The Hard Shoulder

Anyone living in the Greater London or home counties are will know the M25 orbital motorway and its well deserved reputation for traffic hold–ups.
Not all of you will also know that the complete ring around London, over 120 miles (200 Km.) has only 2 service areas, so, as you might imagine, I do not travel on that road unless there is no alternative.
Unfortunately there often is ‘no alternative’ if you want to get to somewhere the other side of London, as I sometimes do when visiting my ‘best friend’ from my schooldays, Mary, who has married and moved to the other side of London. The alternatives to driving round the M25 to visit her are either public transport which means going into the centre of London and out again and takes a minimum of 90 minutes each way, assuming the trains are running to time, or driving through the centre of London, perhaps worst than using the M25. Neither of these options appeal to me, as public transport cannot be relied on to offer passenger toilet facilities these days, and public loos in the centre of London are no easier to find than on the M25. What I usually do to visit Mary is to drive round the M25 to the junction nearest her house, and having planned the journey in advance and taken all possible “precautions,”
I have a planned turn–off to an out–of town retail centre, where I can do my weekly shopping, fill up with cheap petrol and use their free loos to relieve my tiny bladder, which is usually full by then. I also travel outside the rush hour and listen to all traffic bulletins, in the hope of not being caught in one of the infamous traffic grid–locks and having to live out my nightmare of being caught with a bursting bladder and no access to a loo. But, recently…
My car, “Daisy the Datsun,” however much you say for Japanese quality and reliability, was getting ‘tired’ and needed quite a bit of loving care to get it though the annual test, so it was out of action for a few weeks waiting for repairs and money to pay for said repairs. Needing to visit Mary for her daughter’s birthday (my goddaughter) I was dreading the journey on public transport, and was more than grateful when a friend at school, put me in touch with her friend who was driving over to near Mary’s on the day I needed to be there.
It was a delightfully simple plan; I could walk to Jean’s and she and her family would be leaving ‘soon after breakfast’ for their destination in Kent. Being kind, helpful people they would make a short diversion off the M25, drop me at Mary’s and then carry on to their country cottage in Kent.
Since I was attending a birthday party for my 12–year–old goddaughter, I had to dress carefully to maintain my ‘street–cred’ with her, and I wanted to take care not to be thought of as the ‘funny old lady teacher’ at her party. I had consulted with her mother to make sure I got her the right present, and bought a new, fashionable brand pair of jeans for the occasion.
I was actually delighted with these, despite the expense, and they fitted me really well. Fashionably low waisted, nice and close fitting round my bum, emphasising, though I should not boast, what I have always thought of as my ‘cute little bottom’ and tight enough between the legs to feel good as I walked. Perhaps not the absolutely skin tight jeans of my student days, but I had outgrown such things, and quality and the right brand were more important. To keep up the fashionable image, I was wearing one of the smallest and thinnest pair of knickers I possessed– genuine, wispy, almost nothing knickers that any young model would not have been ashamed to be wearing and so tiny and thin that there was absolutely no chance of a ‘panty line’ showing.
As I walked round to Jean’s I realised I had dressed for the journey and party with the care and nervousness of a girl going on her first date, and with the feel of my new jeans rubbing me between the legs, I could not help thinking that in my present situation a boy–friend would be a very desirable asset, particularly one who was ‘good with cars’ and he could have either been sorting out my poor little Daisy or be driving me to Mary’s. He could have been doing many other good things for me, apart from these, but we will not go into that here.
Ever wary of long car journeys or anything resembling a coach outing, which this journey seemed to be, I had carefully restricted my liquid intake that morning to less than a bladder full, (for me not much more than the smallest cup of coffee!) and been to the loo more times that you would imagine. Despite all the precautions, so necessary when you have a bladder like mine! I fully intended to go once more before we left Jean’s, ‘just in case.’ (Just in case! It was an absolute certainty that I would want to go before I got to Mary’s)
Jean, the friend of a friend who had volunteered to give me a lift, had three young children, none of who went to my school, fortunately, and it was a fairly chaotic house I was invited into that morning. They were nowhere near ready to leave, and to my dismay, but surely with no evil intent, I was welcomed with a cup of tea. Not wanting to make a fuss, or reveal, my pathetic capacity, I had to make some attempt to drink it and appear grateful, but I poured the smallest cup I could and sat and sipped it slowly, intending to leave as much as possible. But the delays seemed endless and I was drinking the tea automatically to pass the time.
Only the eldest child, a precocious girl called Pippa was coming with us, and the other two younger boys were being left with Jean’s mother, who was staying in the house and adding to the confusion in the kitchen that morning.
Jean was bit on the plump side and had squeezed herself into a pair of jeans that looked to be several sizes too small for her. Pippa, slim and haughty as only a 13 yr old daughter can be, had made several cutting remarks about her mother’s jeans, ‘bursting at the seams’ and how she needed ‘her special, fat lady, knickers’ to squeeze her into shape to get into the jeans.
I thought, but did not say, that if she had been my daughter, Pippa would have been taught some manners and when to keep her mouth shut, but, as I said she was not one of my pupils and not my responsibility, thank goodness! I might be getting on and have old–fashioned ideas, but I would not have let a child of mine, wear trousers like Pippa’s. So tight and low waisted you could see her underwear, provocative was not the word; more like indecent in my view.
At last we were ready and I casually said, “I think I had better go to the loo before we leave,” and was heading for the bathroom, when the awful child, Pippa, turned to me and asked “Why? I thought grown–ups could always manage to wait? It’s not a long journey.”
What could I say to that? I wished that it was true for me, but… Would I admit that I had a seriously small bladder and was not so able to wait as long as might be expected of me? Never would I want to say that in front of such an objectionable child. She undoubtedly had some friends who went to my school and I did not want them knowing that I confessed to a bladder problem.
I said nothing, just went meekly to the loo, thankful that I had the opportunity of squeezing every last drop of pee from my body. Strictly, I was in no need of a loo visit at the time, but I had no doubt that every drop I could squeeze out before I left Jean’s was one drop I would not have to hold later on in the journey and, as always, I had that dreadful fear of wanting to go very badly before my journey was over.
Regardless of what that child might say, I was going to do everything in my power not to be desperate that morning, and sarcastic remarks from a precocious child were never going to keep me from a loo. From the way Jean and her husband, Richard, looked at me after Pippa’s comment, made me think that they both knew I had a ‘small bladder’ but I had never revealed such to either of them, nor had I had any of my ‘bladder adventures’ with them. Is there something about me that says ‘small bladder’ to people? Why would they have been interested? Are they reading this and wondering if they have been discovered? I was mildly thankful to note that Jean went to the loo after I did, followed by another caustic comment from Pippa; “Not again, mother can’t you wait 5 minutes? You told me that grown–ups do not need to keep wanting to use the loo.”
What an objectionable child! I had noted that compared to my small cup of tea, both Pippa and her mother had drunk a large mug of tea, which I thought an excessive risk for an M25 journey, but enviously assumed that some lucky people have bladders that can hold such large mugs of tea with ease. Actually, it did occur to me that Jean might have been criticising her daughter for needing a loo too often, but if she had a small bladder, why was she drinking a large mug of tea before a dreaded M25 journey?
My suspicions that there was an interest in loos in the family were further aroused by Richard’s comment of “Have you girls finished with your wee–wees now? Let’s be getting a move on.” Such an attitude only made me hope very much that I would not want a loo stop on the way, as it seemed unlikely that he would be sympathetic to such a need. I optimistically resolved that I would not, under any circumstances, (such optimism!) ask him to stop at a loo on the way.
Anyway, after I had made my last quick visit to their loo, we were outside and getting into Richard’s car, a not quite new Jaguar, very smooth and luxurious, but as I soon found, not as much room in the back as I had expected for such an expensive car. The priorities of the modern family were soon apparent, when Pippa took the front seat and Jean and I were confined to the back seat. Not that I was in any position to complain; I was grateful to be give a lift and not being very big, the back seat space did not seem to be a problem for me, though it would have been polite for the smaller Pippa to have let her mother have the greater comfort of the front seat. Richard obviously doted on his daughter and this probably accounted for much of her bad manners and objectionable behaviour.
I was sitting normally in the back and it was not until we had joined the dreaded M25 that the significance of my sitting position occurred to me. I was sitting facing forward and because of the restricted leg space I had my legs wide apart, so that my knees were on either side of the back of a front seat. I was thinking that it was a good thing that I was wearing jeans and not a short skirt, as sitting with my legs apart like this, I would have been showing my knickers, when it also occurred to me that I could not cross my legs, and that might (would certainly!) make life difficult if I wanted to go to the loo.
I tried to banish such a thought from my brain, but it was too late; my bladder reacted to the slightest suggestion that holding back pee might be difficult and I immediately wanted to go. Not desperately, or very urgently, but a sudden, very unwelcome thought that I should find a loo very soon or regret it. Normally it would not have been too much of a disaster; I would have just crossed my legs as tightly as I could and hoped that would make the urge to pee go away. If that did not work, then the next resort was to sit on my heel. An only too usual position for me to adopt and one, that as many ladies will know, is very good at helping you wait when you are dying for a loo. Almost as good as holding yourself between the legs and far less obvious that you are in desperate need of a loo. But, thanks to the design of Richard’s car, there simply was not room for even a tiny lady like me to do any of these ‘bladder easing’ things: all I could do was to try to make the best of a bad situation and twist myself sideways so I could press my legs together and lean forward so my jeans were not so tight across my bladder area. Not a very comfortable or helpful position to be in, but, I tried to kid myself, better that simply sitting with my legs apart and my jeans pulled tight across my bladder.
In vain, I tried to tell myself that I could not possibly want a loo so soon after my last pee and that it was only ‘imagination’ that was making me want to go. Unfortunately my imagination was only too realistic, as I really did want to go quite badly, and my new sitting position was not doing much to ease the need.
I know the simple advice in this situation is; ‘don’t think about wanting to go’ but that is not easy when your bladder is sending out quite strong messages that it needs to pee as soon as possible. Now I am no stranger to this situation, (unfortunately!) and I know the solution is to either sit on my heel or press my hand between my legs, but one was impossible in that car and the other unthinkable in the company. Jean sitting next to me would have seen what I was doing, and probably Pippa would have noticed as well, and if she did, the nasty child would be sure to remark on it. What could I say to that? Only about 30 minutes since I had very obviously been to the loo and I wanted to go so badly that I had to hold myself to wait. No! I still had some pride and I was not going to admit to such a pathetically small bladder. More practically, even if I did admit to being in need of a loo, there was not much that could be done about it! There was no service area coming up, and I could hardly ask Richard to take the next exit and go looking for a Ladies for me to use. (My earlier resolution not to ask for a stop was forgotten, I wanted a loo and nothing else mattered!)
There wasn’t much I could do except to try my best to wait. That meant clenching my bladder muscles shut as tightly as I could manage and trying to press my legs together as hard as I could. That was slightly better, I still felt I wanted to pee but it was not an urgent or desperate need as I might have normally expected.
The density of the traffic in our direction increased my worries over this situation. Long and bitter experience of the M25 has taught me that once traffic reaches a certain level it is not long before something causes it to grind to a halt, and anything that slowed our journey was going to be a disaster for me. I had calculated that it was going to be nearly an hour until we reached Mary’s and that was quite long enough of me to have to wait.
With the feelings from my bladder, my best (?) estimate was that I was going to be desperate, perhaps very desperate, when I got to Mary’s. Not at all a welcome thought. Mary knew me only too well and would not be shocked or surprised if my arrival at her house was a frantic dash upstairs to her loo, but I was dreading the strain I would be under to hold out as long as that.
Guests at her daughter’s party were not going to be impressed by new jeans if there was a wet patch between the legs or give me much ‘street cred’ if I was seen running up stairs holding myself in absolute desperation. I mentally shook my head to dispel such ‘negative thoughts’ and tried not to think about wanting a loo. No good. In my heart I just knew that the very best I could hope for was to be able to get to Mary’s while still only (!) desperate and in control. A dash to her loo even if I had to hold myself all the way would be a small price to pay for ‘being able to hold it’ so long. The important thing was ‘holding it’ as far as Mary’s, but I could see no alternative to that task. Somehow, I was going to have to simply make myself wait until her house and the loo there. It was easy enough to say; “simply make myself wait” but in reality it was probably not going to be as simple as that.
I was worried, no, horrified to realise that I had not been paying attention to the road, and that the traffic had suddenly got much worse so we were virtually stopped.
Richard was making exasperated “tut–tut” noises at the delay and I was tempted to agree with him, though for me it was likely to be far more serious.
“Typical of his wretched road!” I agreed with him, “that’s why I normally turn off and cut across town from the last junction.”
If only he had done the same, I could have directed him to my normal loo stop and been happy, but no, I had let him go his own way, the shortest, and to his logic, the quickest way and now, unless something most unusual happened, I was heading for trouble.
Pressing my legs together was the best option I could think of and I tried to convince myself it really was helping me wait. Maybe it was, but the awful sight on the road ahead of an endless stream of stationary cars was my worst nightmare coming true. I could see the road for what seemed like miles ahead and it was nothing but cars; no turn–off, no service areas, absolutely nowhere I could go to the loo and nothing moving to give me any chance of getting to a loo. I must have groaned in horror at my predicament, because Jean was looking sharply at me and asked if I was OK.
“Fine, absolutely fine,” I smiled back, thinking that I should have been fine if only I had a normal bladder capacity and not the pathetic little thing nature had given me. Still trying to smile and look as if I was enjoying myself, I grimly resolved that, come what may, I was going to WAIT. I simply had to; I had no excuse. I had done everything according to plan; nothing much to drink, pee at every opportunity and the last possible moment before leaving, and we had only been delayed about 5 minutes, so even with no traffic jam I would not yet have reached Mary’s house (and her loo!!!)
It is so easy to write that now, but then it was not so easy. Already I was dying to go and it was not going to get any better! Legs and knees pressed hard together, even knocking my knees together, were not doing enough to help me wait. I wanted to sit on my heel! I simply had to sit on my heel if I was going to be able to wait for long! Perhaps it does not look much written down so casually, but in the back of that car on that awful road, it was serious! Sheer Desperation! I wanted a loo badly and it was getting worse as I thought about it. Knowing that there was little or no chance of getting to a loo in anything like a reasonable time (5 minutes or less!) was doing nothing to help me wait. I was starting to panic, and panic was making me want to pee more urgently, which was making me panic more, which was making me want a loo more…. and so on, with only one end in sight.
I had to do something, (other than just sit there until I wet myself?) and that meant waiting, just simply waiting, something that was almost beyond my abilities. I was making an enormous effort to hold in my pee, literally every ounce of my strength was concentrated on keeping my bladder clenched shut, and I was just managing to hold on, but in reality, I knew that I could never manage to keep up that level of effort for very long. This was turning into a terrible disaster for me as I was vaguely conscious that my bladder, however small, was not really full to bursting; I just had a desperately urgent need to pee, and I was not going to have the strength to contain it for very long. I knew that I simply could not let it go and wet my knickers. I had to do something to hold in my pee; the trouble was, I did not know what I could do in that car. There simply was not room for me to tuck my leg under me and sit on my heel. Well, not easily, I might have been able to get in that position with a lot of contortions that would have made it absolutely obvious that something was wrong with me and the whole point of sitting on my heel is that it is a way of holding in my pee without it being noticeable.
I was fighting so hard to hold my pee that I was near to panic and in sheer desperation, feeling I was going to wet myself any second, I pressed between my legs with my right hand. That felt so good and took so much strain off my struggling bladder muscles I knew I simply had to keep holding myself and hope that nobody in the car noticed. I tried the old trick of covering my right (holding) hand with my left hand, as if I was just resting my hands in my lap. But that was not really covering what I was doing, and it was such a temptation to use the left hand to help me press harder. (How I wanted to press with all my strength! Somehow I had the despairing hope that it would make me want to go less.) Somehow I thought that by only holding myself with one hand it was not so obvious as using both hands which I wanted and almost needed to use. This now seems complete nonsense and only demonstrates just what level of panic I had reached. Literally I did not think that I could hold back my pee any longer and I was desperate to try anything that might help me wait. Years of conditioning as a child with strict parents had taught me that ‘well behaved’ girls did not hold themselves, ever, and however desperate their situation they did not do such a thing in public or when anyone might see them doing it. This was one reason why I had become so attached to ‘sitting on my heel;’ it was the equivalent of holding between my legs without being so noticeable.
Of course, however much I tried to delude myself, I was not going to be able to sit in that car, holding between my legs for very long without someone noticing. Luckily for me it was Jean, sitting next to me, not the obnoxious Pippa in the front seat. She would never have been so discrete as Jean, who looked away and then quietly asked, “Are you feeling OK Nicola? You look a bit pale. Sometimes this car does make people sitting in the back feel sick.”
I had moved my hands away from my crutch as soon as I saw her looking. I was nearly going crazy trying to hold my pee with no ‘outside assistance’ and actually felt far from OK. If only there had been a Service Area coming, she was giving me a perfect opportunity to pretend I felt ‘queasy’ and needed a walk (to the Ladies loo) in the fresh air. But no such luck! Jean was not helping me at all, she was taking away my only chance of holding back my pee until I reached Mary’s house. Oh God! What a state I was getting myself into! Those few minutes when I had been holding my crutch had shown me that the only possible chance I had of waiting until I got to Mary’s was to keep holding myself as hard as I could, but I had been seen holding and convention demanded that either I admit that I simply had to get to a loo very quickly or I was going to wet my knickers (and jeans!) or that I behave ‘properly’ and keep my hands away from my crutch.
I made a show of putting my hands on my knees, in full view of Jean and anyone else who wanted to look, proving that I was not, and never had been, holding between my legs and had absolutely no desire to do so, or the visit a loo. (Oh God! Please give me the chance! ) Actually I was gripping my jeans tightly, which for some unknown reason, seemed to help me wait, and I needed all the help I could get, the state I was in. You know how it is when you are desperate for a pee and you have been holding yourself in some way, either on your foot or holding your crutch or even knotting your legs, when you have to stop doing it the urge to pee comes back with a vengeance, even worse that it was before you started holding yourself? Well that happened to me in the back of Richard’s car. I was frantic, literally FRANTIC! And so close to wetting myself I will never know how I found the strength to keep my knickers dry. I was ‘hanging on’ with every ounce of my strength, just on the brink of wetting myself, just managing to keep my teeth clenched and not groan with the effort I was making to hold my pee. I nearly gave up trying to keep up appearances and put both hands between my legs, but somehow, I was too proud to admit that I was desperate for a loo and I forced myself to try to hang on.
Now it seems it would have been awfully easy to press between my legs, hoping that only Jean would have seen, and said “I sorry to be a nuisance, but I’m simply dying to go to the loo, can you stop somewhere soon.” Or even “I’m dying to go to the loo. I’ve got a bit of a problem like that and I really do have to go quite urgently. Do you mind pulling onto the hard shoulder?” But really I could not bring myself to say that. Apart from having some pride and not wanting to admit that I wanted to go so badly that I could not wait any longer, the hard shoulder on that bit of the M25 had not the slightest bit of cover for a lady to squat and pee. Even crouching by the back wheel of Richard’s car I would have been visible to half of England in that traffic jam, and I simply could not have done that. What I did was real last resort tactics; I managed to get one hand pressing between my legs, by reaching behind me and sitting on my hand, so my fingers could just about reach up between my legs and press hard enough to hold back my wee. And nobody else in that car could see what I was doing. Saved at the last moment!
Having found a way to hold on, I then squirmed about and managed to get my hand more in the right place and, then, without making it too noticeable, I sat on both hands and pressed all my fingers up between my legs. Not only did it feel so good, being in some semblance of control of my bladder and not in immediate danger of wetting my knickers, but I could feel that my jeans were still dry between my legs; by some super–human effort on my part I had managed to keep control in that frantic moment after Jean saw me holding. Now all (all?) I had to do was to hold on until we either reached Mary’s house or we passed somewhere with a loo I could use. I was going to have to keep holding from underneath all the way, but that was a minor inconvenience if I could only manage to wait. I felt the crisis had passed and that I really was going to make it to Mary’s with nothing worse than an aching bladder and tired fingers. But, I was only too aware that it was not going to be easy, and I was in for a long, miserable journey, struggling to contain a bursting bladder and I was going to need all my experience in such activities, to survive until Mary’s loo.
I had just managed to find the best position to sit, so my fingers could reach up between my legs and press hard where they did most good, and try to sit so that it was not obvious what I had to do, when Jean, who had twisted herself so she seemed to be looking at me all the time, (why? To check if she had really seen me holding myself in desperation?) leaned forward over the front seat and asked; “Richard does that fancy satellite navigation of yours show useful things like loos as well as speed cameras? Because if so I wish you would use it to find me the nearest one. I should not have drunk that extra mug of tea this morning, and I’m breaking my neck in the back here; there isn’t even enough room to cross my legs.”
Poor Jean, of course I was sorry for her dying for a loo, but was I glad to know that she was also bursting, and needed a loo quite badly, it seemed. I kept quiet, but this explained why she was sitting sideways; not to watch me but to try to cross her legs and ease her own bursting bladder. She had probably been hoping that I would plead desperation and save her from having to ask for a loo stop. As it was, the ever objectionable Pippa had to make some comment about ‘Can’t you wait five minutes?’ which I am ashamed to say made me wish that Pippa was as desperate as I was, if not worse. But of course the child was in no need of a loo at all.
Unhelpfully, Richard told Jean that his machine only showed the Service Areas and the nearest was 10 miles behind us and completely out of the question, but Jean, bless her, was not going to be discouraged from her quest for a loo, and very firmly told her husband that he was “Jolly well going to have to find her a loo or somewhere for her to pee, unless he wanted the back of his new car flooded!”
Good of her! I kept quiet, but that was just what I wanted to hear her say. The quicker we got to a loo the better as far as I was concerned, because too much talk of loos was not helping me wait. I don’t think that Jean was much happier with the delay than I was, she was looking very anxious and, I might have been mistaken, but it seemed to me as if her right hand was very near to pressing between her legs.
Richard, with non–helpful suggestions from Pippa was fiddling with the navigation screen thing in the front of the car and had displayed some impressive looking maps, but no directions to a loo, so far as I could see. This delay must have been getting too much for Jean, who must have only asked about a loo because she was desperate.
“Richard, you know what I’m like. I said I want a pee and I mean I want a pee. For goodness sake stop playing with that stupid thing and get me to a loo.”
“There doesn’t seem to be anywhere with a loo near here. We are on the M25 you know,” replied Richard lamely.
“What’s a matter, Mother?” asked Pippa, “Can’t you wait?” What an objectionable child! And how frustrating that she didn’t want to go very, very badly. (Now I am ashamed to have been thinking anything so spiteful.)
“This is the only loo you will get round here,” said a very exasperated Richard, pulling onto the hard shoulder and stopping with an angry jerk. “Either pee here or shut up and wait, and make sure you bring a cork next time.”
I did not want to be in the middle of a nasty family quarrel, I just wanted a loo as soon as possible as even pressing up between my legs was not helping so much now I had thought we were stopping at a loo. Thankfully Jean must have wanted to go pretty badly as she needed no second bidding, but was opening the door and getting out onto the edge of the motorway. I dared not miss this chance. I slithered across the back seat to follow her out of the car, making some vague comment about ‘safety in numbers.’
Jean was pulling her jeans down and making to squat by the back wheel, so I pushed the car door shut and crouched next to her.
“Might as well take the chance to go now, you never know how bad this traffic will be.” I was still trying to act casually and not give the impression I had also been desperate for a loo. Quite honestly, I don’t think Jean cared; she wanted to go too badly to care about anything so long as she could pee.
This theory of mine was more or less confirmed by the torrent of pee that Jean was pouring out onto the road, making a huge puddle, while of course I was doing my normal ‘little squirt.’ Even though I had probably been as desperate as Jean, I simply could never hold the volume she was, and my body was not designed to release such a volume as she had been holding. She must have been bursting, the way her pee was pouring out.
I was squatting next to the back door of the car, facing Jean, who was squatting by the back wheel facing away from the car. She was in the most sensible place to wee, I had been so desperate to go I had been pulling down my jeans as soon as I was out of the car and shut the door. I am ashamed to admit that I wanted to go so badly that I was letting my pee out as soon as I had pulled my knickers down, almost before I had time to crouch down, and it was a wonder I had not gone on the back of my jeans, but I had just managed to pull them clear as I lost control and let my pee pour out. Oh Relief! I had been just aware enough of my position to turn towards the back of the car and squat facing Joan, thinking that Richard and Pippa would be watching me in the rear–view mirrors.
This was giving me a good view of Jean’s pee, which I had never intended. I do not make a habit of watching, or listening to, other women going to the loo, but Jean’s performance had to be something out of the ordinary. A torrent of pee, like a small waterfall, or from a hosepipe, was pouring from between her legs and making a lake round her feet. By contrast, my absolutely bursting bladder could only produce a gentle stream into a small puddle in front of me.
I finished before Jean and had my jeans pulled up before she was struggling to pull up her very tight, ‘control’ knickers and tight jeans. I had been conscious of how tight my jeans were across my bladder when I was so desperate, but her jeans and knickers must have been agony pressing on her bladder. I could only admire her endurance in holding on so long without making a fuss, or giving any impression that she was desperate. She quite put me to shame with my struggles to hold back my pee when I probably did not want to go half as badly as she did. Here was yet another example, not that I needed one, of my pathetic bladder capacity and control. What I would give to be able to wait and hold as much pee as Jean.
Standing up to pull up our jeans we were quite visible to the traffic suck on the Motorway, even I if I could delude myself that nobody had been able to see us squatting down, and several passing cars hooted to let us know they knew what we were doing, and could see out knickers! Red–faced we both scrambled back in the car as Jean gasped a heart–felt “Oh! That’s better!” which I fully, and silently, endorsed. Richard growled, “Finished now,” and pulled back into the traffic starting with a savage jerk that showed how annoyed with Jean (and me) he was. Pippa had a nasty smirk on her face that made me worry about who in my school might get to hear about ‘Miss Steele having to squat for a pee on the side of the M25’ and only made me regret that Pippa had not wanted to go as badly as her mother or I had.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, if slow, with traffic and the only notable thing was that when we reached Mary’s, Jean asked if she could come in and use her loo. As I already wanted to go again quite badly I had to wonder about her bladder capacity, or had she simply drunk too much tea that morning? I had no way of knowing if she was desperate and had another torrent to let out, or if she just wanted to ‘make sure’ and be empty in case the traffic was bad all the way.
Whatever, it was only polite to quickly introduce her to Mary and show her the way to the loo, so as not to delay the increasingly impatient Richard. This was, as I said, only polite, but far from the best thing, as I was dying for another pee, and standing up, knowing a loo was close was the worst thing that I could do. Looking longingly at the loo as Jean shut the door, I could only cross my legs very tightly, and say to Mary, “The M25 traffic has been awful, all the way, and you know how it’s impossible to find anywhere to stop. I’m dying to go as well.”
Since only Mary could see me I allowed myself the luxury of pressing between my legs, easing my desperation, and mouthing “Hurry up!” at the closed loo door.
“Sorry we have never had the downstairs loo installed, Bill keeps talking about the increase in value of the house, not to say your relief, but he never does anything about it. You could go behind the garden shed, I have when I was locked out once, but the party is out in the garden, and it might b a bit public. How about the flower vase in the bedroom?” she ended, with a grin. Such comments were not what I expected from the normally demure Mary, even though she was familiar with my bladder capacity.
I jammed both hands between my legs, to demonstrate how desperate I was and replied, “Don’t joke about such things, you know what I am like. If Jean wants to go so badly, how do you think I feel? I’ll have to use the vase if she doesn’t hurry. It’s becoming an emergency. It will be the vase or wet my knickers.”
I was trying so hard to hold my pee that I was clenching my teeth with the effort I had to make to hold my pee, and it was difficult to even talk. Mary’s attempt at a joke was only too close to reality, and I did not need anything that might make me laugh. That could lead to a wet jeans disaster. Luckily, Jean quickly finished her pee and, still un–ashamedly holding myself, (I dared not let go) I pushed past her into the loo, and the relief I so much needed.
If Jean had had any earlier doubt about my bladder capacity, this urgent rush to into the loo, hand pressed between my legs, would have confirmed that I was genuinely capacity challenged, but, even when we were gossiping together alone afterwards, she never made any mention of bladder ability or needing a loo, or such like, so maybe I was wrong in thinking that she, or Richard, had any interest in desperation.
I had a great time at the party and stayed the night at Mary’s, going home by train on the Sunday morning. Uneventful but expensive as I had to take ‘all precautions’ with my bladder and use the over–priced SW Trains loos in the stations; but what choice does some–one like me have? Local trains so rarely have loos and most station loos are firmly locked against vandalism, so it is pay up or hold out, and if you are like me and have no chance of holding out, you have to pay! Please do not suggest alternatives, I know what they are:
1. Go in the men’s loo: fine if I was with a boyfriend to check inside first and keep guard, but otherwise, no thanks! How do I know there will be a cubicle in there and how dirty will it be?
2. Go on the floor in the train. Again thank you, but I have some pride and some sense of civic responsibility.
3. Pee in a bottle. On a train? Wearing jeans? Where does the bottle come from? What do I do with it afterwards?
Thanks of the suggestions but I would rather pay 10p, 20p or whatever and go in peace and privacy.
By: Nicola