Mr. Average

Meet Harold B. Frunzswaggle. He is an average fellow, average height, average weight, and has an even disposition. That’s right, he’s no super hero, doesn’t have a 12” schlong, and wasn’t the homecoming king. He is not the wettest diaper in the pail; I guess you could say among us pee folk. It’s just that Harold is no more blessed with luck than he is with anything else. In fact, I would have to say he is good–luck challenged. Badly challenged. Ok, on a scale of 1 to 10, Harold needs a different scale.
Harold is married to the former Mildred Ann Natwick. Yes, that Mildred Ann Natwick, but they didn’t meet until she was done with all that lesbian stuff, according to Harold. (I did mention he was prone to poor luck, didn’t I?) No, she was not his high school sweetheart. That was Nancy Lou Roundsitter, poor girl. Yes, the one who was in the accident, lost a hand, got a hook, yeah, that one. She dumped him on prom night– at the prom. They were slow dancing, very closely slow dancing. She was playing with his rear end, as girls will do. Nancy Lou hadn’t had the hook long and wasn’t really skilled with it then, anyway, some how the cold sharp hook penetrated his pants. Harold kind of panicked a little; they figured that was why he pissed himself… and her. Well, she dumped him as soon as the paramedics got the hook out and the blood and stuff cleaned off of it. Why no, he doesn’t usually attend his high school reunions, now that you mention it.
Coincidence? No, no really. At the five–year reunion he was in the service, at ten his appendix burst on the way there, at fifteen he had gas and at 20 he had Mildred Ann. Did I mention Harold wasn’t very lucky? Otherwise, he would have gone. Really. His judgement not withstanding, Harold was good to Mildred Ann and she… Well, anyway, Harold was good to Mildred Ann. She tended to be a tad more forceful than Harold, and was just a bit older, 20 years I think Harold said. They had met when she had babysat him, but had not seen each other again until she picked him up in a senior’s lesbian bar where he had accidentally wandered while trying to find a bait shop. Close Harold, real close. That was twelve years ago and after two years of dating, they decided to get married. Harold has done as many of us have, denied and suppressed his fetish until middle age when he finally realized he was who he was. Not wanting to deceive Mildred Ann, he has struggled with the tell her–don’t tell her question for some time now as we pick up his story.
Harold lays down the garden hose he is repairing and looks down at his pants, relieved to see nothing. That was close, he tells himself. He is so desperate to pee he can barely concentrate on his work. He loves to be desperate, to hold it until the volume and pressure of his piss overwhelms his ability to hold it, savoring that moment when he loses control and pisses himself. He debates with himself, as always, about his fetish. You’ve gotta just tell her, he thinks, wondering for the thousandth time how Mildred Ann might react to such an announcement. She’ll flip!! She’ll leave me! She is so conservative, we’ve been married ten years and I’ve never even seen her pee! Asking her to pee her panties would be nuts. The thought of seeing his wife peeing her panties produces an instant erection as usual for the frustrated man. He pushes up against his workbench, enjoying the pressure on his hard member. It’s just not possible, he tells himself. Maybe if I just have an accident in front of her…? Hm… He stops, thinking, scheming, the idea growing and taking shape in his mind. It would at least give me an idea of her reaction without revealing my fetish, he thinks. Harold decides he will do it; he’ll stage an accident in front of Mildred Ann and see how she reacts when she sees him in pissed pants. Images of Mildred Ann excitedly pissing herself and jumping his bones dance in his head. Hopeful and happy, the 50–year–old man with a plan relaxes, picking up the new hose fitting and forgetting his bladder. In an instant he is wet, piss squirting in an impossibly hard stream, as his pants grow saturated, sagging, piss flooding down his legs. As the flood reaches his feet the garage door starts up without warning. Mildred Ann!! Oh no, she’s home early! She’s going to catch me in pissed pants! What can I do! Trying not to panic, Harold thinks furiously. This time no escape seems possible, he is doomed! It’s dark and the car’s headlights shine like a spotlight on him.
Suddenly he knows what a deer feels like, only the deer is probably dry, well at least until it sees the car. At the last possible instant, inspiration strikes Harold. Wait, this is perfect, he thinks. Excited, he gloats. Once again he’s thought his way out of an impossible situation! I’ll just tell her the garage door startled me and I had an accident. I hadn’t planned on trying this so soon, but I’m just gonna go for it, it’s a perfect opportunity. As Mildred Ann exits her car she looks at him exclaiming, “Harold, you poor moron, you’re all wet!” “I’ve told you that hose was going to burst on you someday and now it’s happened.” “Well, maybe you will listen to me now for a change.” “Get those wet clothes in the washer, you can finish fixing the hose after you change and do the laundry.” Without another glance she enters the house as Harold ponders his luck. Man, I can’t believe it, he thinks. I try to get caught and get away scott– free! What luck. I’ll just have to stage my little accident more carefully so Mildred Ann can’t miss it. I won’t leave anything to distract her next time, he says to himself. Next time she’ll know I’ve pissed my pants. Well, I’m already wet, he reasons, might as well enjoy it, and relaxes to let the hot wetness flow again, re–warming his cooling wet pants. Afterwards Harold drops the piss–soaked clothing in the washer as instructed and heads for the shower.
Harold has worked all day on his set–up for another faked accident. He is ready this time. The plan, he thinks, is foolproof. Unfortunately Harold does not yet realize just how resourceful fools really are. Mildred knows he has been drinking a lot of soda because she was annoyed with him for having it on the lamp table in the living room. She’s sitting in the kitchen; he can see her. It’s time! He relaxes; his bladder quickly cooperates with a warm flow of piss into his pants. Harold cuts off the flow when the wet patch is fully across the front of his pants and between his legs, just soaking his ass, he doesn’t want to damage his favorite recliner. Faking suddenly being startled by peeing his pants, he starts to jump up shouting “Oh no!” and knocks over his empty glass into his lap. At that instant Mildred looks up, her expression not pleasant. No, more unpleasant than normal, really kind of nasty, actually. “Mildred Ann, dear, I’m afraid I’ve had an accident,” he begins, trying to look sheepish. Mildred Ann is in full battle form now as she storms into the room. A shrill “Harold!” tells him she sees his wet pants. But, alas, poor Harold’s luck has not improved. “I can see you’ve had an accident and after I told you not to put your glass on that table.” “Now look at the mess you have made!” “Stop what you are doing at once and clean it up immediately!” “Make sure you get it all, I don’t want sticky soda all over.” “Maybe now you’ll listen to me when I tell you something!” she continues as she leaves the room angrily, her ass wobbling as it does when she hurries. Harold watches her ass in a trance, wishing it were wet. Try getting that with a skinny woman, he gloats to no one in particular. Harold refocuses; frustrated again, as he contemplates what went wrong. He is determined, though, and soon is trying to thing of another plan. Something has to work, he tells himself. After all, he thinks, my luck is bound to change. Careful, Harold!
It is nearly a week later when Harold finally comes up with another plan to piss his pants in front of Mildred Ann. This time, he is certain it will work. Maybe. Harold has planned this accident for right after dinner. He makes certain she notices, and comments on the volume of fluids he consumes during the meal. Afterwards as he is washing the dishes, the warm dishwater soon works its magic and Harold is nearly climbing the walls to hold on. He remarks to Mildred Ann about how badly he needs to pee, but wants to finish the dishes first. She nods, hearing the pee word and decides she needs to go first, but not before admonishing him not to hurry and break something. She leaves the desperate Harold to dance and squirm until her return. He is washing the heavy crock–pot liner when two things happen. He hears Mildred Ann returning and he starts to piss uncontrollably. Wanting her to see the full show he grabs his crotch trying to hold on a moment longer. That leaves one hand holding the heavy soapy and very slippery ceramic liner. It’s working, though; he has stopped the flow and is reaching back with his second hand to grasp the liner when Mildred Ann sees him holding her precious pot with only one hand. Things got a bit blurry then for Harold as Mildred Ann’s shrill “boy I really mean business now” voice startled him.
“Harold Humphrey Frunzwaggle! I told you to be careful!”
“Yada, yada, yada,” Things happened kind of fast then, but basically Harold, startled, let go of everything at once. He was pissing furiously in an instant, soaking his pants, shoes and the floor, and Mildred Ann would have seen it all if she had not been watching her 18 pound crock pot liner do a slow rotation to horizontal in the air after it squirted right out of Harold’s soapy hand. At any rate, the aforementioned heavy pot did a belly flop into the soapy dishwater sending a tidal wave over poor Harold’s whole front and soaking Mildred Ann’s favorite slippers as she stood behind him yelling. The words she used to explain how she felt about Harold I have never heard before, other than “needle–dicked, bug fucking, dickwad nincompoop,” but believe me, Mildred Ann was mad, As it turned out, though, the water kept the precious pot from breaking. Harold cleaned up the mess and Mildred Ann, who had once again managed to miss Harold pissing his pants, forgave him in only a few weeks.
Harold was kind of bummed out about the whole situation but eventually realized that if it were meant for Mildred Ann to know about his pants pissing fetish, she would out when it was time for her to find out. Harold went back to his former ways; he’d piss himself whenever he had the chance and wish Mildred Ann would join him. You know, just like the average pee nut. It was about this time that Harold and Mildred Ann were sitting on the front porch in the evening, warm weather having returned, and would often sip lemonade and watch the sunset. It was such an evening that the neighbor’s young dog decided to escape his yard and wound up on Harold and Mildred Ann’s porch. It had grown dark and the dog jumped up in Harold’s lap, being quite fond of him, and lay down. Mildred Ann had gone to pee, admonishing Harold to do so as well before he had an accident. At any rate, the dog was not nearly as fond of Mildred Ann and, as many dogs will do, pissed in fear upon her return before slinking off unobserved by her. This left our hero with a lap full of warm dog piss, which Mildred Ann discovered as soon as she decided to get frisky with Harold, laying her hand square in the middle of his still–warm wet crotch. With a roar of disgust, Mildred Ann withdrew her hand, shaming Harold for pissing his pants on purpose and liking it. It did not help much when Harold tried to explain it was dog piss, and Mildred left in a huff shouting something about lying pervert and calling the SPCA if he wasn’t lying. Well, that’s pretty much the extent of my knowledge of Harold’s life. I guess there’s no moral here, just a story of an average normal guy with poor luck. At any rate, Harold and Mildred Ann divorced. Last I heard, she had joined a militant lesbian senior biker gang and Harold had become a vet and was touring Africa with a gay male urologist doing volunteer work on elephants. You know, just average stuff.
By: King Neptune