So I am at work on a Friday and I have to use the bathroom. Usually, I do not use the bathroom at work unless it’s an absolute must. I’m the type of guy that likes to be at home, on my own toilet, and do my business in familiar territory. My stomach doesn’t care about all that though.
I head into the bathroom and spray Lysol all over the seat. This is my public bathroom ritual. After the seat is lathered in antibacterial goodness that kills 99.9% of all germs, I wipe the seat down. I then peel off 3 squared sheets of toilet paper and lay it across all 4 sides of the toilet seat. I can now sit down.
I take my shirt off because I do not want my shirt to collect the odor that rises from the seat below while I am using the bathroom. I know, this all sounds so dumb, but again, this is my ritual (my after the bathroom ritual is equally as bad — think: soap, wet wipes, using the sink as a bidet, and manpons until I can go home and shower). I am now shirtless, sitting on a toilet paper covered toilet seat that has been doused in Lysol, with my penis…ah yes, my penis. I didn’t mention my penis. Well, other than urinating prior to sitting, I will hold it in my lap and lay it across the toilet paper at the front of the seat. There is no way I am going to let my dick hang into the toilet. Would I put my face down inside the toilet seat while someone sits on the back of my head? Would I put my hand in the toilet seat slightly letting it touch the sides or on a good day, even dipping my finger tips into the filthy water itself? Absolutely not. So why on earth would I let my most prized possession dangle below me, inside a disgusting toilet bowl strangers defecate in? I wouldn’t.
So as I sit on the seat and text Venice about the latest gossip going on in the office, I feel a second urge of urine stream. Forgetting where I was, I released the stream and heard water sprinkling onto the floor. I quickly jumped up and grabbed my penis and aimed it down into the toilet. I looked at the back of my pants that were pulled down around my shins, and noticed the entire back of them had been peed on. Soaked. The floor as well, but who cares about the damn bathroom floor.
I peed on the back pockets…of my fucking pants. What? Thankfully I bring a change of clothing just in case I have to see a client on casual Friday. So I make a superman like change into my slacks and shirt with a tie, and reappear from the bathroom a new man. A few co-workers notice and I look at my watch like I have a meeting to go to. I leave the office, circle the block, and come back in a few minutes and make up some story about having to meet up with someone. No one knew I just pissed in my own back pockets, but I knew. And now…you know. Peed Myself Peed Myself Peed Myself Peed Myself Peed Myself
*edit. I totally forgot I wrote this blog on Friday and scheduled for it to go live on our weekly scheduled Monday morning blog. So I reread the story and cracked a smile. A smile on Monday? That makes pissing in my own back pocket on Friday totally worth it. 🙂 Have a good week you guys! peed myself peed myself peed myself peed myself peed myself peed myself

I’m not a big fan of the drama genre, which is why so many of these are older movies. These are my classics.
During work at about 2 P.M. I got a text message from Venice saying she had a bad headache and she was headed to the store to buy some Ibuprofen. It’s allergy season so I figured it was no big deal. At about 5:30 P.M. I see her car pull up to my office and she gets out and switches seats. I call her on her cell and ask what is going on. She tells me she is tired and needs me to drive her home. She felt guilty because she knew I wasn’t off yet and offered to sleep in the car until I was off work. Of course I immediately close down and go outside to see what is wrong with her. She asked if I could leave my car at work and drive her home. She can’t seem to stay awake. I agree, but ask if I need to take her to the hospital. Something just wasn’t right.
Years ago, when Venice and I were still dating, we explored each other’s bodies daily. I had never really touched my body, my testicles, and as I already mentioned in a previous article, I
The doctor, an Asian lady that resembled Lucy Liu, asked if she was interrupting something. Like two shamed school kids, we both looked down and shook our heads no. She then asked me what my reasons were for coming in that day. I explained to her that we found a lump in my testicles and wanted to know if I was dying. She asked me to stand up and remove my pants so she could have a look.
Not to be a pervert, but I can see why Seargent Tucker seemed to be having so many penis problems himself. This doctor was adorable. I started counting sheep in my head trying not to think about anything sexual. I was extremely embarrassed about exposing myself to a doctor, as the only person that had ever seen me nude was Venice, but I guess you can say I have this thing for Asian women. Doctor or no doctor, I said a small prayer asking the Lord to please help me control my penis so it does not make any sudden movements. I pulled my pants down and watched the doctor eyeball my penis and testicles. She fondled me for a few moments and couldn’t find the lump. I asked if I could show her where, and she nodded. I put my finger on the area of the lump and she placed her hand where I was pointing. She confirmed she also felt a lump and asked me to lay down. I still had my pants halfway down to my knees and wobbled my way to the patient table. I looked over to Venice, who was making her tongue poke out the side of her cheek inside her mouth, to suggest a blow job, and gave her a dirty look. As I laid there naked, exposed to the doctor who was fondling my balls, with my girlfriend watching, I wanted to disappear from earth. I hated every second of it. I really felt even more stupid when I found out there was nothing wrong with my testicles and it was merely a bent vein in my sac that hardens (when my testicles are not fully sagging) when I stand up.
The other day, Ryan (Mahal) and I were looking through his box of memories. It was filled pictures of me through various stages of my life, movie stubs, receipts from local movie rental stores, postage from care packages, candy wrappers, and letters I’d written to him while he was away at college. Sometimes on a roll of cash register paper that he’d have to unfurl to read, sometimes on cardboard packaging, and sometimes on college ruled paper. We spent most of that night looking at his memories. He cried a few times as he remembered how in love we were, and still are. It’s like we blinked and we went from being giddy teenagers without a care in the world to being married, raising our young, and spending our days together doing yard work and taking vacations and caring for each other.
