peegirl

I met her through a dating app. After exchanging a few messages, we met up for drinks at a bar halfway between our apartments. After one beer, it was clear we had some chemistry. We ordered another round, and lingered, talking, for hours. We discussed books, politics, the good and bad and awful aspects of living in the city we lived in. We had a lot of the same ideas. She was incredibly well-read, and quick with a joke. I felt boring by comparison, but she seemed to be enjoying herself with me.

When we finally decided to call it a night — we both had work the next day — I walked her to the bus stop. As we arrived, her bus was rounding the corner on the next block, headed our way.

“Awesome,” she said. “I hate waiting for buses when I have to pee.” She did a little squirm and crossed her legs to emphasize her point.

“You could have gone at the bar!” I replied, laughing, hoping I sounded nonchalant.

“I almost never pee in public bathrooms, especially in bars,” she said, smiling. “They’re never clean, and I have a tiny bit of OCD. So, that means a lot of full-bladder bus rides for me.”

The bus pulled up alongside us, and the door squeaked open. “Bye,” she said. She squeezed my arm. “I had fun. Lets do it again.” And, with that, she stepped onto the bus. I walked home, excited about the night — and more excited by her parting comments than I should have been

*    *    *

For the rest of that week and the next, she was out of town for work and then to attend a friend’s wedding. We traded a few texts, and set a second date, this time at a new restaurant that had opened up near my house. We planned to meet up at a dive bar down the block beforehand.

Again, we had a great time. As our glasses emptied, I noticed she was shifting back and forth on her seat and alternate flapping her legs and crossing them tightly. It was, I was nearly certain, a sign that her bladder was again full.

At one point, she laughed at something I said and slammed her legs together, bending forward slightly. “Lets go to the restaurant,” she said. “I’ve got to pee, and I don’t want to bother with the bathrooms here.”

“Why?” I asked.

“A place like this never has clean bathrooms. I don’t even want to find out if it does, because that would mean touching the doorknob.”

“Ah,” I replied, and downed the last gulp of my beer. I decided to be bold. “This public bathroom aversion you have seems like it might cause you some issues.”

“You have no idea,” she said with a laugh.

“I hope the bus ride home after the last time I saw you wasn’t too uncomfortable,” I said.

She smiled. “I almost exploded,” she said.

My heart raced at those words. Almost? Exploded? I was torn between wanting details and not wanting to be a weirdo. But she seemed to think talking about pee was perfectly acceptable, normal. In fact, all of her pee-related comments so far were volunteered with a little smile.

“That would have been bad,” I offered, noncommittally.

“It would have been really bad,” she said. “Now lets go!” She stood, pressing her legs together. She kept one crossed in front of the other and swayed from side to side as I paid. As I struggled to put the change in my wallet — I’ve never been good at getting dollar bills into a wallet, for some reason — she smiled and waved her hands in a hurry-up motion.

I laughed, pretending to only now notice her tense posture — pretending I hadn’t been watching her out of the corner of my eye the whole time.

“That bad, huh?”

“I was at the park all afternoon with my friend, and drank a bunch of water. I had to pee for an hour before I even got here. And, of course, the beer didn’t help.”

We hurried down the street to the restaurant, which served a fancy-ish take on Korean food. We had to wait for our table for a moment when we arrived, and she leaned against the wall, arms and legs crossed, with an expression on her face that I read as “I am uncomfortable but amused by how ridiculous this situation is.” When we were eventually seated, I nodded my head to the left and said, “I think I saw the bathroom over —”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m hungry! I don’t want to go in there and miss the waiter.”

She studied the menu carefully, all the while shifting her torso back and forth. I assumed her legs remained tightly crossed beneath the table; I could see one of her feet jiggling.

After she had decided what she wanted to eat and selected a bottle from the wine list, we picked up our conversation from the bar — we were both fans of the midwest living on the east coast, and were discussing the merits of various cities — while we waited for the waiter. She danced her sitting pee dance all the while, at one point cautioning me not to make her laugh.

Finally, the waiter materialized, and she gave him her order. As soon as he departed she said, “ok, it’s time,” and walked with a rapid, stiff-legged stride toward the bathroom. I studied the restaurant a bit, then glanced over in the direction she had walked. There was a line, apparently. She was leaning against the wall, tapping her hands anxiously against her thighs. She saw my gaze, made eye contact, and put her hand between her legs, gripping herself and bending over slightly, mouthing a silent scream for my benefit.

*    *    *

Three hours and a bottle and a half of wine later, I struggled with the keys to my apartment. As we walked in, holding hands, she nuzzled my neck, I turned to face her, and one thing lead to another. We collapsed on the couch, kissing, and kept that up for awhile. Momentum was building. Shirts came off. Her hand went into my pants, and I struggled to undo her black jeans. When I got my hand between her thighs, she was wet — really wet. Was that all from a good conversation and a bit of kissing? Or was there something else?

She told me, as we shed our clothes, that she didn’t want to have sex that night — she had a rule about waiting until the fifth date. But we kept busy in other ways for an hour or two. We eventually pulled ourselves apart. She laid back against my couch in her white bra and underwear — simple Jockey-brand briefs — I in my now-heavily-rumpled boxer shorts.

“This is hot,” she said, “but I’ve got to pee. All that wine. And beer. And water.” She patted her stomach. “Where’s your bathroom?” she asked. And then, raising an eyebrow, asked, “Is it clean?”

“I knew you might come over, and you had mentioned that you were a ‘tiny bit OCD.’ So I cleaned it today,” I said. “It’s sparkling. We could have eaten our dinner off the floor.”

She laughed. “Oh my god, don’t make me laugh!” she groaned, her hand gripping her crotch over her cotton underwear. “I warned you about that! For me, a full bladder and humor don’t mix.”

I decided to level with her. I had just gotten out of a relationship in which my partner wasn’t comfortable talking about pee. This girl, clearly, was. And I was a little tipsy. And we were sitting there in our underwear, sweaty from a make-out session. So, out with it, I thought.

“I think it’s hot when someone has to pee,” I said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.

“Well, that’s fantastic. Because, as you’ve probably notice, I end up holding my pee a lot. And I really like you.”

That was it? No discomfort? No sideways looks? Just, “that’s fantastic”? This was extremely exciting.

I kissed her, and pretty soon we were all over each other again. I put my hand between her legs, and again felt wetness. I was sure — this was new wetness. She broke away from the kiss.

“Um, I may have peed a little. When you made me laugh. Sorry! I warned you!”

“I love it when a woman with a full bladder pees a little,” I said breathlessly.

She laughed again. “Well, great!”

More kissing.

“Would it turn you on to know that I also peed when you made me laugh at the bar? And again at the restaurant?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “That would turn me on quite a bit.”

“It was just a little bit,” she continued. “But it helped me hold it for longer. I don’t really mind when I pee a little bit. I’d rather have a little bit of my own pee get on me than use a dirty bathroom and potentially sit in someone else’s pee. Sometimes, when I’m out with my ladies, I’ll hold my pee for hours and leak more than once.” She paused thoughtfully while rocking gently from side to side. “Though, I guess I also leaked more than once tonight. I was really full.”

“Oh my god,” I gasped, my eyes flicking between hers and the front of her underwear, where there was a hint of the wet spot I held felt between her now-tightly clasped legs. I couldn’t take much more of this kind of talk.

But she continued. “And would it turn you on to know that I was holding myself when I got home after our first date?” She was sitting up, eyes sparkling, enjoying what she was doing to me. “I almost leaked as I was walking up the stairs to my apartment. I had to stop in order to keep it in. I had my hand between my legs, like this.” Again, she gripped her slightly damp crotch and rubbed her legs together. “When I got in the door, I ran to the bathroom. My roommate tried to ask me about my day, and at first I crossed my legs and tried to be polite, but then I told her she had to wait because I was literally on the verge of pissing in my clothing. She just laughed, because I come home that way all the time.”

“What you’re saying is going to make me cum.”

“Amazing,” she said. “If a full bladder turns you on, I never have to worry about mentioning that I have one. Not that I ever worry about it anyway. Now, tell me where your bathroom is, before I get your stuff wet.”

(Let’s pray this actually works this time T_T, it’s better on mute bc/ i kinda forget to turn off the show I had been binge watching lmao )