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Alex Greene

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About Alex Greene

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  • My pronouns are..
    he/him

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    Public humiliation

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  1. This happened to me around the age of 12. Like many of you here I was not blessed with a strong bladder throughout my younger years, and this led to a handful of full-blown accidents around his age. If there is interest I will recount a couple more. This is perhaps the most interesting. I had begun this football/soccer season with a new team in a higher league than I had ever previously played in. I was scouted by the coach while playing for my local team last season so I was eager to make a good impression in my first few matches. I was a striker, and at that age your contribution to the team as a forward player is measured mostly by the amount of goals you score. After not scoring in my first two games, I’d managed to slot a nice effort from the edge of the box into the bottom corner so was keen to build and solidify my place in the team. We played our away matches in different locations around London. My dedicated mother would wake up early on a Sunday morning and drive me to these away games as they were often quite far away. While she was blessed with commitment, navigation was not one of her virtues and on this day we were horribly lost. “I can’t find the bloody place; I’ve been driving in circles for ages.” “We’ve missed the warm-up already Mum” “I know sorry love, why is there a football pitch out here in the bloody middle of nowhere?” At this point I was aware of a slight urge to pee, but making kick-off on time was at this point a far more important concern for me. It was a cold winter morning and the grey concrete of industrial north London spread before the windscreen. After another 15 minutes of driving around and around we finally pulled into the other team’s home ground – just in time for kick off. I ran out of the car and straight up to my coach, who to my joy seemed relieved to see me. “Scott, Jake’s arrived, he’ll start up top come and put a coat on.” I quickly warmed up, and as I was stretching noticed a slight twinge in my bladder – nothing too concerning but definitely there – I could easily hold it until half-time though. The game began and I wasn’t quite with the pace of the game. I wasn’t getting involved much a misplaced the ball on a couple of occasions. The half went by uneventful and ended 0-0. The coach called us over for a team talk. My need to go had increased during the first half and I looked wistfully across the pitch to the clubhouse where toilet would be. I couldn’t miss the team-talk though. The coach talked us through a change of tactics he wanted us to try with two wide players on both wings to carry the ball forward and put crosses into the box. As the striker it normally would be me in the end of these so I had to up my game. The talk lasted the whole half time. As the match was about to begin, I asked my coach if I could go to the toilet. “The game’s about to start again; think you can hold it?” I was 12, not a child, of course I could hold it. “Yeah no worries,” I said, trying to play it cool. As the first few minutes of the second half played out, I knew I had made a mistake. I had 45 minutes to the end of game, but I really needed to pee now, and the exercise plus half-time water I had drunk were only making matters worse. I tried to put this to the back of my head and focus on the game. Around 10 minutes later it was still 0-0, but our team had more of the possession than in the first half, and despite my predicament, I was playing better, linking up well with my wingers and had a decent chance to put us 1-0 up, which I skimmed just wide of the post. At this point I felt a spurt of pee escape into my boxers, dampening the front of them. I felt the wet fabric against my upper leg. I looked down and there was nothing showing on my red, nylon shorts, but that was close. I realised I wasn’t going to be able to hold it until the end of the match, so I gently pushed, and let a reasonably large spurt out into my boxers, hoping to ease the pressure but not make it obvious what had happened. At this point I could feel my wet underwear clinging to my legs, but they seemed to have absorbed most of the damage and there was only a small spot visible on the front of my shorts. I continued to play game. The other team had a couple of chances on the counter but we were controlling the play, and playing some nice football. I hit a long pass to play one of our wingers through but the keeper made a good save. “Good ball Jake, more of that please” my coach shouted from the side. My plan had somewhat worked but around 10 minutes later the need was just as bad again. I considered asking to be subbed off so I could go to the toilet, but I could not have been subbed back on again, plus it would be pretty embarrassing to run off the toilet like a little boy in front of my new teammates. We were entering the most crucial period of the match to compound issues, so I sucked up and decided to let a little leak out again and keep playing. I’m 12, I can hold my pee for 20 minutes longer, right? Another spurt escaped. My boxers were soaked, and there was a ping pong sized patch of wetness showing on my crotch which I hoped no-one noticed. 10 minutes later and we were reaching crisis point. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through my abdomen as my straining bladder begged my body to release the mountain of liquid piled up inside me. I could feel my bladder pressing against the drawstring of my shorts. A few minutes later, and one of my wingers beat his defender to race down the flank. I sprinted through the middle, and peeled just behind my maker, to make myself a target for the incoming cross. As he approached the by-line, he pinged a peach of a cross, at the perfect height with a little spin on it to take it away from the goalkeeper. It was just a tiny bit too far ahead of me for me to just nod it in, so, at full stretch, I launched myself at the ball, felt contact square on forehead and crashed to ground just as the cheers of my teammates and coach reached my ears. 1-0. My elation was brought to an abrupt halt. As I lay in the cold grass on my front, I was wetting myself. I lay there for a good 5 seconds not knowing what to do while pee cascaded into my pants. I could hear the hiss as it passed through the fabric at the front of my shorts. My teammates arrived to congratulate me, as yet unaware of what was happening. “Good header mate,” the winger who had crossed me the ball said, helping me up. I was still peeing at this point, so grabbed the tip if my penis with my thumb and forefinger to stem the flow. The damage was done, however, and it was now quite clear what had happened. “Good cross mate cheers, think I had to stretch for it a bit too much though!” trying to make a joke of the situation. Obviously there were some laughs from my teammates, but I’d just probably scored the winning goal for our team so none of it was overtly hostile. I jogged over to the coach and asked to be subbed off. He obliged, seeing the now basketball sized wet patch on the front of my shorts. I gingerly hobbled over to the clubhouse, each step sending a spasm which leaked a small amount of pee into my already soaked boxers. I would have to walk all the war around the pitch, as play had commenced again and I couldn’t cut across. I had to walk past the opposition parents to do this. “He’s pissed himself haha” one of the opposition team subs said as I walked past. I smiled gingerly and continued my hobble over to the changing rooms where I hoped a toilet would be, hoping that I would avoid further embarrassment by letting the rest of my still incredibly full bladder into my boxers. I reached the clubhouse, and at the door a large spurt escaped. My boxers were already soaked so they didn’t absorb much, and I saw some liquid run down my leg and stain my white sock. I opened the door, and to my dismay there were a couple of boys the boys from the year below us who had turned up for the game after ours getting into their kits, one of whom I knew quite well from training. I looked around for the toilet and it was on the other side of the changing room, meaning I’d have to pass them to get to it. I didn’t want him to see I had wet myself so I panicked, and pretended to be changing, giving me a chance to remove my wet shorts. As I fiddled with the laces of my boots another spurt escaped, a few drips puddling on the grey, concrete floor. I took my boots off, then my shorts, when the boy noticed me. Luckily I had my back to him and most of the damage was on the front. “Hey Jake,” he said. “Hey man” I replied, shaking at this point, through nervousness that he’d notice my piss soaked boxers and the need that still plagued me. “How’d the game go?” “Good,” I said, “we’re 1-0 up with a few minutes to play. Coach subbed me off so I’m getting ready to go home. Good luck in your match.” “Thanks,” he replied. I plotted how I could make it to the toilet without him seeing. I could wait until he had changed and left the room, but that might take a while and I still desperately needed to go. I could put my normal clothes over my boxers, but they were in a bag with my Mum. Why hadn’t I thought to bring them with me? I decided I’d just have to go for it, and try to keep my back to him the whole way. I stood up, and another spasm released a short spurt that I stemmed by pinching my penis. I waddled towards the bathroom, each step causing great pain. I got halfway across the room and began to hope for a second I would make it without him seeing me. He was on the other side of the bench I was approaching, as I passed it I kept my front slightly facing the wall. I passed, and he didn’t seem to notice my predicament. I stepped quickly towards the toilet, which I was nearing. A few steps later and I could see inside, the white porcelain of the urinals beckoning my suffering bladder. The sight of the urinal was the final straw. The floodgates opened. My already soaked boxers did little to absorb the cascade, so a flow of piss dripped straight down onto the floor, making a large puddle. I tried to stem the flow by pinching but it forced its way through my fingers and made a loud hissing, and splatting as it hit the floor. I must have peed for about a minute before I finally regained some control. The other boy must have noticed while this was happening, because he had walked near to me, touching my shoulder with his hand. “Don’t worry mate, it happens to all of us,” he said, smiling. I tried to smile back but was too embarrassed, the warm pee quickly turning cold against my skin. “Thanks,” I managed to reply. He walked off to the pitch, and I walked to the toilet, peeled off my soaking underwear, and emptied the last bit of pee into the toilet. I sprinted across the empty changing rooms, put on my only slightly wet shorts, and left the changing room, stashing my boxers quickly in the bin before anyone noticed. The game was over, and the coach was giving his team talk. We had won the game 1-0, so he was pleased. “And here comes the man of the hour! So excited to score the winning goal he pissed himself!” my coach said as I walked over. The boys laughed, and so did I, everyone saw the funny side. “Well done boys, I’ll see you next week.” And so we drove home, slightly embarrassed, but relived that no one had been too malicious about the whole situation. I vowed to be braver when asking for the loo in the future, but of course, this didn’t happen.
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