The Morning Ritual
Posted: 02 Nov 2024, 00:17
Hey there, trying something a little different. Let me know what you think.
Some guys sleep right through it. They don't feel a thing until they wake up, stretching out nice and big under the covers, in a pair of tighty-whities or maybe, during the summer months, nothing at all. A guy like that never seems to break: a liter or two during the workday, a water bottle they swig from casually on the train or the bus as they travel during the day, hydrating non-stop. The need barely registers for them, nothing but a dull ache or a fullness they keep working or driving through. If he's with his buddies he'll blurt out during a silent stretch that he's gotta piss like a racehorse, distantly, but he's never the one to call a piss stop. He just tags along, chatting while he unzips in front of the urinal or the toilet, pausing only to sigh deep from his gut as he starts splashing the porcelain. He'll still be going by the time everyone else is washing their hands. "Damn dude, are you still pissing?" He just turns his head and smirks, taking his sweet time while he drains it. He's got nothing but practice holding it. Mind over matter. The hardest part for him, after getting out of bed and furrowing his brow against the morning light, one hand scratching at the happy trail under his navel, his bladder taut with yesterday's fluids as he marches over to the bowl and picks up the seat, is trying not to miss and start spraying down the bathroom floor.
Other guys start to feel it before they get a full night's sleep. Maybe not every night. And it won't always wake them. The steady drip of a filling tank, in the dead of night when slumber takes a man, can be enough to get his organ standing at attention, images flashing through his mind of another kind of release. Then he won't have to do a thing to keep his drawers dry. Once his heart starts racing, undies tight, turning in bed or even muttering a little and thrusting against the mattress, it doesn't take a dream reader to guess what's going on. Just hope he remembers it, the lucky bastard.
In case he comes out of a deep sleep or nearly wakes up, say like when the breeze of a fan sends a shudder over his unconscious flesh, the chill giving his clammy skin goosebumps as the fine dusting of hair on his meaty arms stands on end, he can usually tie a knot in it by tucking himself between his thighs, or reaching down a hand to squeeze his member shut while he falls back asleep. That self-soothing gesture, always available to him during waking hours, usually does the trick long enough to put the urges out of mind until he can find a restroom or some other place to sneak a piss. When his girlfriend sees him do it she'll call him out, tell him to stop being a pig. If his friends notice it, they don't say anything. Hell, they do it too. In warm weather, on one of those endless summer days while they're out riding motorbikes or playing baseball, one of those squeezes with a wince is that guy's clue that his animal need has caught up with him, broken through to the level of awareness. He'll tell the gang to hold up so he can take a whiz, which is everyone else's cue to put down what they're doing too and pick a bush.
Since he doesn't hold as much unless he's bursting, he doesn't sprint to the head in the morning. He might take his time yawning under the covers before he gets up, walks over to the bathroom and steps in front of the toilet to dispense with the morning ritual.
Then for other guys, it really gives them trouble.
He won't know right away. No fluids after 8pm, a bathroom visit before lights out (nothing but a brief maintenance piss, barely five seconds if that.) So he figures he's fine. He thinks he feels a flutter at the base of that valve, nestled in his pelvis, but he just tries to ignore it long enough to drift off. Maybe he admits defeat and gets up for another quick tinkle, even shorter than the last. It's still no use.
The next thing he knows he's standing barefoot on the tiled floor of a latrine, the surface cold and wet against his feet as it puddles with water bubbling forth from an unknown source. In this one, he's standing there helplessly in just his skivvies, holding only a wrench while he's tasked with stopping a leak in the plumbing, and time's running out. Every step he takes sends a shiver down his spine, the water getting colder and colder as it reaches his ankles.
Or sometimes he's outside, standing in a garden in front of a tomato plant or a rose bush, confused while he aims a hose at it that barely sprays at all. What little fluid there is coming out of the spout just dribbles out, or shoots out in three different directions as thin jets, and he can barely manage to aim it so it lands on the vegetation until he hears a voice from behind him. "What are you doing?" asks his father, or a work colleague from earlier in the day, or any given stranger from that day's events, and all of a sudden he flinches, trying to shut the valve with his other hand while he explains himself to his audience, doing his best not to lose his cool. Under the surface, he's seething that the plumbing's so fucked up, that he can't just get the gardening done before everyone comes out to watch him.
Once, while he was staying at a campground with his friends, he found himself bursting to take a piss, and standing in the best place to do it. Except it was an open bathroom with no stalls, just rows of toilets, the type he hated to use. All his buddies he'd been drinking and hunting with that day were seated or standing at the fixtures around him, shooting the breeze until they noticed him and asked him what was wrong. "C'mon man, just go." He wanted to go, worse than anything, but there was just one toilet left, stuck flushing while water gushed from the bowl. His hands hovered neared his zipper while he hesitated, and he kept trying to approach it but it got his sneakers wet, his companions just staring in wait as he felt more and more desperate.
When he's gotta go the worst, his bladder practically screaming in his ear to rouse his snoring, restless frame, none of that happens. Instead he'll just be peeing in a creek somewhere, enjoying the breeze and savoring the relief while his stream splashes away cheerfully, as he realizes, dimly, that something's wrong. He'll stand there for ages but won't stop peeing. He feels like he's raising the water level, his friends trying to call him back from across the field. He barely notices them, perched on a big rock or a tree stump while he plays with the stream, pointing it back and forth while it splashes again the creek's surface. The image recedes into memory, his bladder feeling fuller than ever, only for him to wake up and realize his back teeth are floating.
Even if he's holding the least of anyone, he has the greatest relief of all, his flip-flops slapping against the hardwood floor as he hurries to relieve himself. The faint whiff of dried piss is impossible to cover up or scrub out from a bachelor apartment's commode or the row of urinals at a frat house's, constantly slicked with a fine mist from dozens of men spraying the porcelain. But in this moment he follows his nose and the reek is almost satisfyingly familiar, an olfactory reminder in his groggy half-asleep state that he's heading in the right direction and a split-second hint of what's to come next.
Some guys sleep right through it. They don't feel a thing until they wake up, stretching out nice and big under the covers, in a pair of tighty-whities or maybe, during the summer months, nothing at all. A guy like that never seems to break: a liter or two during the workday, a water bottle they swig from casually on the train or the bus as they travel during the day, hydrating non-stop. The need barely registers for them, nothing but a dull ache or a fullness they keep working or driving through. If he's with his buddies he'll blurt out during a silent stretch that he's gotta piss like a racehorse, distantly, but he's never the one to call a piss stop. He just tags along, chatting while he unzips in front of the urinal or the toilet, pausing only to sigh deep from his gut as he starts splashing the porcelain. He'll still be going by the time everyone else is washing their hands. "Damn dude, are you still pissing?" He just turns his head and smirks, taking his sweet time while he drains it. He's got nothing but practice holding it. Mind over matter. The hardest part for him, after getting out of bed and furrowing his brow against the morning light, one hand scratching at the happy trail under his navel, his bladder taut with yesterday's fluids as he marches over to the bowl and picks up the seat, is trying not to miss and start spraying down the bathroom floor.
Other guys start to feel it before they get a full night's sleep. Maybe not every night. And it won't always wake them. The steady drip of a filling tank, in the dead of night when slumber takes a man, can be enough to get his organ standing at attention, images flashing through his mind of another kind of release. Then he won't have to do a thing to keep his drawers dry. Once his heart starts racing, undies tight, turning in bed or even muttering a little and thrusting against the mattress, it doesn't take a dream reader to guess what's going on. Just hope he remembers it, the lucky bastard.
In case he comes out of a deep sleep or nearly wakes up, say like when the breeze of a fan sends a shudder over his unconscious flesh, the chill giving his clammy skin goosebumps as the fine dusting of hair on his meaty arms stands on end, he can usually tie a knot in it by tucking himself between his thighs, or reaching down a hand to squeeze his member shut while he falls back asleep. That self-soothing gesture, always available to him during waking hours, usually does the trick long enough to put the urges out of mind until he can find a restroom or some other place to sneak a piss. When his girlfriend sees him do it she'll call him out, tell him to stop being a pig. If his friends notice it, they don't say anything. Hell, they do it too. In warm weather, on one of those endless summer days while they're out riding motorbikes or playing baseball, one of those squeezes with a wince is that guy's clue that his animal need has caught up with him, broken through to the level of awareness. He'll tell the gang to hold up so he can take a whiz, which is everyone else's cue to put down what they're doing too and pick a bush.
Since he doesn't hold as much unless he's bursting, he doesn't sprint to the head in the morning. He might take his time yawning under the covers before he gets up, walks over to the bathroom and steps in front of the toilet to dispense with the morning ritual.
Then for other guys, it really gives them trouble.
He won't know right away. No fluids after 8pm, a bathroom visit before lights out (nothing but a brief maintenance piss, barely five seconds if that.) So he figures he's fine. He thinks he feels a flutter at the base of that valve, nestled in his pelvis, but he just tries to ignore it long enough to drift off. Maybe he admits defeat and gets up for another quick tinkle, even shorter than the last. It's still no use.
The next thing he knows he's standing barefoot on the tiled floor of a latrine, the surface cold and wet against his feet as it puddles with water bubbling forth from an unknown source. In this one, he's standing there helplessly in just his skivvies, holding only a wrench while he's tasked with stopping a leak in the plumbing, and time's running out. Every step he takes sends a shiver down his spine, the water getting colder and colder as it reaches his ankles.
Or sometimes he's outside, standing in a garden in front of a tomato plant or a rose bush, confused while he aims a hose at it that barely sprays at all. What little fluid there is coming out of the spout just dribbles out, or shoots out in three different directions as thin jets, and he can barely manage to aim it so it lands on the vegetation until he hears a voice from behind him. "What are you doing?" asks his father, or a work colleague from earlier in the day, or any given stranger from that day's events, and all of a sudden he flinches, trying to shut the valve with his other hand while he explains himself to his audience, doing his best not to lose his cool. Under the surface, he's seething that the plumbing's so fucked up, that he can't just get the gardening done before everyone comes out to watch him.
Once, while he was staying at a campground with his friends, he found himself bursting to take a piss, and standing in the best place to do it. Except it was an open bathroom with no stalls, just rows of toilets, the type he hated to use. All his buddies he'd been drinking and hunting with that day were seated or standing at the fixtures around him, shooting the breeze until they noticed him and asked him what was wrong. "C'mon man, just go." He wanted to go, worse than anything, but there was just one toilet left, stuck flushing while water gushed from the bowl. His hands hovered neared his zipper while he hesitated, and he kept trying to approach it but it got his sneakers wet, his companions just staring in wait as he felt more and more desperate.
When he's gotta go the worst, his bladder practically screaming in his ear to rouse his snoring, restless frame, none of that happens. Instead he'll just be peeing in a creek somewhere, enjoying the breeze and savoring the relief while his stream splashes away cheerfully, as he realizes, dimly, that something's wrong. He'll stand there for ages but won't stop peeing. He feels like he's raising the water level, his friends trying to call him back from across the field. He barely notices them, perched on a big rock or a tree stump while he plays with the stream, pointing it back and forth while it splashes again the creek's surface. The image recedes into memory, his bladder feeling fuller than ever, only for him to wake up and realize his back teeth are floating.
Even if he's holding the least of anyone, he has the greatest relief of all, his flip-flops slapping against the hardwood floor as he hurries to relieve himself. The faint whiff of dried piss is impossible to cover up or scrub out from a bachelor apartment's commode or the row of urinals at a frat house's, constantly slicked with a fine mist from dozens of men spraying the porcelain. But in this moment he follows his nose and the reek is almost satisfyingly familiar, an olfactory reminder in his groggy half-asleep state that he's heading in the right direction and a split-second hint of what's to come next.
