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The First Warm Day in May (Or, Pissing in an Adirondack Chair)


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A Sequel to The First Warm Day in April

Lunch with a friend who knows nothing of my plans for later in the day: Caesar salad, tomato soup, talk about family and writing, a good balance of bragging and self-deprecation, the oil of most friendships. I order a large iced tea, drink it and a couple glasses ice water, two more than usual, in anticipation of fun times in the back yard on the first warm day of May. I am not going back to work after lunch.

As we get ready to leave, I feel the itch and burn. I always go before even getting near a car but decide instead to drive home in a state of semi-desperation. Halfway home my jeans begin to dampen from spurts and leaks I cannot contain. They relieve the urge enough so I don’t wet the car seat, which I have no desire to do.  

The key, of course, struggles to find its way into the lock. Another spurt or two in my jeans.

Almost before the door’s shut, I shed all but panties and T before fast walking through the kitchen, out the back door, and into what is a large yard for a small old house, a yard surrounded by a laurel hedge tall enough to keep anyone but a gentle giant from looking in, planted many years ago for privacy but without knowing it would be for this.

The other houses at the back and sides are only a few feet away. There are second story windows and gaps in the hedge, so I’ve had to search for a spot for my Adirondack that will not offend anyone’s line of sight. As soon as I sit the t-shirt comes off. All that is left are panties and pale winter skin, as if some young vampire (perhaps one who wets as she bites) has had her way with me. A stream of piss bubbles up through the nylon like a little fountain before re-entering the briefs and running down my leg to the seat of the chair then the grass.

I slip my hand between crotch and my briefs to enjoy the dampness of skin and hair, and that’s enough for now. After the piss cools, I pull off my Hanes to kneel naked in the grass, bare ass to the sun, to take these photos, front first, then back –

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I have a cigarette, down a lemon La Croix and an instant coffee, eat a piece or two of chocolate, put on sunscreen, lean back, put my feet up, enjoy the warmth of Pacific Northwest sun on bleached skin that will burn before it tans.

I piss myself three more times in the next hour or so, the second time, naked, legs crossed and to my surprise a little yellow lake forms in the V beneath my crotch. I slowly part my legs and the little lake drains. I wipe the piss from my thighs, where it's merged with sunscreen to make a creamy lotion.

Fifteen minutes later, I soak the panties and the chair again. The photo below only captures the damp remains, but I still like it.

Next time, I will try our old white wooden Adirondack instead.

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I take a quick dip in our old two-person hot tub to rinse off the lotion and piss. I shower and pull on soft black running shorts, a t-shirt and nothing else. In an hour I’ll get dressed for dinner with my partner/spouse/friend, G., who says of my new interests – “We’re evolving, I guess.”

But G. has no idea quite how far I’ve evolved and would be more than a little dismayed at the way I’ve spent my afternoon, and this, I think, is OK, for the gap between knowing and secrecy is central to who we are. To be fully known, to ourselves or others, is a kind of death, while to be partly known, and not despised, to be seen and not cast out, is perhaps what makes a fierce and gentle fetish an act of erotic grace. (This last is philosophically pretentious I know, but perversion cums in many different forms.)

I return, on an impulse, to the still damp chair and wet my dark dry shorts.

I leave them and the Hanes in the sun to dry, then pull back on the jeans I wet on the ride home. They are almost dry now, but if I look closely I can see the slightest outline of a soft stain where yellow and blue merged. Beneath my Levis, thin black lace.

That night, as I sit with G. at a performance, a slight musty smell -- some combination of sun and grass and pee -- rises from my crotch. Can anyone notice it? Like the chair in the back yard, I want to be on the edge of sight and smell, or let’s admit it, a bit over that edge, as long as I don’t offend.

I’ll wear these jeans the next day until on a walk after dinner I try to create an inconspicuous patch of wetness between my legs. Failing that, a half-block from home, no one in sight, I let loose. Drenched from crotch to knees, I am almost there, but then a Camry appears out of nowhere and before I can cross the street to the porch it oh so politely stops to let me go. Once I do it does not drive on, but parks in front of my house.

I cannot see the driver, but I am pretty sure it’s the matronly mother of the cute young wife who lives next door with her cute young husband.

I use my sweater to partially hide the unmistakable stains, but not so much that as I enter the house I can wonder how much my young neighbor’s mother saw of my humiliation, if she, perhaps, had noted the unfortunate accident I’d had on my walk, looking, then looking away, then looking again at me and my jeans, more curious than she wants to admit.

 

 

Edited by sunglasses
minor edits (see edit history)
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On 8-5-2018 at 7:47 AM, sunglasses said:

To be fully known, to ourselves or others, is a kind of death, while to be partly known, and not despised, to be seen and not cast out, is perhaps what makes a fierce and gentle fetish an act of erotic grace.

PREACH! 

Love the balance you found in non-offending carelessness. What a great way to spend a day.

 

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