Ha Ha Wee Wee (Deleted Scene (For Now))
Near the end of the previous story, The Worst Night of My Life, I intended to make a brief aside - “Oh yeah, the only other time I had to use a bottle like that…” - but the little tale became longer, and longer, and really, dirty green imps and urine bottles will only hold a reader’s attention for so long. So this piece went straight into storage and might never come back. Although it may find its niche one day, for now, think of it as a deleted scene.
My pissing-in-bottles history is brief - a single instance in fact. It didn’t go well.
Tim had a lock-up for a while, where he kept (and worked on) a beautiful (but rarely functional) peacock blue 1970 Volvo P1800E. It was part of a typical lock-up set-up, two rows of six garages facing each other. Tim had driven off in his functional (but rarely beautiful) little Peugeot 205 to pick up a fresh rotor arm or something from a nearby dealer, and I’d elected to stay put in the sunshine. The Volvo’s nose poked out of the garage and I sat on the ground, leaned against the wheel and dozed off.
I awoke to pressure. Yeah, hang on, I told my bladder, stood up and realised that I had very few options. There was no water supply to the lock-ups, the adjoining buildings were residential blocks, and there wasn’t a single pub or café nearby.
There was a drain. Exactly half way between the two rows of garages, exactly half way along. Centre stage, overlooked by two blocks of flats.
A thought occurred.
I squeezed along the side of the car to the back of the garage. In the corner was a two litre Cresta lemonade bottle, full of water; we used it to top up the car’s radiator when bubbles of stale old air clunked out into the atmosphere. Stressing a bit, I took the bottle and edged back along the car’s flank out into the sunsheeyine. Watching and hearing the bottle’s contents glop-glop down the drain didn’t do me any good at all; when it was empty I shot back into the garage.
Safe! Behind the car, out of sight, with room to manoeuvre. I unzipped, pulled out my dick and popped it in the neck of the Cresta bottle.
Now then.
Although it was a two litre bottle, it had a relatively small neck. Nothing like Paul Masson or even Snapple, just an ordinary little screw cap, and I made a fundamental, fatal schoolboy error: I plugged the hole.
So I wasn’t really in the bottle, but correctly set up. Or not. I’d created an airtight seal and displacement was about to be my undoing. As I relaxed and finally let the flow go, I saw something I’d never before witnessed; I watched my foreskin inflate until it was spherical. My eyes probably expanded correspondingly and continued to goggle as the seal broke and an umbrella of piss burst forth. I pissed on the wall, the floor, the Volvo and myself - I pissed everywhere except in the bottle.
I didn’t even write an ending for it. Poor little orphan story, with its tail docked. Free to a good home.
