Posted by Terry on December 22, 1998 at 17:54
During my undergraduate years, from 1964 to 1968, I often wet my pants a little while studying in the dorm room or at the library, and I gradually became bolder about letting go a bit at bars and parties, raising wet spots that were visible but constituted only minor "accidents" that other people ignored. In my junior and senior years, I often wet my jeans down to the knees while walking around campus at night, but I was always in full control of the situation and rarely let anyone see that I was wet. Only twice during those years did I lose control and soak myself in situations where others might have seen.
The first time was during my freshman year. A couple of upperclassman had smuggled some bottles into the dorm, and half a dozen of us including my roommate Jesse were passing the bottles around in our room. It was the first time I got really drunk. After several ounces of Scotch and a couple of other things I forget, I noticed with almost clinical interest how numb my tongue was becoming. I felt a little fullness in my bladder, but nothing urgent. I was really mellowed out, though, and as I sat there on the bed, totally relaxed and happy with everybody, I felt a warm humidity spread around the pouch of my briefs. Looking between my legs, I saw the glistening wet spot wax and wane in the black twill fabric and watched as two or three drops, then a short spurt spilled out onto the gray woolen blanket, making a dark wet stain. It was with pleasant surprise and no alarm whatsoever that I realized what I was doing. I just didn't care. As I let another little stream out, I looked across the gap between beds at one of the upperclassmen, snockered and cross-legged on the other bed. He seemed to be focusing, kind of, on my crotch, with this funny grin on his face, and he gave me a thumbs-up! We were all just about too plowed by then to talk about anything, though.
When the booze ran out, the other guys staggered off to their rooms and Jesse got into bed. I think he was out in a matter of seconds. Feeling some real pressue now, I thought I'd better visit the john before bed. So I started weaving down the hall, careering from one side to the other and crashing against the cinderblock walls, and as I made my way along I pissed. Several long spurts, running down my legs and soaking through my pantlegs. "I'm doing it now," I though, and I'd been wanting to do it for so long! When I finally got to the john and steadied myself at the urinal, I didn't even pull my zipper down. I just stood there in drunken ecstasy and pissed my pants. Down the legs, over the shoes, out onto the tile floor and into the nearest drain.
As it happened, no one wondered into the john just then, and I was able to make it back to my room without being seen. As far as I knew, only one guy had noticed me pissing my pants, and he'd been pie-eyed. The other time I really wet myself as an undergraduate was far more public and far more "desparate." Four of us from my dorm had gone to see Clint Eastwood in "A Fistful of Dollars" at one of the old movie palaces downtown. I was wearing tan Levis and an olive "CPO" (a woolen overshirt worn tail-out). I rarely had genuine emergencies, but for some reason that night the pressure was on from the first minutes of the film and just wouldn't go away. I truly did not want to wet myself in front of the other guys, but I also did not want to miss any of the film. The pressure came and went, a little worse each time. I shifted, I crossed and uncrossed my legs, I sat bolt-upright, I slouched. Eventually I was holding on with all of my strength, straining and gritting, bracing my feet against the legs of the seat in front of me, when I thought the movie was about to end. I was at the point of leaving my seat for the john, no matter what I missed, but now I thought, "Okay, I can hold on a couple more minutes. If I go out now, the guys will think I can't hold it." Well, the plot took an unexpected twist, and suddenly I realized the denoument was no where near. What was truly at hand was the end of my strength. With a profound sinking sensation, at once of helplessness, relief, and resignation, I started to pee right there in the seat. At first, a spurt or two. I felt it soak through the denim, was able briefly to shut it off, and then my tired muscles simply refused to cooperate. The piss backed up over my groin and ran down around my ass. I peed until the pressure had subsided enough to regain control.
When the movies ended and I stood up, I could feel the wet fabric against the front and back of my legs and knew it was visible below the tails of the CPO. I had no choice, though, but to walk out as nonchalantly as possible with my buddies, hit the john with them as though nothing unusual was going on, and leave the theater. On the drive back to the dorm, we stopped at a doughnut shop for a late snack, and I could see the wet semicircle below my shirttail as I sat on the stool. As soon as we got back to the dorm, I hurried to my room and changed. No one had said anything, and I never knew whether anyone had actually noticed. But the experience of public wetting had been so satisfying, albeit unplanned, that I knew I wanted more.
Email: terry@wetjeans.com