the bath, but she let me in, and I entertained her with a real gusher. She probably assumed I had been holding it all day out in the country, and I didn’t disillusion her.
I was spending most of time at Paul’s now, so I didn’t see much of Prue, but I was getting so worried about the situation that I rang her up and arranged to meet for a drink one evening. I told her all my troubles, my accident and now the way I was panicking as soon as I felt the need to pee.
Prue was very sympathetic, having had an accident of her own a few years back. [See Patience and Prudence: an Introduction] And then she said a couple of things, which struck me as being very wise – she really is a wonderful sister.
“Actually Paish,” she said, “You and I are very similar. We both like being in control. I hate getting caught short, so I try and plan things so that it doesn’t happen. I know you think I’m neurotic, but I’d just call it being sensible. You stay in control by sheer physical will power. You don’t let it disrupt your life– you just hold it. It wouldn’t do for me, it’s far too painful, but you’re quite right to do things your way.”
Then she said something else which made a really big impression on me. “Do you remember, Paish, when we about nine, and Mum bought us our first bikes? We went down to the park to learn how to ride them. You fell off and scratched your knee, and you were crying. And Mum told you to get back on your bike straightaway. You didn’t want to, but Mum said the longer you left it, the more you would think about falling and the more frightened you would be of riding in the future. So despite your protests she made you get back on the bike there and then so that you would get your confidence back. And it worked.”
Prue’s a wonderful sister and I do love her – almost as much as I love Paul. Before we left the pub we both went to the Ladies’. Because of our different habits– that’s something that really doesn’t happen very often. So there we were, sitting side by side in adjacent cubicles, pissing away. And again the thought struck me, were we becoming “the two Prudences”? Despite Prue’s wise and helpful words, the thought worried me as – for once in complete comfort – I went back to Paul’s on the tube.
Things were all right with Paul and I but somehow my accident had left a cloud over the relationship. I was scared of taking risks because I didn’t want to be humiliated a second time. But it was that willingness to take risks that had been part of my charm to Paul. He still loved me, but somehow something of the excitement was missing.
We decided to go away for a few days to North Wales. We should be out in the wild countryside, so there would be lots of opportunities for outdoor pissing, and we both thought – though we didn’t discuss it explicitly – that that might rekindle the flame. I went to the toilet on rising, at about half past seven. We had a quick breakfast and set off up the motorway. After a couple of hours we stopped at a service station for some coffee, but I was feeling no need for the toilet so I didn’t bother going. Everything was going fine as we headed North up the motorway. I saw a sign for a service station ten miles ahead. It would be the last service–station before our turn–off into the Welsh countryside, so I decided I would ask Paul, who was driving, to stop there so I could have a pee, as I was now distinctly in need of one.
I had just formulated this plan in my mind when the traffic slowed suddenly and came to a complete halt. Jams like this were not unusual so I thought nothing of it. We’d been talking about books we had read recently so we just carried on arguing as we waited for the traffic to start moving again. My need to pee was getting more urgent, but I thought of what Prue had said and I was determined not to panic.
When we hadn’t moved a single inch in about three–quarters of an hour we began to wonder what was going on. We looked at our surroundings. Beyond the hard shoulder there was a very thin grass verge – perhaps a metre across. And beyond that was a very high wall that obviously surrounded some industrial installation.
We listened to the news on the car radio and eventually heard that there had been a major accident further up the motorway. Happily nobody was injured, but a very large lorry had overturned and was blocking the entire carriageway. Every effort was being made to clear the congestion, but it was feared that it might be three or four hours before traffic would be able to move again.
Three or four hours! Of course traffic was packed solid behind us as well as in front, so clearly there was no way out. We were stuck here. My need to pee was now getting quite acute and I could feel the beginnings of panic coming on, but again I thought of Prue and how she had encouraged me. I was Patience with the iron sphincters, and I would see it through!
A number of men were getting out of their cars and standing with their backs to the traffic, pissing against the wall. Mothers brought out a number of small children of both sexes to relieve themselves. But as ever, we grown women were at a disadvantage. There really was “nowhere to run”.
I leaned over and tweaked Paul’s member. “Do you need to pee?” I asked. “A bit”, he said. I tickled his tummy. He winced and said: “Actually quite a lot.” “Well you’d better go,” I said. He looked embarrassed. “But how about you?” he asked. “Don’t you need to go?” “Sort of”, I answered nonchalantly – it was one of the biggest understatements of my life. Litotes, as my very boring classical scholar boyfriend had once told me.
“I feel bad about going when you can’t”, he said, but I could tell he really needed to. “Go on”, I said. “You know women are the stronger sex as far as holding it goes, and I have the champion bladder of North London.” Paul seemed convinced by this and got out of the car and stood facing the wall. I could tell by the time he took that had had really needed it. I wondered if it had hurt as much as I was hurting now.
The car in front of us had camping gear strapped to the roof. There were four young people in it, two men and two women. They all got out of the car and proceeded to take down a large plastic sheet from the car roof. I was puzzled; were they going to try and camp on the narrow grass verge? But after a moment it became clear what they were doing. The two men stood on the grass verge, holding the sheet stretched out between them. One of the women, who had been dancing about in obvious discomfort, went between the sheet and the wall, and squatted down, her head still visible, but the rest of her completely concealed from the gaze of anyone who might want to watch. After a couple of minutes she emerged, making quite plain by her gestures that she now felt an awful lot better. The other young woman now took her place.
While this was going on a couple of women had jumped out of other cars and had come up to talk to the young men. It was obvious what favour they were asking for, and it was quickly granted. They stood there tapping their feet while the second camper finished her pee.
News seemed to spread very rapidly down the line of traffic, and within minutes there was a queue of about twenty women. The two young men were obviously getting a certain amount of gratification out of this. Although they were, very chivalrously, staring straight ahead and making no attempt to get a glimpse of what was going on behind the sheet, it was obviously rather exciting for them, and since they were very close to our car, I could see a distinct bulge in the trousers of one of the young men.
“Do you want to go, Peach?” asked Paul. I was very tempted, but by now I had made a resolution that I would hang on until we got to the service station. The pain was awful, but it wasn’t actually getting any worse. Maybe I had reached point ten on the scale and there wasn’t any worse for it to get.
So I waited. We talked, listened to news on the radio and to CDs, anything to pass the time. After three and a half hours the traffic started to move again. But there were huge notices up telling us that there was a major diversion and that we must leave the motorway at the next exit – that was before the service station!
It took quite a long time for us to get off the motorway, because of the huge quantity of traffic to clear, and to find our way onto the road we were supposed to be taking. At last we were on the open road, but there was still a couple of hours’ drive ahead of us. We were in open country, and Paul asked very considerately if I wanted to stop for a roadside pee, but I declined the offer. I had now made the decision that I was going to take the challenge. I would wait till we got to out hotel.
The pain in my gut was so intense that it created a sense of unreality. I felt as though I were in some sort of a trance. I just couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t want to go to the toilet – it was as though I had been desperate for the toilet all my life, as though it was just part of my being, like breathing or eyesight. I wasn’t talking much, as all my concentration was going on staying dry. Paul knew, of course, that I needed to go, but I don’t think he had any idea of how bad it was. He was concentrating on finding the way – I couldn’t have borne for him to get lost.
At last, at last, we got to the hotel. When I climbed out of the car I was not only stiff, I was also more desperate than ever. As we stood at the reception I was bouncing from one foot to the other in sheer bloody agony. But the young lady at reception didn’t seem very impressed. Doubtless, since the hotel was quite remote and most people would arrive after a long drive, she was used to seeing desperate guests. And since she seemed to be on her own in reception, she probably had to wait when she needed the toilet on duty, so she probably thought we might as well be left to wait too. I glanced at my watch. It was just coming up to half past seven. It was a full twelve hours since my last visit to the toilet.
Eventually we were checked in and got our room key. We had to walk up two flights of stairs. Paul carried all the baggage – I should have wet myself there and then if I’d had to pick up a suitcase.
We got to our room, which, thankfully, had an en suite bathroom. “Right”, I said to Paul, “now I’m going to have a piss.” And, on impulse, I added, “Do you want to watch? It should be quite a display.” I’d never made this offer to Paul before, but he had been so good and kind and considerate, and I really wanted to reward him. He looked a bit taken aback, but he clearly wasn’t going to miss out on the offer, and rather shyly he nodded. As I skipped into the bathroom he followed me and unobtrusively stood at the door.
Getting your jeans and underwear off while standing on one foot with your legs crossed, and one hand rammed into your crotch is not the easiest of manoeuvres, but I managed it somehow and within a few seconds I was in that paradise I had been dreaming of throughout the long painful afternoon – I was actually sitting on the toilet.
It took a few moments for my sphincter muscles to unclench – for one awful second I thought I was stuck and that I wouldn’t be able to pee. But then the floodgates opened. The water began to pour out – on and on and on it came. Again I seemed to have moved into some sort of timeless existence – I just couldn’t remember a time when I had not been pissing. Twelve hours worth of accumulated urine drained into the toilet bowl and floods of glorious relief pulsed through my body. At last the stream came to an end and with a few last drops it was over.
I had forgotten all about Paul, but now I heard his gentle voice from the doorway. “Seventy–eight seconds”, he announced, as though he were reading the sports results. I hadn’t realised he was timing me, but that seemed an amazing figure even to me.
We hadn’t eaten all day and I was starving hungry, but there was something even more urgent. Quickly we tore off each other’s clothes – I didn’t even bother to pull up my jeans after I had finished my piss. And on top of the bed covers we made love – fantastic sex, the best ever. I was back on my bike.
By: Jay–Gee