Shower power

I have a cast iron bladder that never releases a drop until I send the message. I’ve pissed while hiding in gardens after drunken parties, been drop-perfect in tiny specimen jars for mid-stream urine tests, sprayed over people while perched on the edges of bathtubs and could probably write messages in the snow with my control and aim.


We were in the shower and tried to decide the etiquette of who would piss on whom first. Ladies before gentleman? Flip a coin? He or she who draws weapons first gets first shot? He ended up going first as my body rejected every one of my brain’s messages to send a jet of warm liquid across his thighs. Must have been some kind of urinary performance anxiety.

Thankfully he was ready for release and squirted copious amounts of body-warmth liquid across my front, with plenty in reserve to flow down my back and legs when I turned and leaned into the contrast of the cool white tiles.

He spread the joy around while I thought of positions to despoil his freshly-showered body. He knelt under me as I stood with one foot on the raised edge of the shower stall with the toes of my other foot gripping the tiles at tap level – not elegant but I doubt anything involved with flinging bodily waste around ever is.

Finally, the seal opened and I returned the favour with a stream that rippled from his shoulder blades down his back. He twisted to allow the spurts to cover his chest and splashed about in our combined liquids. Urine play doesn’t seem to turn me on sexually but I gain pleasure from the visual aspects and find a perverse kind of fun in getting grotty. There’s also a nice time warp game in play that one turn of the tap can erase all evidence of the scenario in seconds but the act remains firmly in my memory banks – everything is washed down the drain but I know only seconds ago I was in the same place smelling, seeing, feeling, probably giggling.

Later, I was still a bit out of sorts with new-person nerves and struggling to find my groove, but he found and did glorious things with my G-spot that left me like an incoherent turtle curled on the linen – and these past few months I’ve been beating my clit into submission. Silly me.

Of course there was a shower between.

Mr New Year’s Eve won’t curl up and die. ArmyDude needs a smack in the mouth. And someone new and exciting is looming

Yesterday was a frustrating day in personal human resource management. I deleted Mr NYE’s messages, kicked him off my hotlist and filed him away in my mental rubbish bin. I must’ve accidentally put him in the mental recycling bin because he came back.

He lost his mobile phone.

I didn’t know whether to feel guilty for lambasting his name or to ask him nicely to fuck the hell off.

A couple of days is brief enough for an explanation to be true but long enough for my bullshit detector to glow a soft red in warning. Knowing when someone isn’t being truthful is easier after having met and dug a little into their motivations, but this still-invisible man has the art of mind games well and truly mastered.

He said he was available for a few consecutive days so I picked a day, the suburb and a time to meet and asked him to choose a café and get back to me.

I think he’s lost his phone again. Funny that. There are lots of cafés in the suburb I chose, too.

ArmyDude made a tactical and timing error by sending me a ‘I miss you a lot’ message while I was despatching Mr Which New Year’s Eve. I replied with terse feedback about my place at the bottom of his ladder of priorities and I’m trying not to think about him because it’s easier on me (me, me, me, me, me). He didn’t respond – come to think of it, he never does when dissent or an argument is brewing. Absence is starting to cure my overly fond heart and perhaps ending contact with him would be better for my wellbeing than gorging on last-minute scraps of time, enjoyable as they are. I could end it today via an impersonal means like the mobile phone, but he deserves more than that. Unfortunately, more than that is face-to-face contact which is when I’m weakest with him. Fuck. I’ll sort it out another day.

I don’t think I’ve annoyed anyone else. Perhaps it’s unresolved sexual tension that a licking or bottom smacking or two will fix. On that, the inspiration for the two-week rule in my previous post has made some calls and found a terribly seedy motel for some exploration and enjoyment (of each other, not the motel). He used the word ‘sordid’ and I’m excited as all get-up about that. Nervous, too, and we haven’t even kissed, but I’m sure that will get sorted out along the way.

I enjoy the task of assigning a codename to someone new. He travels and could be anywhere at any particular time, lives the inner-city lifestyle but seems happy enough going barefoot in the park, and could stroll the streets and charm everyone in his path. And I already know he has a thrilling sense of adventure. I hope he likes Urban Vagabond – I say that because he’s the only person apart from my partner who is aware of this blog and, while I’m sure we won’t be indulging in mutual censorship because we’ll have more enjoyable pursuits to engage in, I still hope he likes it.