It was a Friday night and I had decided to stay in. I was exhausted, and could use some time to myself. So I was sitting at my computer, catching up on email and picking at some leftover takeout when I got her text.
“Hey, I think I’m in your neighborhood,” it read.
I hadn’t seen her in a week… or maybe two. After confessing that her proclivity for holding a full bladder lined up nicely with my proclivity for watching women hold full bladders, we had seen each other twice more. Neither time involved any desperation, but both were enjoyable and emotionally rewarding. Both ended with some kissing and removal of clothes. Our relationship seemed to be headed somewhere.
And then she was off on a work trip for a week, and I was swamped with my own work for another. That brought us to today.
“Yeah?” I texted back. “Where?”
“3rd ave and 1st,” came the reply, a minute or two later.
We had vague plans to hang out this weekend but hadn’t hammered out anything specific. She said she’d get in touch Saturday after spending Friday out with her girlfriends. That night out, apparently, had brought her nearby.
“What are you up to?” I asked
“Drinking,” she texted back with a winky face. I asked her where and she told me the name of the bar. She was right: It was a block and a half from my apartment.
Another text: “I think this bartender is hitting on me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I dunno. He keeps giving me free drinks.”
And a follow up: “He keeps giving *all of us* free drinks. But he keeps talking right at me.”
“Are you into it?” I ask.
“Nah. He think he’s so cool,” she texted back. “He’s not so cool.”
I snorted with laughter and turned back to what I was doing. I was plowing through my email inbox a good 30 minutes later when another text came.
My heart skipped. Something about that phrasing. I waited to see if she would send a follow up, but she didn’t.
“Yeah?” I sent back noncommittally.
“My bladder is brimming,” she replied. That was a weird enough way to say it that I knew she was trying to get my attention.
“You should probably pee,” I texted.
“I can’t! I’ve explained this to you!” She texted back. “Bar bathrooms are too dirty!”
A pause. Then another text.
“All of my friends think I’m ridiculous. I’m dancing !!”
She had my full attention at this point.
“They know you have to pee?” I asked, dumbly.
The replies came in quick succession: “Yes! I keep telling them!” “They’re like, go!” “And I’m like, I can’t! You know I can’t.” “So I’m just standing here dancing around.” “Dribbling pee.”
That last bit was too much. I’m a sucker for leaking. I had to see her in her wet underwear. It was absolutely necessary.
“You could come use my bathroom, you know,” I replied.
“I suppose I could,” she replied.
“It’s very clean. And it would be great to see you,” I said.
“And I suppose my current state does nothing to sweeten the deal?” she texted back.
“I have to admit, it crossed my mind,” I replied.
“Luckily for you, I don’t really have a choice,” she replied. “I’m going to be a bit damp by the time I get home.”
“I thought you said you were already a bit damp.”
“I may have been exaggerating for emphasis. Or maybe I wasn’t. You’ll just have to wait to find out.” Then, another winky face.
It was only 20 minutes later that my buzzer rang. I opened the door and she stood there, one leg crossed over the other beneath a black jean skirt that ran midway down her thighs. Her tight white shirt looked like it might actually be the upper half of a leotard. She was swaying from side to side, one leg crossed tightly over the other. Her face had a devilish grin.
“Thanks,” she replied, slowly. She shimmied into the apartment, thighs close together.
“Well,” I said. “You know where the bathroom is.”
“I’m starving,” she said, ignoring me. “What do you have to eat?”
“Um.” I was surprised, and pleased, by how this was developing. “I have some leftovers. Leftover Thai food, I think. Or, what else…?” I opened my refrigerator door. There wasn’t a lot. “Or I could make you… eggs?”
“Thai sounds great. What are you up to?”
I emptied the food from its take-out container onto a plate and popped it in the microwave, extremely aware that she was standing, leaning against my kitchen counter, swaying, trapped inside what was probably a leotard, and that that leotard may have a pee stain on the crotch. “Just working. Not having anywhere near the kind of fun it seems like you are.”
“Well I’m here now, and I’ve brought the fun. Have anything to drink?”
“Got some beer,” I said, holding one up. “Could open a bottle of wine. Or some whiskey?”
“Whiskey would be great, yeah,” she said.
“Ok. Whiskey and Thai food it is,” I said, plunking some ice cubes into two glasses. I uncorked a bottle, and poured a little over each glass. She let out a low soft sound as the liquid trickled over the cubes, and pushed two fingers against her skirt, over her crotch. I wasn’t sure whether or not that was for my benefit, or a necessity, or both. I held out the glass and she stepped forward to accept it. I put my arm around her, sweeping her into a momentarily awkward kiss that she, after getting over her surprise, returned enthusiastically. I slipped my hands down her back to her hips, which were moving rhythmically in tight little circles beneath her jean skirt.
“Thank you for saving me from peeing myself,” she said into my mouth between kisses, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“Well, I couldn’t just let you explode,” I replied. “Are you… going to do something about your situation?”
“Now that there’s a toilet near by it doesn’t seem as important,” she said, straining credulity. This girl was obviously quite uncomfortable. Then: “Do you have roof access? I want to see what the city looks like from here.”
We stood on my roof looking out over the city. Or, rather, she was looking out over the city. I was looking at her. She was moving constantly: She bent her right leg, dipped, stood up straight, bent her left leg. I tried not to stare.
“How’s the view?” I asked.
I sidled up next to her as she looked out over the city and wrapped my arm around her waist. My right palm settled against her taught belly and I traced my fingers over it through her white shirt/potential onesie.
That made her freak out. She squirmed, turned 270 degrees while staying within my arm, and buried her face in my neck while simultaneously burying her hand in her crotch beneath her black skirt.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” she whispered into my ear. “Don’t you fucking dare tickle me when I’m this full, or get anywhere near my bladder.”
“It was an accident, really,” I lied.
“I don’t believe that at all,” she breathed onto my neck. Things were escalating quickly. She removed her hand from her crotch and instead straddled my leg. Holy shit.
“Tell me,” I said, not believing my luck, terribly aroused, and wanting more. “How did you become someone who lets your bladder get this full on a regular basis?” Stories from one’s past might not be the best way to ride a wave of sexual tension, but I was pretty sure that these details were ones I wanted to hear.
“Well, in high school the bathrooms were awful. So I stopped going.”
“Yes, I just stopped. I started waiting all day rather than sit in pee, or worse.”
“I bet that took some adjusting.”
“From lunchtime on I was squirming. By the time I got home things were in a dangerous place. But I got better and better at holding. My bladder is large. By now, leaks are rare.”
“And because I look so cute in skirts, I have less to worry about than if I were a pants-all-the-time person.”
“Can you explain what you mean by that?” I asked, as if I didn’t get it.
“Well,” she said in a falsely innocent voice, playing along gamely, “It means if I leak it’s not the end of the world.”
I kissed her full on the mouth and she responded eagerly. I held her closer, subtly pressing with my torso against her bladder. I felt her twist, I felt her grip my leg more tightly between hers, I felt her rub against it a bit, and then I felt warmth. She jumped back. I gripped my leg as if she had burned me. There was a quarter-size wet spot on my jeans.
“Did you just pee?” I asked.
“Who knows?” she asked, walking aggressively in place, her voice an octave higher. “I’m wearing a skirt! No one can tell!”
“You’re fucking amazing,” I said.
“Are there any good places to grab another drink around here?” she asked. “Not the place with the annoying bartender. Another place. Somewhere you like. The night is young!”
