jrs1989

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About jrs1989

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  1. jrs1989

    old message boards

    @Anathema Nice. @Bulge_Lover Yes, which is awesome. But there used to be a message board associated with it. "WetBBS" or somesuch. It had been more or less dead for a few years by the time I discovered it, but seemed to have once been a lively and friendly place. Tons of good content, if I remember correctly.
  2. jrs1989

    old message boards

    I remember, maybe a decade ago, browsing through various forums where people described their experiences exploring wetting and desperation. There used to be some great written content out there. One such forum was associated with the Shara & Ger site, another with WetSet. There were others, too. Many of these are in various states of disrepair now or have disappeared from the internet entirely. Did anyone happen to save any older forums?
  3. jrs1989

    a series of errors

    This is a very, very, very good story.
  4. jrs1989

    Just a Normal Guy

    B & C sounds good.
  5. At first, college was hard. I showed up in another state, without friends, and didn’t have a lot of confidence in my ability to make any new ones. On top of that, my roommate and I got off to a bad start. I knew I had to put myself out there in order to find my people. I did a lot of wandering up to other groups of freshmen who already seemed to be fast friends, and attempted to work my way into their conversations. It felt so awkward. But we all just got here, I reminded myself. This is how it works. It was during one such encounter that I first met Jessica. Three people I recognized from my history class were sitting at a picnic table outside. I smelled pot. I was interested. I walked up, sat down, began to listen noncommittally to the conversation. A girl with long brown hair was talking animatedly while the others listened — something about the awkwardness of adjusting to college. A joint was making its way around. Someone passed it to me. I took a hit. Great! New friends. I can handle this college thing after all, I thought. “My roommate is so fucking weird,” one guy said in a somewhat hushed tone, looking around, presumably to see if his roommate was within hearing range. “He doesn’t have any sheets on his bed. He just sleeps face down on the bare mattress.” “Oh, poor guy,” the brown-haired girl said. “He’s probably just not used to taking care of himself, making his own bed.” “You should know how to do that by the time you get to college!” the guy replied. “Also, last night, he just sat alone in our bedroom and drank like, I don’t know, half a handle of vodka. I came home and he was lying on the carpet, blasting metal, the half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand.” We chuckled. I have to admit, I was a bit fixated on this brown-haired girl. The pot wasn’t helping. The sun was shining through her hair, her eyes seemed to be glowing. I watched her laugh at the guy’s story. She was cute. “That’s nothing,” the other guy replied. “My roommate does not stop looking at me. Anytime I look at him, he’s already looking at me. It’s so, so, so creepy. I think he might kill me.” The pot was having its effect on all of us. Everyone was laughing at this point, the brown-haired girl hardest of all. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she gasped. I decided to share. “I came back from the shower yesterday to find my roommate with his pants around his knees, masturbating into a trash can.” True story, unfortunately. “Holy shit,” the roommate of the drunk metalhead said. “That’s weird.” “Not good,” the roommate of the potential serial killer said. “Oh my god, oh my god,” the brown-haired girl cried as tears of laughter streamed down her face. “I think you win, man. You have the worst roommate,” the drunk metalhead’s roommate said. “Oh my god,” the brown-hair girl continued to gasp, doubled over in laughter. “I've gotta pee. I’m going pee. I’m going to pee.” That got my attention. Like any 18-year-old (my roommate certainly included, I guess) I had an overactive sex drive and, unlike many 18-year-olds, a particular interest in pee. “I’m peeing,” cried the brown-haired girl. She gripped her crotch over her skirt. People sometimes say that when they are laughing, I told myself. Who knows if she means it. If she was in fact peeing, I guess she staunched the flow because, when she removed her hands and crossed her legs tightly, I couldn’t see any spot. The conversation continued like that — shooting the shit beneath a tree on the quad on a warm September day. At some point, the drunk metalhead’s roommate — I learned his name was Kyle — broke out some beers he had somehow obtained. They cut through the pot high and we all calmed down. The sun went down. It started to get chilly. “It’s been fun guys but I’m gonna grab a jacket and get some dinner,” Kyle said. “Yeah, I’ll head in too,” I said, standing. “Ok, ok, we can head in,” the brown-haired girl, whose name I still hadn’t caught, said. She stood. “Oof. I’ve had to pee like a motherfucker the whole time we’ve been here and that beer really didn’t help.” She put her hand on her belly over the waistband of her skirt. “But thank you for sharing your beer, Kyle. I loved it, even if now I’m about to pee myself.” “No problem, Jessica,” he replied. “I’ll see you guys in class.” Jessica. Her name was Jessica. Kyle and the other guy were apparently in the same dorm, and headed off in its direction. The brown-haired girl, to my delight, was in mine. We walked back as the night grew colder. My hands were shoved into my pockets; she was hugging herself and walking stiffly. “Where are you from?” I asked, to make conversation. “Oregon,” she replied. “You?” “New York.” “New York City?” “No, just near it. I go into the city sometimes though.” “I went to New York City earlier this summer,” she said. “Did you like it?” “Yeah. Except, like, no public bathrooms. Which is a real fucking issue after having beers in the park.” She really wanted to talk about pee, I guess? I couldn’t believe my luck. My brain was still moving slow, a product of the pot and beer. Perhaps she interpreted my silence as a discomfort with the topic. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” she said. “TMI. I guess I’ve just got pee on the mind.” She rubbed her bladder area again to make the point. “No worries, I get it!” I jumped in, hoping to reassure her. I wanted to keep this conversation going. “I, uh, have been stuck having to pee in New York too.” “What did you do?” she asked, turning to look directly at me. I had her attention. “I guess I just waited. I was on the subway for what felt like hours. I almost pissed myself.” “Yeah man,” she said. “I know how that is.” “It was really bad. I was afraid I was going to pee at any minute. When I finally got where I was going I probably peed for a minute, maybe two.” She didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at me, intensely. “What did you do?” I ventured. “I ended up peeing in an ally. I was also literally about to piss my pants.” She smiled. “I may in fact have already pissed my pants a bit. I didn’t want to walk around all damp!” “Prudent,” I said. “That would have been something to see.” What! Why did I say that!? I needed to get a hold of myself. “Well, I’m basically in the same situation right now,” she said softly. We had been walking this whole time but now she stopped and gripped her crotch again, as if admitting her predicament had intensified the urge. She shifted her weight to one leg, then the other. As she did it, she made eye contact directly with me. We were feet from the entrance to our dorm but still she stood there, holding herself and pee dancing. “Just gotta collect myself,” she gasped. “So I don’t piss my pants.” “Piss your skirt,” I offered. “What?” She raised her eyebrows. “Piss your skirt. You’re not wearing pants, you’re wearing a skirt.” “Oh. Right. Yes. Piss my undies.” “Uh, are you going to be ok?” I asked. “Yes, yes, this always happens to me. Just be a gent and get the door?” she asked. With her still standing in one place, shifting and holding herself, I walked over to the dorm door, unlocked it and opened it. “Come on in,” I said. With one hand still in her crotch she hustled toward me, through the door, across the lobby of the dorm and up the stairs, headed, I assumed, for the second-floor women’s bathroom. I closed the door and followed her into the stairwell. I heard her shoes clacking somewhere above me. Suddenly, I heard a yelp. I rounded a bend in the stairs to find her sitting on one of them. I wasn’t sure what was happening. Her face looked incredibly relaxed; her eyes were closed, her jaw was slack. I looked down. Liquid was running down her right leg from under her skirt, onto her foot. “Oh my god,” she said. “Oh my god, I’m peeing.” She buried her fist in her crotch and bent forward, clenching. The stream trickled to a halt. She had peed for, at most, several seconds. She lifted her hand, revealing a large, damp patch on the front of her grey skirt. She looked down at it, then closed her eyes. Did a slight smile cross her lips? She opened her eyes and looked at me. I looked right back at her. That intense, charged eye contact again. She seemed unfazed. “Well,” she said. “Maybe I’ll learn my lesson. College is about learning lessons, right? I need to learn to pee sooner.” “Yes,” I said. I was a bit overwhelmed. “I was going to do laundry tomorrow anyway,” she murmured. Her calm had worn off quickly, now she also seemed flustered. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said. Then she stepped forward, down a stair, so she was one stair above me, and, awkwardly, from that slightly higher height, wrapped her arms around me. “It was great to meet you,” she said. The hug tightened and she pressed her leg, the leg she had peed down, against mine. I was extremely confused. This hug felt a little more than friendly. What was going on? “Don’t tell anyone,” she said again, this time whispering it into my ear. I felt her abdomen rub against mine. I was intensely aware of the curves of her body — and that damp patch on the grey skirt that was now firm against my torso. Then she stepped back. “I still really, really have to pee,” she said. And with that, she pivoted on her toe, raced up the remaining steps, and out of the stairwell, out of my sight. I heard the jangle of keys, then the door to what I presume was the women’s restroom, and then the click of a lock. I stood motionless in the hallway for a good two minutes, processing. My confusion lingered, but now I was also catastrophically aroused. Slowly I turned, walked back down the stairs to the men's dormitory on the first floor, and returned to my room, where I sat, awkwardly, shell shocked, aroused as fuck, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Jessica as my roommate watched episode after episode of “Friends.” I want to make this a three part series, but everyone always says they want to make everything a series and it rarely happens. So I'm not gonna promise anything. Still, I'll do my best.
  6. jrs1989

    Just a Normal Guy

    A
  7. jrs1989

    Just a Normal Guy

    B
  8. jrs1989

    Online Dating Isn't All Bad

    Great story. Writing drunk seemed to work out fine.
  9. jrs1989

    Just a Normal Guy

    A.
  10. jrs1989

    Just a Normal Guy

    A
  11. Agree! A great and very relatable story. Please share more!
  12. jrs1989

    The Football Game

    All of your stories are awesome. Thanks for them.
  13. jrs1989

    good date

    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. 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 bar tender 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. “I gotta pisssssss.” 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 "" 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. “Come on in,” I said. “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.” …to be continued… hopefully more quickly, this time, than fifteen months….
  14. jrs1989

    The FaceTime

    You know you've got the right girlfriend when you find yourself asking this question.
  15. FWIW, I have the same question.