Dancing and Prancing and Jumping Around

Watch now. This one is very visual. See her through my eyes, because she’s a sight to behold, this woman, the heroine of my fantasy, and she’s going to become even more so.
She’s been driving for hours, and she’s bouncing up and down in the seat, she has to pee so bad. She’s wearing a light summery blouse (with a bra, alas, but that may change) and cut–offs that are very short, her thighs are bare all the way to the tops, the skin warm where the sun hits her lap. The cut–offs are tight against her crotch, which is a good thing, but also a little tight across her bladder, which is a problem. Maybe she’s undone just that button at the very top, but she doesn’t dare unzip.
The last place she could have stopped was an hour ago. But she’d been running a little late, and although her bladder was beginning to feel full, she’d decided to chance it and just drive on through. Now it’s backcountry roads, miles and miles of them, with open fields all around. No place to go, and she’s wriggling now, and ready to burst, thinking about that bathroom she didn’t go to, and wishing she would come upon a restaurant or a gas station, or even a thick clump of trees where she could hide and secretly pull down her pants, squat in the dirt and pee, pee, pee. Squirming in her seat, the muscles of her bare thighs are tensing.
She’s on her way to a wedding party. It starts at noon with a picnic around the old pond, and people were told to bring bathing suits. At three, everyone will move to the church in town, and from there, on to the house. It’s just past noon now. The roads look familiar, she thinks she’s almost there, but she’s wishing (oh God please) that she sees a place with a bathroom soon, wishing she sees one (right now God damn it) because she REALLY has to go pee. And then she sees it–though it does her no good–sees a port–a–potty, but it’s up on the back of a flat bed truck that’s broken down by the side of the road. She drives past, and as it dwindles in the rear view mirror, she wriggles her hips down into her seat and rubs one thigh against the other. She spreads her legs (cut–offs so short you can almost see pubic hair, short enough that you can see the shadow underneath, that tendon on the inner thigh where it connects to the pelvis) and then reaches down with one hand to grip herself. She clamps her legs tightly together.
Now she’s imagining a bathroom, the vision filling her mind unbidden, and sees herself running through the door marked “WOMEN.” She sees the door to the cubicle opening, sees herself frantically pulling down her shorts, sitting on the toilet and letting (oh, yes!) letting go (yes!) finally letting go and (at last!) peeing and peeing and peeing.
Oh God I have to pee– I hope I make it. Now she’s bouncing up and down again and biting her lip. She begins to open and close her legs, squeezing rhythmically. I have to go to the bathroom, I have to go pee, I have to go SO bad.
Now she sees herself pulling off to the side of the road, running off behind bushes (if only there were any!) or a stand of trees (more than just that solitary beech that just went by) or into a field of corn (tall corn, ready for harvest, but this is Early June and the fields are barely knee–high) and sees herself peeling down in a hurry and– Oh God, I have to go.
Scissoring her legs now open, closed; spread wide, pressed together; knees apart, together–and she’s worked a couple of her fingers under the frayed edge of her cut–offs to press directly on the place where she pees. Finally she sees the sign, hand–lettered poster board staked into the ground, that says “wedding party” with an arrow. She takes the turn–off, and a hundred yards up the road she sees someone (Her cousin Bill? She hasn’t seen him in years, but she thinks it’s him) directing people to park in one of the fields. She remembers the pond from way back when she was a kid, remembers it’s still some distance down the road. She wishes she could park closer so she didn’t have so far to walk before she can pee. (Can she even make it that far? Just have to, she guesses.)
She pulls in (her legs would be crossed if the steering wheel weren’t in the way) and turns off the car, grabs her duffle with her bathing suit, and runs up to Bill. He greets her with a, “Hey, how are ya?” (Big, friendly grin.) “Great to see you again!”
“Yeah, you too.” (Frantic.) “Listen, I… really… have to go to the bathroom. Where can I go?”
“Aw, gee, they were supposed to bring in a port–a–potty this morning. Wasn’t there yet when we were setting up, but I guess it ought to be there by now. Everything’s down by the pond.”
Oh God, she thinks. It’s not there. It’s on that broken down truck by the side of the road, ten miles back. But she forces a smile and a cheerful “Thanks!”
She walks, and her thoughts fly. She could go back to her car, pretend she forgot something, and squat in the grassy aisle between the parked rows (God, I have to go NOW) but she can’t, really. Another car is arriving, more are on the way, and the aisles are all straight and wide and open to view.
She walks, and her gait is a little odd, mincing her steps and rubbing her thighs against one another. She wants to grab herself, hold onto her crotch, hold back the flood with her hand, but she can’t. She walks quickly, but careful not to jostle her bladder, hurrying a few steps, then slowing down to wriggle and bend over a little. (What am I going to DO? I have to PISS!!!)
She could go down to the picnic, get a great big paper cup and carry it back up to her car. Inside the car, she could pull down her pants and scoot forward onto the edge of the seat and pee into the cup. She’d probably fill it twice, at least–have to stop herself in mid–stream (if she could!) to open the door (with her pants down!) and empty it. But it’s a long walk down to the pond, and then all the way back up to the parking field, struggling the whole time not to wet herself. And it’s not as if her car even had tinted windows.
She walks, holding on desperately. The only thing to do is go in the pond. Yes. That should work. She grits her teeth in determination.
The picnic is an elaborate affair, with several large grills that have been set up by the caterer. There must be 70 or 80 people here already, with a lot of them splashing around in the water. She looks around, spotting lots of familiar and half–familiar faces. No port–a–potties anywhere in evidence. Another of her cousins calls her name, walks up smiling, gives her a hug. She grimaces over his shoulder, then manages a smile and sounds casual as she asks, “Is there a bathroom?”
“Nope. S’pposed to be, but there ain’t. Don’t know what happened. Closest one’s in town, if you really gotta go.”
Town. Fifteen miles. At least twenty minutes. She needs to go NOW. Right NOW. It’s taking all her strength and all her will not to wet herself standing right here. Does she tell him this?
“Nah, I’m fine,” she says. (I will stand still, she thinks. I will not squirm in front of everybody so it’s obvious.) Her crotch feels suspiciously warm. She has to get away, get behind some cover. Has to piss.
“I’m fine.”
What she really needs is to get into that Goddamn pond. (RIGHT NOW RIGHT THIS MINUTE before I piss all the way down my legs right here in front of everybody.) “Where are people changing?” she asks, pulling her bikini out of her duffle. (Please, God, not in their cars, she thinks suddenly. Don’t ask me to walk back all that way.)
“In the shed.” He points, she looks. Twenty or thirty yards up the hill there’s one of those pre–fab storage sheds, big and well–built–gable roof, door, two windows. She turns and runs. (Please, God, let me hold it long enough to get changed.)
She knocks on the door and hears, “Just a minute!” Male voice. (Damn it! Hurry up! I’m going to pee in my pants!) She paces. (Hurry, hurry, hurry, please hurry.) She walks all the way around the shed. (Maybe there’s enough cover behind it for me to sneak my cut–offs down, scoot my butt into the weeds and let go.) But there are just a couple of scrubby trees and some unkempt grass. Totally exposed, so that even with no one around she’d be shy about pissing there. (Hurry up! But what can she say? Hurry up because I have to pee, even though I can’t pee in the shed, but I’m going to change clothes so that I can go pee in the pond where everyone can see me but no one will know what I’m doing? Yeah right.)
Back around to the front again. (I’m gonna wet myself waiting for you to come out.) She knocks again. “Can I come in? I need to change.” She is standing with her legs crossed, squirming even though she’s willing herself not to. Everyone can see, but no one is right nearby and hopefully nobody notices.
“Yeah, hang on.” (I’m leaking. I can feel it hot and damp and I hope it doesn’t show.) And then he comes out, looking a little annoyed with her impatience, and she squeezes past him in her haste to get in.
Once inside, she strips off her blouse immediately, and wriggles out of her bra. Then she has to stop and grab herself, holding onto her crotch with both hands and bouncing up and down. Her breasts (naked breasts, now) are small, but not too small to bob and jiggle and bounce. Then she drops to the floor, sits on the heel of her foot, grinding it into her vulva. (Please, please, please, let me hold it in just another couple of minutes.) Then she gets control of herself again, wills her bladder to relax, to let it stretch just a little bit more. She unzips and peels down her cut–offs and undies (yes, they are a little wet at the crotch, even right through to the denim) and that triggers another wave of urgency, because sliding your panties down off your ass is always the last thing you do right before you go to the bathroom. Only she’s not in a bathroom, she’s in a storage shed with a plywood floor. So now she’s dancing, stark naked, dancing and prancing and jumping around. Dancing in and out of the squares of sunlight on the floor, her breasts bouncing and swaying with liquid grace and her hands only half–covering her pubic hair as she’s holding tight, pressing both hands hard into her slit, holding back the flood with the pressure of her fingers, trying not to piss all over the floor. (I have to go– I can’t hold it!) She hops from one foot to the other– bounce, jiggle– and then leaps in the air, keep watching those breasts, to land gracefully, flexing her knees, and then stands like a stork, one knee raised, thighs pressed together, and grabs her bikini bottoms. She steps into them, clumsy now, almost falling over, and slides them up over the cheeks of her ass– spandex stretching to cover her skin like paint–and then picks up the top, still dancing, still jiggling and naked upstairs. She fastens it around herself. Fiddly. Awkward. She stands still now, or tries to, with one leg wrapped around the other, balancing on one foot again, while she closes the fastener and stuffs herself, one and then the other, into the tiny cups. (Finally!)
Then out the door, duffle in one hand and towel in the other, and she’s standing barefoot in the grass in just the skimpiest of bikinis in the bright sun. Her plan is to walk down to the pond and wade in, her skin all goose bumps as the icy water rides higher and higher up her thighs, and when that moment comes when the waves first lap against the lips of her vulva, then the cold water between her legs will suddenly turn hot and ripples of gold will spread out from her as she relaxes, finally letting go.
Of course, she might begin to piss as soon as she steps into the water, and have to dive in with a big splash, quickly before anyone notices.
Or she might find herself pissing down her legs as she hurries through the crowds of picnickers and then what? Just run for it?
She could be very clever and sit down in the grass, pretend to be looking for something in her duffle, first dropping to her knees and then sitting sit back on her heels and letting her pee pour down between her feet (heaven) or plop her bottom right on the ground and let go, silently, a warm puddle spreading under and around her (guilty, gleeful pleasure).
She looks down at the pond, almost a hundred yards away. Looks at the crowds of cousins and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews between her and the water. Thinks about whether she could make it that far.
Get real.
She’s standing right outside the door of the shed, and it’s flowing down her inner thighs in sheets. She’s right out in the open (streaming in rivulets down her calves) in full view of everyone– there’s George waving to her now– (the flow is even stronger, a steady torrent) but nobody is close by. In the open, in broad daylight, with people looking right at her (warmth spreading out under her heels and between her toes) but nobody, probably, can see what she’s doing. (She can hear it hissing through the spandex.) The bikini is a dark color. It’s nylon. It probably won’t show. Much. Hell, she can wrap the towel around her waist while she walks down to the pond. She smiles now, an ear–to–ear grin, waves back at George, and hollers “Hullo! How ya been?”
William Abbott