My Politics of Pee

Peeing for me is both erotic and political. It’s erotic because I first masturbated when wiping myself after a pee and found that it felt good to wipe in a certain spot. Peeing is political because piss, in our society, must remain hidden, it’s nasty and smelly, and most people just don’t want to see or touch it. Well it just so happens that the political nature of pissing and the erotic aftermath have gotten all mixed up in one of my fantasies. Here for the first time I have set the purgative of my pen to this experience in the hopes of expelling it from the depths of my psyche.
I had spend most of my 18th summer at the beach sun bathing, wondering how my body stacked up in the eyes of the indigenous gentry; and trying, as best I could, to attract just a little attention from just any nice guy who might see me preening there on the sand. Alas, we place this outrageous value on privacy, and all the guys were too timid to break through that societal barrier and just say “Hi,” but that’s another story. One afternoon, I had an exaggerated thirst for that throat burning that only Coca–Cola gives, and had been drinking quite a bit of it. Then I got the grand idea to ride my bike over to the grocery store and buy even more to finally quench my craving. So I slipped my skirt over my bikini and peddled over to Safeway in my thronged feet.
Once in the store it dawned on me that I needed to pee, and pee badly. In vain I searched the store for the bathroom. Finally I gave up and got my cart and started shopping but it really was getting hard to hold so I asked a clerk, “Where is the girls’ room?”
To my surprise and horror this pimply–faced adolescent boy says in the snottiest tone, “There is no public toilets here!” and then, even though he must have seen my distress, and even though I pleaded, “Please sir, I really, really got to go bad!” he just responded, “We don’t have toilets for the public!” So I gave up and continued squirming behind my shopping cart looking for the coke.
But then I got to an aisle and nobody was around… an aisle all to myself… total privacy. So, hidden from public scrutiny, I let just a little out– but that was a big mistake. Once the faucet was opened there was no stopping the flow, which proceeded to trickle down my legs and pool in an ever–growing lake around my thronged feet. Now, not only was I relieving my distress, but I was also getting a rush of freedom against outrageous rules of pimply–faced clerks. My Politics of Pee was born! Its slogan: “If you don’t let me use your bathroom, I’ll piss on your floor!” And that mantra was recycling in my brain over and over as I stood in the ever–spreading lake. Unfortunately, however, that is not the end of the story; a middle–aged gentleman with a goatee and a mustache walked into the aisle to do his shopping.
Seeing my predicament, yet being a perfect gentleman, he said nothing. Our eyes met for a fleeting moment and he smiled at me like a daddy would smile at his little girl having an accident. Now up to this point my account has been completely true and factual. But now, to tell the whole story, in all of its dimensions, I must deviate from the tyranny of Truth and paint for you the fantasies that this experience engendered… the fantasy which has played again and again so many times since. After his fatherly smile, this perfect gentleman walks into my spreading waters and places his hand up under my skirt. He explores unashamedly for the fountain’s source and revels in its stream. And when the flood subsides, he fondles me to my depth, and then proceeds to climb the slippery slope of the mound of Venus and there have his evil way till I explode. All this with not a word spoken. And when the final sighs of my passion have been expelled, and I stand there humiliated, dripping in my own juices… he just walks away… casting but a momentary glance back… his eyes and his arrogant smirk saying to me, “You are not alone in your freedom, I will always be there with you.”
Patty