The knowledge that this pissing thing was interesting came as a fresh faced just turned 17 year old. My sexuality was a bit confused at the time, and I was leading a bit of a double life (well who doesn't!).
I had a regular boyfriend with whom I was having sex ... and jolly nice it was too. But I was very attracted to women as well. Aside from sometimes fooling around with my little sister, which I didn't really think of as sex. I slept with my friend Penny a few times, but she wanted me to commit to a full gay life-style and give up my boyfriend. She felt that if you were gay you had to take it seriously, make a proper commitment. She said pissing about being bisexual was like being a vegetarian only on weekends.
But it didn't seem a good deal to me. I argued that life was like a salad bowel, and sometimes you wanted a rich blue-cheese dressing, and sometimes a peppery olive oil one, or a tart lemon one. Did it really matter? Did you really only have to stick on one if you liked them all?
Anyhow, in a effort to show me how much fun gay people had, once a month she'd take me to the gay night-clubs in a neighbouring city (well I didn't want to be outted locally). And the clubs were great.
It was very nice not to be hit upon by blokes all the time. And the whole atmosphere was very relaxed. If you wanted to wear a super tight little rubber dress, that was cool. And if you wanted to take your top off and shake your titties to the thumping beat of the disco music, no one stared (or at least, not in an offensive or boorish manner). And if you did find someone special, and wanted to get to know them better, well no one bothered to look into the dark nooks round the sides of the club.
So about the fourth or fifth time Penny took me there, I felt pretty cool and trendy. I knew my way around, I knew the score. Penny had already found a partner for the night. And I was happy being a dancing queen on the dance floor: wearing a silly dope and gin hazy smile, a tight little black plastic micro-mini skirt, stockings with nicely visible lacey tops, sophisticated black eye / fingernail makeup (we're talking slut-Punk), and nothing else - except for a few beads of sweat running down my topless front and back. Oh, and the daubs of body glitter on my face and across the tops of my boobs. Down in the dancing pit a few of us were bobbing up a frenzy.
But when the slow-down number came on, I had to do that slightly silly full bladder walk to the ladies loo. I had to wait in line, as ever! A couple of the butch women pissed in the sinks. Which I thought was gross, but was too shy to say so, or do it myself. I watched them in a kind of shock horror. And they enjoyed being watched being really out there.
Luckily one of the cubicles had its door ajar, so I made a bee-line for it. Relieved that I'd soon be relieved. Only to bump into two women already using the toilet.
Of course, loo sharing is perfectly normal. But my feeling of embarrassment and mild annoyance at who'd ever broken the door lock and put me in this situation was struck dumb with irrelevance when I realised that the tall dark haired woman standing up had her skirt hitched up, her panties pulled down, and was peeing over the redhead sitting on the toilet.
The redhead was topless like me, but her whole front was gleaming with piss wetness. I can still see now, and we talking twenty years later, her small pale pink nipples standing firm as the shower of piss slowly swayed across her pale freckled chest.
Of course, my blundering entrance disturbed them from their wet game. I went pink, red, scarlet, and then purple with blushes and stepped back in high-reverse gear, mouthing "Sorry, Oh Sorry, Really, Sorry". I could have just died.
Back in the night club I wanted to find Penny, but she'd disappeared. So not wanting to risk facing these women, I collected my things, dressed for the outside, and left.
The cold night air immediately and forcefully reminded me that I hadn't actually been to the toilet myself. So I had to sneak down a side street, and in a shadowy doorway, crouch down and have a pee myself. Feeling rather exposed I wanted a just a quick one, but of course my bladder wanted to pee forever and ever.
I felt sure the hiss of streaming piss alone could be heard for half a mile, let alone the waterfall tinkles as my wee snaked an Amazon course through the cobble stones till collecting in Lake Piss in the middle of the road. Cunningly, the light from the distant street lamp just caught my pee river, and its glint pointed an accusing finger back at the girl in the shadows.
To speed things up, I fished out my pad of tissues and pressed them against my spraying pussy in an effort to clean up the last of the flow. But my bladder hadn't finished. And in seconds the paper tissues were sodden and my fingers were covered in my piss.
Finally finishing, but having no more tissues, I wiped my hand against the top of my thigh. Which is when I found that I'd messed over my thigh, stockings, and the back of my plastic mini. All in all, a piss poor performance.
I tottered back to the main road, with as much elegance as a drunk girl in heals on cobble stones who's just pissed herself can muster. I took a taxi back to Penny's mum's house (where we stayed on these nights out). As the city sped past my cab window at 3am, I kept going through the evening in my mind like a tape loop. Still flustered, I did manage to work out a few of things:
> that pissing obviously could be a sexual experience
> that it had surprised the life out of me, but not actually shocked me, which was a bit shocking
> and that I didn't know as much about sex as I thought I did
and when I snuggled down in Penny's mum's spare room, and let my fingers explored the nice feeling bits of my young body, I realised that thinking about me pissing made me very hot, and I let myself have a little fantasy, where I was playing my own piss games. And that was very nice.