I peed on someone for money

“Do you want to come over to my place and pee on a guy?” It was a typical Friday. Some of my friends are Pro-Dommes or, Dominatrices (a plural which makes my inner linguist giggle). With the advent of 50 shades of absolute bullshit, those terms probably don’t need explaining.

Via.

Probably the worst thing to happen for kink’s public image since… no. Ever.
Via.

However, in case you’ve been living under the proverbial rock, they are women who get paid to perform acts of Bondage, Domination, Discipline, Sadism and the like on clients. I occasionally join in on their fun – it’s profitable, and a lot of it falls under the category of “things I would do in my spare play time” anyway. Golden showers aren’t anywhere near the top of the long list of fetishes I enjoy, but it isn’t near the bottom, either. (Ha, bottom… okay I’ll stop.) This is a far cry from all the time I wasted in middle school, waiting to be the last girl in the bathroom so no one would hear me pee.

The first time I got paid to piss on someone for money was also the first time I had ever gotten paid to do kinky things to another human being. I was nineteen, and so nervous that I wouldn’t have enough “fuel,” I didn’t pee all day, including a commute from Orange County to LA.

I need to pee GIF

ALL. FUCKING. DAY.
Via.

After playing 15 minutes of the downtown LA “drive around the same block of one-way streets hoping someone will leave” game, I found a spot, retied the belt of my flasher coat, and made my way inside.

The dungeon–and before you get an image of a basement with bars and chains, a dungeon is a catch-all term for “a place where kinky things happen”–was a studio on an upper floor of a swanky (doorman included) apartment building.

I checked the apartment number for the tenth time on the way out of the elevator, as knocking on the wrong door would hold slightly higher than the usual level of embarrassment. Luckily I picked the right one, and was admitted with a smile. Some other women were in the foyer changing from street clothes to their “classy FemDom” outfits (why didn’t I think of that), but the pee party was already in full swing.

The pissee was laid out in the center of the floor, vaguely reminiscent of a post-Thanksgiving leftover, wrapped from neck to foot in Saran Wrap.

A large tarp was laid out on the floor, in case of spillage, and a bedside commode with the bucket removed was placed over his face. Instead of a bucket, a carefully strung up funnel was suspended from springs. The funnel attached to a tube, which went into his mouth. BDSM needs yield fascinating engineering solutions. He was wearing swim goggles… At least he had his priorities straight.

I knew a few of the women present, and we greeted each other with hugs and kisses on the cheek, the usual “I miss you so much! Let’s get together soon!” I had to repeatedly restrain laughter at the contrast between the “normality” of the chit chat and the scene laid in the middle of it all.

This, except kinkier. And without bestiality.

This, except kinkier. And without bestiality.

I let one woman go before me, so I could make sure there wasn’t some particular ritual or technique I’d be missing. She daintily pulled up her skirt, pulled down her panties, and didn’t appear to do anything different from what I did at home (with the exception of the audience, and the strange man’s face a foot from her ass). I had been full to bursting for hours, so as soon as she was done, I took a deep breath and stepped up.

After carefully negotiating my stiletto over his chest (puncturing a lung does not fall under the category of healthy BDSM play), I sat down, and waited. And waited. A tiny trickle came out. I started freaking out a little. Was it just pee shyness? Would I still get paid? As I was trying to add up the amount of water I drank that day, the distraction from the crowd was enough.

Holding it all day paid off. He had to swallow pretty quickly to keep the funnel from overflowing – even I was impressed. Bladder empty, I grabbed the roll of toilet paper someone was kind enough to hand me and finished up. I felt strangely victorious.

I didn’t stick around long after I was done. Watching some dude swallow pee, as novel an experience as it was, got old pretty quickly. I collected my fee as politely as possible, grabbed my things, and left.

As I walked back to my car, I asked myself questions similar to the ones I asked myself after I had had penetrative sex for the first time. “Am I different now?” “What does this mean about who I am as a person?” I decided it means I’m a person who will occasionally pee on people for money, and that’s all.

In any case, I’m happy I got out of there before they cut him out of his wrapping – that stuff does NOT breathe well.