Debbie

If I had known Debbie longer–If we’d really become lovers, or had any chance to start a real relationship–I would certainly have shared with her my one very personal sexual quirk. Most of the women I’ve loved have learned, sooner or later, how desperately aroused I can become by a woman squirming with an urgent need to pee. Most of them have played with it at one time or another, holding a full bladder to see what effect it would have on me, and the best of my lovers have taken a positive delight in having such a simple way to reduce me to helpless, quivering desire. But Debbie did not know, and yet with her there was one summer’s evening that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
From beginning to end Debbie and I knew each other for only four months, and we spent almost that whole time poised right on the brink of sexuality without ever quite crossing the line. We knew our lives were following tangents that would pull us apart very soon–she was just finishing her Ph.D. in plant physiology the same year that I first arrived back at graduate school–otherwise we would certainly have become sexually involved. We did grow very close, emotionally and physically, over that summer, and towards the end we slept a few times in each other’s arms. She kept her jeans on when she slept with me, but it was erotic and infinitely sensual to be curled together, one arm around her, my hand resting on her belly or cupped tenderly over her breasts, and my swollen desire nestled gently against the crevice of her buttocks. I’d have gone insane if I hadn’t been masturbating twice a day all summer long. I nearly went mad with lust anyway. She came in my arms only once, in the very last week of the summer, on an evening when we were both sitting on the couch in front of the fire. It was the only time I had ever unbuttoned her shirt and completely exposed her lovely breasts, small but round and inviting, and seen the nipples hard even in the summer’s warmth. As I leaned forward to kiss them, she was grinding her thighs together under her skirt, breathing hard, and then suddenly she was gasping in that unmistakable way, her whole body shuddering, and her arms pulled me tight, tight, tight against her. But she kept her boundaries even then, and that night I slept alone. I played the gentleman that summer, and when I came it was not from her touch, but from the memory of her touch, and also from the memory, from the very beginning of summer, of that unforgettable night that she peed.
It was the first week of June. I think we’d already kissed once, maybe twice, but they’d been shy and hesitant kisses. Really, we’d barely done more together than hold hands. Final exams were over, the undergraduates had all gone home, and summer session was not due to start for another week, so the campus was practically deserted even during the daytime, and late at night it was positively eerie. I was helping her with the last of her biochemical experiments. She was measuring the reaction rate of a particular enzyme, introducing precisely measured amounts of reagents into a large beaker and then siphoning off samples every two minutes for three hours, stopping the reaction with an inhibitor and triturating to measure the exact relative concentrations of reagents and product. We worked side–by–side, and after the first twenty minutes we had it down to a smooth and relaxed routine. She would pour, I’d measure, she’d record, and we both rinsed out the glassware to be ready for the next sample, usually with a good thirty or forty seconds to spare. Our conversation stopped and started. The moments when we needed to concentrate, we really needed to concentrate. We put on a Windham Hill jazz CD in the background and just let it play, over and over again, while we worked.
It was almost two hours into this three–hour project that she told me that she had to pee. And of course, there was just no way. At first all I felt was a kind of awkward embarrassment. I mean, what do you say to someone in that predicament? There wasn’t any concrete help I could offer, and little ineffective noises of sympathy might not be very welcome–it could be embarrassing for her, and had the potential to become very loaded for me. I was afraid oh dear or I’m sorry to hear that would come out sounding strained and artificial. Better, probably, just not to pick it up as a topic of conversation, so instead I began to chatter about other things, masking my nervousness. But I did begin, almost unconsciously, to watch her, looking for any subtle gestures or little telltale signs of her condition.
We worked without incident for another twenty minutes. We both chattered about anything and nothing–food and housemates and movies and whatever else–anything at all– except her having to go to the bathroom. She pulled one of the tall lab stools up to the bench and sat down for a while, with her legs crossed. With some effort, I kept myself from outright staring at her bare thigh peeking through the gap in her white lab coat. Then when she ran the water to rinse out a pipette from the next sample, I saw her shift her weight and lean forward a little. Yes? My breath caught in my throat, with that exquisite, almost painful blend of sexual anticipation and awkward vulnerability. With the sample after that it was unmistakable; she stood up again, and now she bounced up and down on her toes. “God, I really wish I could go pee,” she said. We still had forty–five minutes to go.
I didn’t have a raging hard–on–not yet–but I was definitely operating with a heightened level of sexual awareness. There was a delicious glow in my solar plexus, like honey warmed from sitting in the sunlight. I was also feeling very tender towards Debbie, and very protective. I think it must be hard–wired into guys to feel protective of women they’re attracted to, and also to feel fondness towards women who need their protection. I wanted to rescue her, to be her valiant superhero and win her release from her (so very erotic) distress. But there wasn’t much I could do. I looked at the apparatus set up on the counter. “I could draw the next couple of samples myself,” I suggested, “if the titration can wait until you come back.”
She shook her head. “It can’t. Believe me, I’ve been thinking about it.
But there’s no way I could get to the bathroom and back in less than two minutes, and one person can’t pour and add the inhibitor at the same time.”
So we were back to work. We were quiet again. The CD was beginning for the fourth time, familiar enough by now that we barely noticed it. I looked around at all the glassware on the shelves, and thought about how a guy (at least a guy working alone) could just pick up an Erlenmeyer flask, unzip, and be done with it. Pour it down the drain when you’re done and no one would ever know. I think even a woman (alone) if she got really desperate, might set a 1000 ml beaker on the floor and squat over it. But Debbie wasn’t alone, and although we had grown very close in a very short time, we didn’t have anything like the kind of intimacy where that would have been easy.
So she paced up and down the aisle. When the work demanded concentration and a steady hand, she stood with her legs tightly crossed. “Oh God,” she muttered, “I have to go so bad, and I’m not kidding.” By now I was hard. When she opened the valve and the little stream trickled into the graduated cylinder, her hips rocked and her legs writhed like a dancer, and she had to lean her elbows on the counter to steady her arms. For the sample after that, she moved the stool in front of the counter again, but instead of sitting on it, she leaned up against it, grinding her pubic bone against the hard wooden edge. When I swirled the beaker under the faucet, I watched her wriggle, balancing on one foot with her legs tightly crossed. I had such a hard–on by now, I was afraid it would show even under my lab coat.
Nine more samples. Eighteen minutes.
“Are you gonna be OK?” I asked her. I didn’t have to worry about trying to sound casual now; she was clearly desperate, and as turned on as I was, I was also genuinely worried for her.
“I’ll just have to last.” She forced a smile and gave a little shrug with one shoulder. “Not much choice, is there?” I had pulled up a stool of my own now, because my erection was a little less uncomfortable when I sat down. It took some effort not to let my hands tremble as I measured the next few samples.
Three more to go, and we began as much of the clean up as we could ahead of time. I popped the CD out of the player and slipped it into my backpack, put away the extra glassware we weren’t using. As soon as the final sample was taken, Debbie poured out the remaining reagents and scrubbed out the beaker (thighs pressed together, weight shifting from foot to foot). I took apart the rest of the apparatus while Debbie finished up the last titration. When I read off the measurement to her, she wrote the number in her notebook, dropped the pencil into the fold, and clapped it shut.
“Oh thank God!” she said. “I was really afraid I was going to wet myself before we were done.” She looked at the door. “I’ve got to go. Can you?”
“Yeah, I’ll finish cleaning up.”
She flashed a quick smile at me and then turned to run down the aisle and around the end of the bench, unbuttoning her lab coat as she went. She peeled it off in a hurry and tossed it inside out over the coat rack before she fled down the hall, leaving the door open behind her.
Cleanup was almost finished anyway. It only took me a second to rinse out the last pipette and lay it out to dry. I walked quickly to the door, slung my backpack on my shoulder and picked up hers as well, and killed the lights. Out in the hall, rummaging for her key to lock the door, I watched her running away from me down the semi–darkened hallway. It is worth mentioning that Debbie was really nice to watch. She wasn’t very tall, but she had an athletic build, with strong, muscular legs, and that night she was wearing a dress that showed them off fabulously. The sleeves were long and the scoop neck was high enough to be modest, but the fitted bodice ended in a skirt that was very short, barely covering her bottom. It was pleated and draped deliciously over the roundness of her hips. The fabric flapped as she ran, and I had significant hopes of catching a glimpse of what the skirt concealed. Almost, almost, and then she rounded the corner.
I followed, hurrying to catch up. It’s not even that I would see anything much, but I was drawn to her as helplessly as iron filings to a magnet. The building was constructed in three sections, like a wide, squat letter H. Classrooms and the science library were in the center section, with biology labs in one of the ends and chemistry labs in the other. The restrooms were located at both ends of the center section, right up near the heavy gray fire doors. I reached the corner just in time to see Debbie run up to them.
They were double doors; she grabbed both the handles and pulled. They didn’t give.
It hadn’t occurred to me that they would be kept locked after hours–hadn’t occurred to her either, and she was much more familiar with the building than I was. She tugged again, and then stood back, a look of horror on her face. When I reached her side, she was up close to the door again (knees bent, thighs pressed together) peering through the reinforced windows. Her hand shaded the glass from the little bit of reflected light, and in the darker hallway beyond, we could clearly see the sign, just a few feet away, that said “WOMEN.”
She turned to me suddenly. “My keys,” she demanded, and I handed her the heavy ring of twenty or so of them. She had one that opened the lab we were just in, another for the front door to the building–or at least to the section of the building that housed her lab. None of the keys on her ring even fit into the lock on the grim, gray fire doors. She crossed her legs and squirmed. Desperate and frustrated, she let go a tiny, high–pitched whine.
I thought again of the all that glassware back in the lab. A 1000 ml beaker didn’t seem so outrageous to me now. I’d wait outside in the hall; no one would see. But she knew that as well as I did. It didn’t seem my place to start suggesting things she might simply find too embarrassing.
She knew what was in her lab, knew her own limits, knew what she was and was not comfortable doing. Instead, I followed her up the stairs to the second floor to see if the doors were locked there, too, and then to the third floor. I kept my eyes on the hem of her skirt, but the only light on the stairs came from the red glow of the exit signs, and what Debbie’s skirt didn’t hide, the shadows did. Then we hurried (Debbie scampered) along each of the hallways that we could get to, hoping maybe there would be a small, poorly marked little bathroom tucked away somewhere that she’d never noticed before. There weren’t any. I watched her on the way down the stairs, too. Her neckline didn’t reveal more than a ghost of cleavage, but there was a bounce and sway to her as she rounded the landing ahead of me and galloped down the next flight that you only ever see in a woman who’s not wearing a bra. As aroused as I already was, the beauty of that one soft movement took my breath away. I imagined hugging her from behind, folding her into my arms and cupping the softness of each of her breasts in my hands. Then she took the last three steps in a single stride and ran back out into the foyer. I thought again of the lab. She could leave the lights off, withdraw to the far end of the room and crouch down on the floor behind the counters, completely hidden. Hell, with the lights off she could climb up on the countertop and squat brazenly over the sink right in front of the windows and still nobody could see a thing. I thought of this, imagined it vividly, but could not bring myself to paint for her the verbal picture. Instead, I followed her outside into the warm night air and down along the sidewalk to the next entrance. Her key, the key that opened the section of the building with the labs, fit into this lock, but as she’d feared, it would not turn. Each of the front doors was keyed differently.
“Damn, damn, DAMN!” she hissed, and pounded the glass door with the flat of her hand. Then she turned and looked up into my face, her eyes full of anguish. “I have to get to a bathroom.” I was fiercely aroused, my erection cramped inside my jeans. She took my arm now and turned me toward the steps down to the sidewalk, and the touch of her hands buzzed like electricity against the inside of my elbow. Tingling energy spread throughout my body, all the way to my toes. Across the street was the main campus, dark and hushed, and beyond that, all the way across in one of the cheaper “peripheral” parking lots, was my car.
There was no one about, but from somewhere in the distance we heard voices–two or three people in animated conversation too quiet to make out the words. A ripple of laughter, a woman, very far away, but the sound oddly intimate in the stillness of the night. As we stepped up to the curb a solitary car came up the road and went gliding past us, the tires making only a whisper against the pavement. We stood for a moment under a streetlight waiting for it to go by, with Debbie holding tightly to my elbow. She stood very still, but clearly it was an effort of will not to cross her legs and squirm visibly while the driver could see us. She did duck and bob a little as she stepped off the curb, pulling me along beside her.
“The library,” she said. “It might still be open.”
“I hope so,” I said, and meant it. It was about 11:30. The library was open ‘til midnight most nights, at least during the school year.
“It better be. I have got to p.” She didn’t want to finish saying the word. “I don’t even want to think about it if it’s not.”
Once we were away from the street, the paths through the campus were less brightly lit, and we passed ragged shrubs that stood waist–high and manicured hedges that held swaths of deep shadow. Of course I know it’s easier with male equipment, and even so I’d have been a little shy about doing it here, right in the middle of the campus, unless I really needed to. But Debbie’s need certainly seemed extreme, and it’s not like she’d be hobbled with her pants bunched up around her knees. She was wearing a dress; she could just step a little way off the path and slide out of her panties, yes? Let them fall to her ankles and then step out of them completely, or she could even pull them a little to one side, just enough to expose herself, and still look fully dressed. She could squat, hidden in the darkness, relieving herself in secret. Or just hunker down. Hell, she could even stand with her feet apart, short skirt held up just those couple of inches to be out of the way. Couldn’t she? But she only walked on, holding tightly to my elbow. The sidewalk became a long winding path around one end of the campus pond.
Here half a dozen gnarled maple trees loomed, casting enormous shadows, and where the ground dipped down to the edge of the water, a blanket of total darkness concealed everything. I knew there were park benches down there, overlooking the water, but even from twenty yards away they were invisible.
I thought of her sitting in one of them, perched forward on the edge of her seat, pissing quietly into the grass while I stood guard nearby. She stopped here, legs crossed, holding my hand tightly and looked longingly down into the blackness. Was she imagining the same thing? “Oh God,” Debbie said, her voice barely a whisper. “I want to pee right here. And I can’t. If I were wearing a skirt, or even pants–anything but this–I’d just go do it down by those trees.” She took hold of my elbow for balance and stood on one foot to grind her thighs together. I could hardly breathe.
“Your dress?” I asked. What she’d said about a skirt made no sense.
“It’s not really a dress. It’s more like a leotard.” And then she let go of me and stepped back to lift her skirt–that tiny, fluttering skimpy skirt that had so tantalized me all evening, always on the edge of revelation. Her gesture invited me to stare openly at her crotch. I was caught off guard and I blinked, my mouth open, but all she exposed to me was more of the same fabric as the rest of the dress. It was one piece, almost seamless, the skirt a mere decorative fringe like I’d imagined the cheerleader’s outfits in my high school–very sexy in what it showed, but downright virginal in the access it didn’t provide.
“Don’t leotards have snaps?” I said. A stupid, stupid thing to say. Of course this one didn’t, or she’d have undone them by now.
“I wish,” she said with feeling. “It’s not stretchy enough to just pull it aside, either. I tried once.”
That sounded like it had a story behind it. Another time, maybe I would have made some casual–sounding remark, hoping to draw her out into telling the story–just an amusing anecdote about an awkward moment she’d once had that would leave me quivering with secret arousal–but right now I was way too caught up in the present situation. “The only way to go in this dress is to take it completely off. I’ve got to have a bathroom.”
We walked on in silence. She held onto my arm again, her body pressed close against me, hunched over a little, and mincing her steps. We walked quickly but didn’t quite run. Her fingers dug into my elbow. As we approached the library, there were lights shining from some of the windows, but not from the entrance. She let go of me and ran ahead to try the first glass door, then the second, but when she found the revolving door fixed and unyielding, it was clear the building was locked up for the night. As I caught up with her, she was standing with her legs crossed (good muscle definition on those lovely, athletic thighs) and with both hands clutching her crotch (reaching up again under that oh–so–short skirt), bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet (breasts jiggling unfettered inside the dress). I was drooling inside my jeans, leaving a little wet smear up by the waistband of my underwear. Debbie’s brow was furrowed with distress, and as I got close I could hear her whispering, “Damn it Goddamn it fuck Goddamn it.” She grabbed my hand, spun me around and hauled me after her again as soon as I reached her. “The Campus Center,” she declared, not even admitting the question of whether it would be open.
It wasn’t, but we walked all the way around the building and tried every entrance before giving up. There was a service entrance–a ramp down to a door at basement level with a drain in the cement floor at the bottom. It was hidden from every direction except straight up along the slope of the ramp, but it was brightly lit. The voices in the distance had gone silent but we still knew there were–or could be–people wandering the campus even at this hour, even at midsummer. She spared only the briefest glance to the floor drain but didn’t even slow down. We came round to the front of the building again without a word and kept walking in the direction of my car.
She was almost dancing now, hopping and skipping along as we neared the far edge of the campus. We passed Anthropology (tall yew bushes to either side of the entrance, not quite thick enough to hide behind) Public Health (a loading dock recessed into the back of the building, shadowed and dark but not really hidden). I was shaking now, trembling or shivering from the coolness of the night, I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, couldn’t help watching her bottom as she skipped ahead of me, or looking down at the shadow between her soft breasts when she took my arm. They swayed as she wriggled and squirmed beside me (the warmth of her body pressed up against mine) and bounced as we hurried down a short flight of steps. My breath came in a ragged gasp. Did she notice? Could she tell how desperate my arousal was? Or was she too distracted by the needs of her own body?
We were at the far edge of the campus now, with another street to cross to get to the parking lots. There was some traffic here, and as we stood for just those couple of seconds waiting for cars to pass, Debbie was incapable of standing still. She squirmed blatantly, twisting her body in obvious urgent need, holding me again for balance. “Oh God,” she whispered in my ear, “Oh God, oh God, I can’t hold it, I have to piss so bad.” A gap in traffic and we ran together across the street and into the first of the parking lots. We raced past a dozen parked cars to the gap in the back fence where the paved lot opened onto the gravel “peripheral” lot. A big yellow sign said simply, “P.” (P for peripheral, though Debbie probably had the same thought I did when she saw it). The P lot had only a single streetlight near the back, but between that and the lights behind us, the wide and mostly empty lot was clearly illuminated. Beyond the gravel and across a swath of untidy grass we could see the lights of the highway. Trees and brambly hedge bordered the lot on either side. My car stood all by itself near the lamppost, haloed by the ghostly light. The crunch of gravel under our feet seemed loud against the distant hum of traffic on the highway.
I unlocked the passenger door for Debbie, who stood almost doubled over, grinding and gyrating beside me. She reached under her skirt again, gripping herself tightly in that gesture that grown women almost never allow themselves when anyone can see. My hard–on felt like it had become a permanent feature of my body. She slid into the seat while I ran around the car to unlock my side. As I turned the key, she moaned, “Oh God I have to go!” She bounced in the seat once or twice, and then sat with her hands in her crotch and her legs opening and closing over and over again like scissors.
I put the car in gear, but just as we were starting to move, she said, “Stop.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but very clear. “I can’t hold it. I’ll never make it all the way home.” Debbie’s house was ten minutes away in one direction; mine was fifteen minutes in the other. “I’m going to piss all over your car if I try.” Now she sounded almost like she was going to cry. She looked out the window at all the exposed space around us. “I can’t take my dress off. There’s nowhere, but I can’t hold it. I have to pee. I’ll just, I’ll just get out and…”
I was almost ready to cry myself; I was just so overcome with emotion–lust and tenderness and desperate helpless love. “Wait,” I said.
“I can’t hold it.”
“Right over there.” I pointed out the windshield at a line of scrub along the edge of the lot. “I can’t wait.”
“Just on the other side of the trees, there’s a spot, a place that’s private enough.”
“I can’t. I’d be completely naked. I’ll just get out and I’ll just wet my dress.”
“It’s totally dark and totally hidden.” I took her hand in mine and held it tightly, keeping her in the car. “It’s, trust me. Hold on for just one more minute.”
I had found the spot I was describing a few months earlier, late one night in early spring when I had needed to take a piss. I had intended just to walk up to the bushes and unzip with my back to the parking lot, but when I’d gotten there I’d found a little gap in the undergrowth, and when I’d stepped into the gap there had been a footbridge. The stream it crossed was little more than a drainage ditch, but the bridge was solid and graceful, six feet wide with handrails. It had seemed magical, like a passage to fairyland, though the place it emerged was just the athletic practice fields. The ground there was lower than the rest of the campus by a good ten feet, and the road (the one Debbie and I had just crossed) was at the top of a steep embankment. The headlights of passing cars swept high over my head but left me standing in darkness so complete that I couldn’t count my fingers at arm’s length. It had been mischievous joy then to open my fly to the night and stand there, facing out towards acres and acres of open lawn, penis in hand, pee arcing toward the stars, a secret rain falling silent and invisible on the grass.
“Hurry,” Debbie commanded. I let go her hand and put the car in gear again. I was pretty sure I remembered the exact spot, and I drove the twenty yards to the edge of the lot, and parked when my headlights picked out a likely shadow. Debbie was out of the car before I was, running up to stand in front of the tangle of briars and prickle bushes. She was hopped one foot to the other, graceful and sensual as a dancer. She turned to me as I caught up with her. She had a double fistful of the fabric of her dress now, yanking it hard so that it dug deep into the slit of her vulva. (Yes, I looked, though I tried not to.) “Where?” she pleaded.
“There’s a bridge across the stream,” I said. I turned away from her and ran along the line of undergrowth. “I think it’s right here.”
“You think?” Her voice was almost a whimper. She was so close behind me that I could feel all the tension in her body, quivering, full to bursting and about to give way. I couldn’t tell in the dark if the gap I’d found was the right one–God, I hoped so. Then the crunch of gravel underfoot became the blessed hollow sound of wooden boards. I felt her touch me back, holding onto me for guidance as we ran blindly into pitch–dark. The grass, as we came out into the field, was wet with heavy dew. The sky was overcast, featureless, lit orangey–gray from the sodium vapor lights of the campus. She stepped away from me and raised her arms to unfasten the little hook–and–eye at the back of her neck. The reflected light from the clouds made the darkness a little less profound than I expected, and though her dress and hair all but vanished into the blackness, the pale skin of her legs was just visible. She was dancing again, raising one knee to grind her thighs together, then hopping to the other foot, and then she stood still with her hips wriggling and her knees pressed together as she fumbled with the zipper at her back.
“Help me,” she called softly, “Oh God, please.”
To this day I don’t know if she was praying for a few more seconds endurance or simply asking for help with her zipper. I assumed the latter and, stepping up behind her, I laid the fingers of my left hand gently between her shoulders and grasped the tiny zipper pull in my right. She squirmed even harder as it slid down the whole sinuous length of her spine. My penis was so hard it almost hurt, and my knees were starting to shake from the effort of maintaining a cool exterior. I kept the fabric of the dress tented away from her skin– scrupulous not to touch her more than was absolutely necessary. I may have been holding my breath. The skin tingled down the whole front of my body, especially my thighs. Before I was even done unzipping her she had shrugged her shoulders out of the dress. I let go and took a half–step back as frantically she pulled her arms loose from her sleeves and then slithered the dress and whatever she had for underwear down off of her hips (the roundness of her bottom only a softer shadow among shadows) and then down past her knees. She was barely more than a silhouette, a slightly paler black against the blackness beyond, but my eyes drank in the sight of her whole body, from the sweep of her hair over one shoulder all the way down the whole writhing form of her to where her ankles disappeared into the damp and unkempt grass. She lifted one foot, off–balance for a second as she pulled dress and panties loose from her sneaker, then lifted the other foot. My heart was suddenly in my throat as she turned unexpectedly towards me, trusting (I suppose) her invisibility in the darkness. She held the dress up in front of her but at arm’s length, and when I didn’t immediately understand that she wanted me to take it from her, I could see her eyes widen in the darkness. She whispered urgently, “Hold this,” and simply pushed the bundle into my arms. We were touching like that, the tips of her fingers just brushing against my arms, when I heard the first rush of her water hissing to the ground at our feet. I gathered the bundle of her dress against me and she bent forward, doubling over and crossing her legs. I saw just a suggestion of her breasts hanging free. She must have grimaced, may have bitten her lip, but it was too dark to read her expression. The sound of the rushing river stopped, and then she turned and ran, wearing only her sneakers in the dewy grass. She only made it about three steps before she stopped again and just stood, spreading her knees wide, and I could hear her pouring, just a sprinkle at first and then gushing louder and still louder into what was clearly a deepening puddle in the grass. She stood like that for a minute or more while I stared, blinking into the darkness, trying to see her more clearly. The stream tapered to a trickle, and then stopped, and then there was another quick spurt. Then she walked a few more steps away from me and dropped slowly to her knees and sat down to rest her bottom on the grass between her feet. It must have tickled. I guessed she was peeing even more, though I couldn’t hear it now. I hugged her dress tight against me as I watched her. She had never actually asked me to look away, and it really didn’t occur to me to do so until she began to get back to her feet.
She moved on tiptoes now, slinking up to me from one side as I looked away to the other. That moment felt as fragile as glass. I was panting for breath. I felt raw, like I had no skin, as naked and shy as Debbie under the open night sky. One touch, I think, is all it would have taken and I’d have come in my pants. A friendly hug and I’d have covered her belly with my overflowing desire, and then most likely I’d never have seen her again.
Our friendship/relationship whatever–was not ready for this. She must be feeling horribly overexposed, perhaps more than she could deal with and ever feel comfortable in my presence again. Without a word, she rummaged through the bundle in my arms to find her panties, and I dared not breathe. She stepped away where I couldn’t see her. Blotting herself dry with them? Or maybe toweling herself off was more like it. She looked like she’d peed all down her legs, might have even soaked her shoes. A moment later she was back, and there was a bit of awkward fumbling as I tried to hand the dress to her without looking directly at her. I could hear her behind me, pulling the dress on and closing the zipper. (She didn’t ask for help this time.)
Fully clothed, she came up to me again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry. God, I can’t believe I.” She sounded almost like she was going to cry.
“Shhhh,” I interrupted. “It’s OK. It’s fine. You’re fine.” And then I did take her in my arms–I had to–and I just held her. We stood very still, not kissing, not talking, just holding on for comfort. I was trying to keep my body turned a little to one side so that my hard–on wouldn’t be so obvious, but without much success. She had to have been able to feel it against her belly. She said nothing, though, and after a few minutes she let herself relax and rested her head against my shoulder, breathing quietly. I felt like I was riding my desire like a surfer rides a wave, a swell that carries me along, but still far from the shallows where it will crest into a breaker.
At last, she murmured, “We should go.” Slowly, we let go one another and turned to walk back toward the footbridge. She took my hand for the walk, but in the car we didn’t touch each other as I drove her home. I allowed myself only an occasional glance at her bare thighs. We talked–about the lab work, about her housemate’s cat–anything at all to let the vivid scene under the night sky fade from memory. In her driveway, she turned and hugged me before getting out, and I kissed her once lightly, then lingeringly. She squeezed my hand as she opened the door.
“I’ll call you tomorrow?” I said.
“Yeah. Or if I’m out I’ll call you when I get home.” And she got out of the car and went inside.
My hard–on ached. I wriggled around in my seat trying to make it more comfortable, but before I pulled out of her driveway I had to unzip and give it room to stand up. It was almost half an hour’s drive back to my house. I thought about driving all that way home and then running upstairs to my room. Late as it was, there would still be housemates awake, hanging out in the kitchen or playing the stereo in the living room. It would be awkward to rush past them, trying to wave them off casually with my penis throbbing in my pants.
I thought about going out into the back yard instead. It was big, fairly private, especially in the dark. Hedges on all sides, no neighbors very close. No, too weird.
Instead I took the turnoff back towards the campus. I retraced my path along the road that ringed the campus, and parked the car once again in the gravel “P” lot. In the lamplight that fell across my lap, the tip of my penis gleamed with another bead of slippery wetness. I tucked it inside, pulled my underwear up over it but didn’t even try to zip my fly. My pulse was racing as I stepped out of the car. Closing the door seemed very loud in the almost total silence. I felt like a little boy, mischievous and scared, as I walked quietly to the gap in the hedges, but I breathed easier once I was hidden in the darkness that overhung the footbridge. I stopped to loosen myself there, unbuckling and sliding my pants down just enough for my penis to stand out straight in the cool air. With it bobbing loose in front of me, I walked silently out onto the grass again. There, in perfect solitude, I took hold of myself and lightly stroked the skin of the underside of my shaft with just the tips of my fingers, stopping myself only just in time. I took a deep breath and walked further out into the field, to about the spot where Debbie had lost control of herself. I crouched down and ran the palm of my hand over the grass until it was thoroughly wet with dew and perhaps with a little of Debbie. This I mixed with another drop of that slippery drool from the tip of my penis and then, standing there beneath that same vast sky under which Debbie had let go all her dignity, I let go all of mine.
William