sex, lies, and .jpgs

Junkbuzzed

July 30th, 2008 at 12:42 pm

Taking the Piss Out of the Internet, One Golden Shower at a Time

» by The Snarling Misanthrope in: Fun New Sexual Trends

This may be hard to believe, but I was not born a sex god. Most of this was accomplished through a Ganges of experience, facial hair, and of course a potpourri of pharmaceuticals. Pharmaceuticals not only enhance (and exaggerate) all experience, they also soften the white-hot hues of humiliation. Unfortunately, for this particular tale, I wasn’t fucked up on anything. I was just fucked up. So I have no excuse.

Humiliation, by definition, always begins with the girl. It is one of those air-tight facts of life; where there is shame, there is always a girl nearby (if not a priest).

So. There was a girl. She was a nice girl, if that sort of thing matters. I met her off teh internets more than a decade ago; she wanted a spanking; I wanted a girl who wanted a spanking. Our coming together wasn’t much more obtuse than that. It was all instinct and panting. We continued to see each other on and off for a few months; the time-honored art of Play Partners, which is like FWB, except with more bruising.

Much to my surprise, she looked back at me mid-coitus and uttered a nigh-magical coupling of words: “I want you to pee on me.”

Truth be told, my initial reaction was one of revulsion. I was at that time, in my earlyish-20s, a burgeoning young sadist, and still coming to grips with the paradigm of sadomasochism vs. misogyny. Thus, the idea of peeing on a girl seemed like some sort of irrevocable line-crossing. I politely demurred.

But it kept coming up. Over the next few weeks, she began to apply a bit of pressure to my emotional bladder, alternately squeezing and coaxing and reassuring that it would be okay.

‘Are you gonna drink it?’ I asked.

‘Probably,’ she shrugged.

I excused myself for a moment; locked myself in the bathroom, and proceeded to do an extended heebie-jeebie dance. You know the dance – the forced-withdrawal jig of a junkie who thinks he’s covered with spiders. Or pee.

So I did what any reasonable young sadist would do. I consulted the internet. Surely Usenet would provide a suitable answer. Which in this case tended to read something like: ‘of course you must pee on her – she is your submissive bitch, and thus you must mark her like territory!’

If there is one thing I can impart upon you, dear reader (citation needed), it would be to never take advice from Gor masters. Srsly. No good can come of it. It’s like trying to woo a southerner with a Costco-sized jug of Duke’s mayonnaise. It might be the right thing to do on a pavlovian scale, but it’s still wrong in every other way.

The naggings continued, and eventually, between her and the Gor masters, I started to crack. I began to look at it like one of those feed-a-child commercials on TV. ‘For the money you throw away every day, you could feed a starving child!’ Well, I already peed – and every day, too. All I’d really have to change the trajectory – toilet to girl. And in doing so, I was going to affect the life of someone less fortunate than me. And I was gonna get some sex out of it – which is a pretty good investment return when you think about it.

I planned a romantic dinner of fried pork chops and pudding cups. Because if you’re gonna go there, you might as well go with guns blazing. We ate, we drank; I happily guzzled down as much Gatorade as I could stomach, hoping that maybe the pee would pick up some of its sweetness.

And thus zero hour struck. She scurried off to the bathroom, whereupon she disrobed and hopped into the bathtub. I tossed back a few more ounces of Gatorade and beheld her. She grinned wildly at me, barely able to contain her enthusiasm. I imagined the smiling faces of those starving children as an airplane full of ham sandwiches lands in the village square as I shut the bathroom door, half-afraid of any potential cat burglars finding us out.

I tried to think of something appropriately dominating to say, but all that came out was ‘I’m gonna pee on you. And you’re gonna like it.’ Which I suppose is moderately better than saying ‘I’m gonna do a tinkle on you!’ But probably not by much.

‘Okay!’ she chirped. She was like a kid in a candy store, except that all the candy had been replaced with pee. And she was totally buying.

And onto the christening. I climbed into the bathtub, standing over her. She looked up at me with eyes a-dew, her lips partitioned into a patiently waiting O. I considered my grim task as I unzipped my UTI jeans, pulling my cock out and calculating the arc of my stream. I relaxed myself with a shallow exhale and willed the peeing to begin.

And I froze.

Nary a drop was spilt; the O shape of her mouth drew into more of a question mark. I shimmied my hips, let out the sort of straining sound that one hears from the stalls at a truck-stop restroom, and concentrated. Really hard.

Nada.

She was starting to look a little concerned. A tug on my cock, kinda forceful, as if to say ‘let’s go – You’re A Nation!’

It just wasn’t happening.

For some reason, I kept hearing the disembodied voice of John McEnroe screaming at me – ‘You can not be serious!’ I tensed myself more tautly than the awkwardness in the air between us, and I squeezed out everything I could.

Which in this case was a fart as boisterous as an air-raid alarm. Let me tell you now that this is the antithesis of hot. The O of her lips sagged into an uncomfortable ‘Uh’.

It was serious. It was seriously not happening. Stage fright. Performance anxiety. Pee-impotence.

By now she was bored and looking toward her pile of clothes.

I wasn’t gun-shy; I was pee-shy.

And so we did what any couple would do under such awkward circumstances: we played Trivial Pursuit. She left a short while later, never to return.

As soon as the door shut behind her, I scampered off to the bathroom and peed harder than I’d ever peed before. It was a full-body pee, as if all my veins, arteries, and cholesterol deposits were full of pee, now emptying out in a golden spurt of such magnitude and vehemence that I was half-afraid of chipping the porcelain.

I’d never before experienced a calamity of impotence (that particular nut-bar of humiliation would come later) or any other sort of performance-anxiety: I was a mid-20s boy; the world was my cum-dumpster.

But it was definitely not my pee-cup.

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