The Foo Made Me Pee

New reader, Shut My Mouth, was inspired by Liz’s tales of drunken debauchery.  I read her post and was, in turn, inspired by her brave admission of clothed urination.

It made me want to share my own.

I was with a large group of fellow travel nurses, working in San Francisco, when we decided to all go to the Foo Fighters concert in Oakland.  Being environmentally conscious people we opted to take the subway, rather than drive; by environmentally conscious I mean: We did not want to get a DUI.  Screw the ozone. 

Once at the concert much beer was consumed.  My newest favorite phrase is, “I’m gonna rock out with my cock out.” That phrase probably would have helped me at the time, because although I drank an ass load of beer, my buick sized bladder never cried out for emptying.  Until we were leaving the venue.

We just stepped outside the arena doors when I remember saying, “I should probably pee.” But, by then we were past any bathrooms.  I decided I would wait and go at the BART station. 

By the time we made the ten minute walk to the station I was starting to get uncomfortable.  I quickly assessed the surrounding area and did not see any bathrooms.  I told myself I could wait until I got to the other side of the bay. 

The bay is apparently really long, and bumpy.  By the time we reached the half way point, I was REALLY having to pee.  All my friends were laughing and talking in a happy drunken stupor, but I was just sitting there, staring out into the darkness, hoping we would make an underwater stop at a magical bathroom station.

I was miserable and had to pee worse than anytime in my life.  My stomach and loins were screaming from the pressure.  All I could think about was how we were currently under an immeasurable amount of water, and that I was holding an almost equal amount inside my bladder.

When the first stop appeared in the horizon I made a rash, game time decision.  I could wait six stops for my own, or I could jump off here and make a run to the nearest bathroom.  I jumped ship.

It probably would have worried my friends normally that, without any sort of warning, I just suddenly stood up and raced out the doors at the last second, but all my friends were drunk; it seemed normal to them at the time.

I raced up the steps into the main station, did a quick surveillance of the surroundings and was dismayed by the lack of public restroom signs.  I quickly pee-pee danced my way over to the attendant booth and asked, “excuse me, where is the restroom?” To which I was brusquely informed, “Bart don’t have no bathrooms.  You has to go up the stairs and cross the street to one of the businesses.” I was off like a bolt of water logged lightening.

I reached the top of the BART steps faster than any competition runner and glanced frantically at the surrounding buildings.  EVERYTHING WAS CLOSED!  What kind of major metropolis closes all the shops before midnight? 

This was zero hour.  I searched around in desperation as my eye balls began to fill with a warm, yellow liquid.  I knew at any minute I was going to explode.  All that kept passing through my head was a serious condition that paralyzed people can get, autonomic dysreflexia.  Not only did I have to pee, but now my drunken brain was convinced that I was going to die from it.

Nothing, no gas station (not in San Francisco!), no fast food joint.  I spotted a garbage can and was about to whip it out and fill it up, but then my irrational brain recalled my close friend’s night in jail in San Diego for public urination.  I did not want to spend an evening in the drunk tank, so I balked at whipping it out.  Big mistake.

That was the last straw.  My bladder had sat painfully by long enough and listened to my brain make stupid decision after stupid decision.  It was taking matters into it’s own hands and dumping the offending fluid. 

I peed in my pants.

I would like to say I was mortified and disgusted at my slip in social mores, but it felt SOO damn good.  I wish I could bottle that feeling and sell it on the street, because it would sell like hotcakes. 

After about thirty minutes the flow finally subsided and I swam back to shore from the newly formed Killer River.  I pulled off my favorite Hawaiian shirt off, held in front of my wet pants and hailed a cab. 

The drive home was spent with each of us wondering who smelled more like urine.  At least I was, but maybe the cabby was used to the smell.  I quickly ran into my apartment and changed my pants, just as the first of several confused, drunken calls started on my phone.

“Dude, where are you?” “Man, we looked up and you were jumping off the train.  Tell me you saw a hot chick and are banging that right now.” So on, and so forth.

I ran downstairs, called a new cab and met everyone for an early breakfast.  Ironically we met at a all-night joint about a block from where I peed my pants.  It had luxurious bathrooms right by the front door.

•   Comments(13)    Posted by killer on 08/08 at 12:01 AM
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