Don’t wallow in your sorry affairs. Relish them. See the funny side. Laugh. I invite you all to turn misfortune to mirth. I must admit that I did feel a bit low after the Water bed/pants/hand/nappy/nurse/wife scandal that just occurred. Not for long. Padded up and and raring to go I was off to lurk around the department whilst desperately trying to hold in my wee and not fill my pants. Irrelevant that they were nappy pants, the challenge was not to wet my pants. I had managed to piss everywhere on the bed, myself and my Tradies (Australian underwear for the uninitiated) but they were round my knees at the time, and I feel that did not actually meet the description of pissing your pants. So record intact, I began to drink. Wifey helpfully sat us next to the water fountain and gave me glass after glass of cool refreshing water. After five of these beverages, the desire to wee was immense. Unfortunately mini wee’s of less than 200mls don’t count. You have to provide a substantial wee sample in order to successfully complete the trial. It was 12.40. Wifey said I had to wait at least 15 minutes. I managed to hold off until 13.00 on the dot. The news came on the waiting room tv and I was up and off like Seabiscuit experiencing a Pavlovian speed burst with a tasty carrot waving from the finish line. Kicking open the toilet door, a pale imitation of Clint Eastwood entering a saloon, in I charge, to be confronted with the piss measuring device. Essentially a bucket with a hole in the bottom. Once the machine is powered up, you are invited to aim your stream in to the bucket, which is now hypnotically spinning, and deposit your bilge water within. I barely had the cage open when the beast sprung into action. Pure ecstasy as my bladder drained, centrifugal force slowing down its transit through the receptacle, wee gurgling away like a charity collection tub that spins your coin round and round before plopping down the hole in the centre. And then at the end, the strangest thing happened. My cock farted. Never in my life have I heard of a cock fart, let alone heard one actually do it. I’m not sure that the English language even has a term for penile flatulence. The Scots probably do. They have something like 200 plus words for snow, so I bet there’s one for knob gas. I am happy to put this out there for you, the readers, to present ideas for the new English word for dick flatus. Suggestions in the comment section please. I will send the winner a pic of my swollen scrotum.
Only kidding, don’t let that put you off. I never took one.
Ok, so I’ve done my first piss, followed by the cock fart. I think the likely cause must have been all that all the fluid they added to my bladder. I imagine it had bubbles in it, because it’s never happened since. Well, not yet, at least. Back to the job in hand. You press a button on the machine and it prints out a little result graph that charts volume and velocity and similar science stuff. I press the button. Error! WTF? I press it again and again. Error, Error, Error! Fuckety fuck wank! I turn it off. Cold sweat seeps down my spine, as when I turn it back on, my data has gone. Noooooo! Utterly bereft I emerge from the inner sanctum and my eyes search the department for a nurse. The nurse that removed “the thing” is having lunch. Another nurse appears. She has a look at the machine. She does the same as me. Presses the button a few times and turns it off and on again, before informing me with a smile that I will have to start from scratch. I struggle, really struggle, with my mind-mouth interface. My mouth is forming phrases that you can’t say to a Bandido, let alone a nurse. My mind is frantically trying to recall the message that it sent to my mouth just milliseconds before, damage limitation kicks in and I manage a tamer “You’ve got to be bloody joking…..”. I complain slightly, but I see her point, there’s no evidence, and acceptance sinks in. Beaten, I sit again, and start drinking with renewed alacrity. Another 5 cups in a minute. The desperate urgency of needing to piss was relieved by having a piss, but within minutes it creeps back. I prepare myself for an uncomfortable wait. Then, a stroke of good luck. The nurse has re-loaded the wee bucket with paper and my results printed out. Just under 200mls- that’ll do she says. One down, one to go. I apologise for my shortness a few minutes earlier. She laughs.
I manage to hold off for another 20 minutes. By this time I am standing, leaning on the wall of the corridor outside. I get to virtually the point of no return, 2 minutes to midnight, if you like, and start my move to the chamber of measurement. My companion in the trial makes a move also. He is 25 years older than me and not as sprightly, but he is closer. I could speed up and beat him, but it doesn’t feel right. I cede control of the parlour of piss to my rival. I wait. In my head I perform an elaborate “about to pee my pants dance”, but I’m too English to let my discomfort show. I manage a gentle rock on the balls of my feet, and a quiet chunter to wifey. One minute to midnight comes and goes and my nemesis appears from within. I start to move. He asks the nurse something. She hands him some nappy pants. No…no….it can’t be. He goes back in and the door closes forcing me to decide.
Choose wisely. Go to the toilet down the hall, but miss, again, the opportunity for the nurse to scrutinise my flow. Or the alternative. Go past the point of no return, and risk the sacrificial demise of my nappy pants to aqueous oblivion. I elect to push on, hoping that the protracted piss performance ends soon. I’m standing on tip-toes now, in a vain attempt to stretch my bladder and tubes. To eke out space another couple of mls. Wifey informs me that she has no idea why it takes so long for someone to put on a pair of bloody nappy pants, and indicates that violence is in order if I were to ask her again.
Hallelujah! The doors to heaven open, and I’m off, driven as if shot from a longbow. Door closed and pants down in one swift move, and waves of jubilation, exaltation and euphoria wash over me, as piss flows in a veritable torrent. 223mls of golden nectar are produced with a pretty decent bell curve and I exit the vestibule this time armed with my evidence. I thrust it at the nurse who happily takes me in for a bladder scan, to ensure it’s empty. It is! I’ve passed and I’m good to go to the final stage.
The final stage involves having the nurse check my wounds, tell me a few things to expect and get me started on my penile rehabilitation. I get a ‘script for some low dose Viagra. Viagra encourages blood flow to your nether parts, thus helping things heal. the usual dose to raise the flag would be a 100mg tablet 30-45 minutes before playing hide the sausage. I’m to take 25mg every day, and can try a 100mg in a few weeks when things have healed up a little more. I’ll let you all know how that goes.
We leave the department, and start to travel home. Before I left the hospital, I thought I’d better fire another piss out. The intervals between wee’s were gradually getting longer and longer. We walk slowly back to the car, glad to be free of the leg bag, but reticent about the immediate future. We leave the car park and begin the journey home. It’s around 3pm and the traffic is building. The urge begins to build. I become uncomfortable. The urge builds relentlessly gnawing inside. I realise I must have drunk 2 litres of water, and have only pee’d out about a third of it. The car is in the middle of a three lane highway. The traffic is slow. I become desperate and insist on a piss. I can’t bring myself to pee in the pants. I ransack the car for a suitable receptacle in which to let loose.
Wifey still has one of the plastic cups that came from the drinking fountain, and I also find one in my bag. I look to my left. There is a lady driving a large SUV. Our eyes meet, and we offer a half smile, sympathetic of our traffic issues. I consider how outraged this mother would be if i were to produce my cock and commence an elaborate piss decanting process right there on the highway. Beaten again, I ask wifey to take the next exit, into a leafy suburb. The road is still busy and I plead with her to detour right down a dead end street. We screech to a halt outside an exquisitely renovated Queenslander and I stretch the band of my trackie pants and let rip in to the cup, once again entering a blissful euphoric state and channelling my inner lama. That is until I begin to reach the top of the cup… fuck, it’s still gushing out like a fire-bombing helicopter. Wifey hands me her cup, whilst indicating her admiration at my apparently impressive power to hold in the flood for so long. Sarcasm? I can’t tell.
The rim of the cup looms closer, and I manage to jump on the pelvic floor brakes just enough to halt the squirt and remove the first cup and replace it with the second. I am now in the enviable position of holding full cup of piss in one hand, and my cock/second cup in the other, fighting again against the rising amber tide as the cup fills.
“OPEN THE WINDOW!”
Wifey finally gets around to locating my window switch and I have all of three seconds to empty the first cup on the verge, swap it for the second, empty that and emit a large sigh as the tsunami abates. A quick squirt of hand gel and we are off again, with the two empty cups in the drinks holders on standby.
We manage to get most of the way home before the urge over comes me once more. This time we are in the outer suburbs, on the highway, and wifey kindly drives in the left hand lane and enables me to perform my urinary athletics as we travel. I think my mum once told me that when I was a baby, I managed to piss in my own face, whilst laying down on my back with no nappy on. 48 years later I managed it again with a little help from a 100kph headwind and an open window. Wifey had stopped laughing by the time we pulled up on the drive, and I entered the house swearing never to go out for more than 15 minutes ever again.