Monkey Business

I first met Joanna when I was a graduate student in biology at Tulane University in New Orleans. As an upper division life sciences major, I had been finally granted the coveted privilege of access to Tulane’s renowned Herkimer Primate Biology Research Center. Joanna wasn’t much older than I, but she had been one of those prodigies who had been granted admission to New Orleans prestigious Newcombe College immediate after her sophomore year in high school, and was currently engaged in the research underlying her doctoral thesis.
There was nothing at all pretentious in her manner as Joanna showed me around the laboratory adjacent to Herkimer’s famous outdoor observation facility. I followed her with rapt attention from cage to cage as she explained the implications of various studies of our captive primate cousins, taking time to provide affectionate gestures, a peanut here, a wafer there, sometimes just a smile and a chin chuck, to each animal.
Finally, we were ready for the part of the orientation I had most been anticipating, and I followed Joanna out of the laboratory into the lush, extensive compound used for semi–natural observation of primate groups. We wandered through an oak thicket until we came to the clearing where Joanna told me we would find Bonobo Group One. Sure enough, there was a gathering of twelve to fourteen small chimpanzees engaged in a process of grooming, food sharing, and socializing. I was fascinated. The chimps seemed to pay us no mind whatsoever. Joanna provided me with a small notebook to record observations, and told me to wander over, at my leisure, to join her at Group Two.
As much as I enjoyed watching this primate group, I was most interested in becoming familiar with the entire compound and of Joanna’s knowledge of the research. I soon followed her instructions and re–entered the thicket toward where Joanna had told me I would be able to find Group Two.
I approached a smaller clearing, and was taken a bit aback when I came upon Joanna squatting over a bed of leaves not far from me. It was obvious she intended to relieve herself. I was both embarrassed and excited by this prospect. At first, I averted my eyes out of courtesy, but couldn’t help but turn my attention back to this svelte, willowy, honey blonde researcher squatting over the leaves.
Joanna was wearing a smart khaki suit that would have been equally appropriate on safari, a business meeting, or at a New Orleans club. Her medium length khaki skirt was hiked over her thighs, and I was seeing her from the side. What confused and intrigued me considerably was that she had not bothered to pull down her underwear as she prepared to piss. I could clearly see the panties she was wearing, and they were some of the most fashionable and delicate I had ever seen. Her panties were a light beige cotton material covered by lacy white filigree. I gasped and caught my breath as her panties began to darken, and thick twin streams of urine poured out from underneath her. I was truly amazed when the little soldier in my own khakis pressed against them like a safari tent pole on the African veldt.
I felt certain that if she caught me watching her she would be terribly embarrassed. I was deeply concerned that my having observed her wetting herself would destroy the afternoon for us, making it difficult to continue in our professional relationship. Instead, as the last streams of her yellow urine dripped from her gorgeous panties, she turned toward me and smiled sweetly and said, “Wait here for me, I’ll be right back.”
Joanna wandered off in the direction of the laboratory, and returned shortly, making no mention of what had occurred. I assumed that she had gone to change her panties, and would prefer not to acknowledge her wetting. The rest of the afternoon went very well. We watched Group 2 for a while, and Joanna explained the implications of the research. We touched base at the sites of several lesser primate groups. Then night fell, and it was time to go home.
As the semester progressed, Joanna and I became quite friendly with each other. It was obvious there was a mutual attraction, and as we were both officially graduate students and not part of any academic hierarchy, there was no reason we should not see each other socially. One Friday night as we were locking up the laboratory, Joanna remarked, “There’s a really fine group of old blues men playing at one of my favorite small clubs down in the Quarter tomorrow night. Why don’t you come by for me and join me for some great music and some good mint juleps?”
I couldn’t have been more pleased. I had been just a bit reluctant to ask her out, as our relationship had been primarily professional, but since the day she wet herself in the compound, I had become progressively more intrigued by this smashingly intelligent and congenial young woman.
I drove by her flat in the Garden District at about 8 on Saturday, and picked her up. She was dressed in a maroon denim suit similar in style to what she had been wearing on the day of our first meeting. I was fortunate to find parking right on Royal near Jackson Square, and we wandered the few blocks over to the club, on Chartres.
The music was as inspiring as Joanna had promised, four old black men on guitars, harmonica, bass and drums. We had a perfectly lovely evening, and stayed until the last set. Not long before closing, Joanna ordered another tall drink. She nursed it until the band played its last encore and it was time to leave.
Joanna had said she would like to go somewhere for after hours, so we strolled down toward the river where I knew there was a classy old bar on Decatur. We talked about the music and how nice it was to join for the evening and socialize around something other than primate research. We had just arrived outside the huge, old wooden door of the bar when Joanna stopped suddenly. I was a bit puzzled at first, but in no mood to hurry her. I stood in front of her as she slowly bent her knees slightly, and pushed her derriere out slightly to the rear. My heart began pounding wildly as I became aware of a massive spray of urine pouring from under her skirt and clattering noisily on the pavement and forming a broad puddle around her fashionable Italian shoes.
To use a time–honored Southern phrase, as she finished flooding her panties and the sidewalk, I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. I didn’t have long to consider, though, because Joanna unexpectedly reached out, grabbed my hand, and shoved my palm under her skirt against her warm, soaked cotton panties. She looked at me with a truly devilish grin and said, “Would you mind if we skipped the after hours and head right back to my place?”
I have to admit, at that point I so excited I was almost at a loss for words. The foremost thought in my mind was whether I would be able to walk back to the car with what felt like a steel girder pressing against the inside front of my pants. I managed to croak out in a guttural tone, “Whatever the lady pleases.” We walked arm in arm back to the car, and then to her lovely place in the Garden District, a small former slave quarters surrounded by lush, almost tropical vegetation. My status as a gentleman precludes my sharing the details of what followed, though I will comment that this was the most primal, unrestrained sexual experience of my youth to that juncture.
Our sessions at the primate research center continued almost as normal that Monday, with a new and interesting twist. Almost every time we got together in the compound, at some point Joanna would lose control of her bladder. Sometimes this would imply just a little dribble. At others, sheets of yellow urine would pour down her legs. On the days she wore pants, when she would wet, the material would glisten with dark, brooding urine stains, frequently from her crotch to her ankles. Whenever she wet herself, she would excuse herself for a few moments to change clothes in the lab, then return and continue the afternoon as if nothing had happened.
After we had been dating for several months, it finally occurred to me to question her concerning the reasons that an adult, professional woman was so prone to have wetting accidents and spray urine all over her clothing. Rather than answer me directly, she took me by the hand and led me over to have a look at her thesis, which I had never seen before.
I was more than amazed to discover that Joanna’s thesis consisted of much more than a study of primate behavior. She had been researching the effects of primate–like urinary attractant behavior on an unwitting human subject, yours truly! I was clearly aware by that time that the female chimps and lower primates in the compound would usually urinate to initiate sexual behavior while in estrus. This invariably caught the attention of the males, who would examine their soaking pudenda and then mount them. As I thought back on the preceding semester, it became inescapably clear that Joanna’s wetting behavior had an almost identical effect on me, infinitely embellished by the style and beauty of her clothing and undergarments.
Joanna and I are engaged to be married in three weeks. Our plans are to continue our research together, hopefully throughout a long and enjoyable professional and marital career. Joanna has already picked out her gown, perfectly suited for soaking herself without detection during the ceremony. I only wish I could invite each and every one of you to the wetting… that is to say, the wedding.
Sunchile