Have you ever met someone for whom you’d do almost anything? This is a story about a guy like that, and a thing he asked me to do. As with so many unusual and horny things from my past, I’d completely forgotten about this incident until I was reminded of it by a tweet. It’s about piss, and love, and that foolishness you catch when you’re irrationally hot for someone.
“Now you do it,” he tells me. I knew this was coming. My heart thuds and my stomach kicks and all I want in this moment is to do exactly what he tells me. The thrill at the very idea of it makes me shiver.
“Now you do it,” he says again. “It’s your turn. I’ll watch.”
He has dark dark eyes and a wicked grin. Sense of humour, filthy mind, pretty hands, cock. I love him, but it isn’t mutual.
I’ll do anything he wants.
The ground floor of his house has a lean-to, just off the kitchen. It’s where I go to smoke. On sunny days I’ll push the rotting wooden door wide open and stand on broken patio slabs in a temple of overgrown greenery. But when it’s raining, like now, I’ll push the door just wide enough for an arm and a shoulder – keeping most of my body dry by huddling in the lean-to, praying none of the spiders make a move towards my face.
That’s where he finds me, that night. In the lean-to that’s also a half-arsed utility room: shelves for detergent, a washing machine that’s seen better days, and a metal sink caked in limescale.
I am made horny by his sheer proximity. He stands close to me, in the narrow space, and it’s all I can do not to lean forward and sniff his neck. Fall to my knees and beg him to fuck my face. Reach out and touch the soft hair on the back of his neck and tell him “you will have me forever. I’ll love you forever.”
The first two he would tolerate, but not the third.
I am abject and pathetic, but I pretend to be cool. I have always – always – pretended to be cool around him. Dressing up and wearing make-up. Making bawdy jokes and lewd suggestions. Spilling secrets that make me feel vulnerable. Swallowing hurt and hiding my feelings. Doing whatever he tells me.
I’m young, and I don’t yet understand that love is supposed to be fun.
We chat for a while, and he teases me about the smoking. He always does this, and it’s annoying, but I tolerate it. I’d do anything for him, remember? If he wants to tease me for smoking, or give me crude nicknames, or torture me with stories of women he’s pulled in dark nightclubs while I was too ill to attend and cling to his coat tails… he can do it. If he told me to jump off a bridge, eat broken glass, or crawl naked down the high street, I’d do it.
During our chat, he tells me he’s here because the bathroom upstairs is occupied. He’s desperate for a piss. He can barely hold it in.
He’s feeling playful. When he feels playful, I’m the one he turns to for games, and that thrills me. Or does it depress me? I don’t know. All I know is that I want to be with him all the time: doing anything he wants to do. I will do anything with him, for him, in exchange for him being in the same room.
“I could just…” he eyes the sink.
I don’t remember what I did in that moment, it was so long ago. Though if I had to guess I’d say I probably rolled my eyes and aped his grin. Did something that acknowledged the weirdness of his suggestion yet simultaneously hinted I was game.
I was game for anything, with him.
I don’t know what I did, but I do remember how I felt. Prickly with anticipation and tingling with something that felt like success. The way you feel when you’ve just had great exam results, and you’re walking with friends to the pub. Or the moment a friend says they know someone who fancies you. Tingles of power and success and excitement about what comes next.
What comes next? I watch him piss in the sink.
He has to stand slightly taller than he would usually, to get himself over the side. Tensing the muscles in his thighs and arse, balancing on the balls of his feet.
I flick ash out of the gap in the doorway, and stare at him holding his cock. I giggle as if this is funny. Just a joke. Like it doesn’t turn me on.
He keeps going. And going. And going. It gets harder to hide my fascination.
He flicks his eyes between the trickle of piss running down the plughole and my own undeniably rapt expression. It is the first time, I think, that I have ever seen a man piss in private. I’ve seen them piss in doorways and in fields, sure. I’ve caught glimpses through open doors in pubs, glancing from side to side for the ‘Ladies’ sign, and occasionally lingering by the wrong door – the one that reeks of ammonia and doesn’t belong to me.
But I’ve never seen a guy piss like this before: for me. Pissing as performance.
I can smell it, and something inside me tells me I should probably think this is gross. Perhaps it’s my job to lecture him: to care about germs and ensure that he rinses and wrinkle my nose in disgust. Maybe I’m expected – as I’m expected to wiggle my hips and wear make-up and pluck my eyebrows – to also be the keeper of hygeine. To whine ‘eww boys’ and insist that he rinses the sink out with bleach.
But I don’t care. I love him so I don’t care, and it’s sexy so I don’t care and honestly I don’t think I have ever really cared.
I can almost feel the warmth of it. It smells hot and dark and alien. I am mesmerised by his hands, his eyes, his open fly. When he shakes off, I know what’s coming next:
“Now you do it.”
He has dark dark eyes and a wicked grin. I love him, but it isn’t mutual.
I will do anything he wants.