A few years ago, I was invited to farewell cookout at a local reservoir for some friends who were moving away. It was a big potluck picnic kind of thing, lots of people, super casual and lots of drinks. Of course I came prepared with my usual, vodka, club soda, lemon wedges and a big bag of extra ice in a cooler, complete with a 48oz Turvis Tumbler…just in case.
The soiree began around 4, it was a perfect summer day and I had on khaki shorts, a black tank top and flip-flops, aka my summer uniform. I spread out my blanket and got situated. It was that beautiful time of day where the light makes everything look like a Maxfield Parrish painting, and even the ugliest of people look beautiful. Kids were playing in the water, running around with super-soakers, as we sat noshing, drinking and chit chatting.
4:00 turned into 6:00 and 1 drink turned into 5, and before I knew it, my bladder was ready to bust. One little snafu, there was not a bathroom to be found. I am certainly not one to be shy about peeing in the woods, or really anywhere for that matter, but on this occasion there were families and kids everywhere, it was still daylight, and there were no woods thick enough to hide in. I was feeling panicky and having massive anxiety over the very real possibility of pissing my pants.
These particular friends of mine, jokers that they are, had given me not only personalized Turvis Tumblers on my birthday, but also something to go with it, called the Shewee. Please take a moment to familiarize yourself with this product before proceeding, or you will inevitably be utterly confused.
My friend Matt was sitting with me on the blanket and I informed him of my immediate dilemma. He was the one responsible for actually ordering the Shewee off of the internet. I realized that I had it in my purse, I had never used it, but it was a great conversation piece or ice breaker so I always brought it with me. Now was my golden opportunity. I told Matt of my intent, and he rolled around on the blanket laughing at me like a complete a-hole. Fuck it, I had to piss something fierce, so I grabbed my Shewee and holding my labia together I hot-tailed it over to a nearby embankment.
It was a very steep hill that led down to the water, peppered with some thin sparse bushes, not really even cover but it had to do. So I unzipped my shorts, like a man (the beauty of the she wee) and applied the device to my vagina and extended the tubing out of my fly in a makeshift penis. I started to piss like a racehorse, it was splashing up everywhere. It was a forcefully paranoid pee. All of the sudden, 2 camouflaged baseball hatted heads popped up over the embankment directly in front of me, about 8 feet away. It looked like a father and son, the son being about 12, they were both toting fishing gear. As if in slow motion, I watched their surprised gazes go from my face down to my artificial penis.
You know how virtually impossible it is to stop midstream, girl or guy, but I ripped off the she wee and turned and started walking very quickly back to our gathering which was only about 100 yards away. With every step came a fresh stream of piss. My bladder refused to stop and the Shewee in my pocket was also dripping leftover piss, so I had a huge piss stain not only on the crotch and seat of my khaki shorts, but leaking from my pocket.
At this point in the program, my friend Matt, the only one who knew what was going on, was doubled over on the blanket, red-faced and near hysterics. Asshole. I sat my piss stained half drunk ass down next to him, mortified. I was at a loss, I did not know what to do. If I got up at all everyone would know. This was no “little accident,” this was an Armageddon of piss in my shorts, at a family friendly farewell potluck picnic, and it was still Maxfield Parrish lighting.
I was trying to get Matt to shut the fuck up and help a sister out. Finally he pulled himself together and we came up with a viable plan. He would grab a kid and tell him to shoot me in the ass with the super-soaker and then I would act all surprised and the kid would be psyched because he got to squirt a “grown up” in the ass (I use the term grown up loosely, of course.)
So he convinces this kid to do it and he comes over and starts squirting my ass, but the stupid super-soaker is half busted and the kid might as well be spitting at my crotch for all the good it’s doing. So I just have to stand there like an idiot (because I am an idiot) while he squirts me about 2 dozen times. At this point people are starting to pay attention and someone yells at the kid for squirting me and I casually laugh it off and tell them that it’s no big deal, not to get mad at the kid, it was all in good fun!
The ratio of piss to water was definitely in favor of the piss, and I could kind of smell it. Thankfully at this point everyone is convinced that it’s from the water gun. Incredibly relieved (physically and emotionally) I simply sauntered down to the water and waded in to my waist, announcing to everyone within earshot that I didn’t want to walk around “looking like I had pissed myself.”
Disaster narrowly averted…until now, of course.