Every Man I Have Ever Pissed on 1994-2007

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I really don’t like the term piss play. Or anything ‘play’, really. Sometimes the infantilisation of kink makes me feel slightly bilious.

Toys. Play.

Not in and, oh my god, won’t somebody think of the children, kind of way. I realise it is possible to use the word ‘play’ without meaning anything ultra-creepy. I just hate the way kink sometimes seems to exist in this strange place on the Venn diagram where trivial and pompous intersect.

Okay, I know I say time and again that this isn’t serious. And it isn’t. And really anyone dominant who describes what they do as art makes me worried (craft at most – truly, because surely there’s a functionality in the bit where things are getting hard and engorged and wet and going into rhythmic spasm – without that part, where are you?), but – having said that - this isn’t hopscotch either.

Because really, if this is play, then there’s something wrong with me, the way it makes me feel inside.

But, face facts – “piss play” is a whole lot nicer than any of the other terms we could dredge up and puke over. This post will not be talking about anything *golden*, anything *nectar*, or frankly anything that makes it sound *nice*. It is not nice. That is the point. It is dirtybadwrong.

Which is nice in a way. But the other kind of nice, not the nectar kind of nice.

I love piss.

Just the thing. In and of itself. The hot, the salt, the colour, the smell. God, I love the smell. I love the way it works like perfume and the scent of it changes as it dries on your skin. The way it kaleidoscopes through different notes. It starts off light and nothing, then fruit, green apples I’d say if I was so inclined – and then it just gets darker and harder and nastier until it’s just dirty back streets and bad, bad things.

Everywhere you shouldn’t go. Everything you shouldn’t say. Everyone your mother warned you about.

The last person I pissed on was the X. It was actually the last thing we ever did together. Afterwards he kind of dropped out and we stopped and after he’d got changed he drove me home. We’d rented this cottage. We still had a day left on the place but we knew when we were done. Or maybe I knew when he was done.

And there was no hanging out together just having fun with me and the X. There was just the scene and there was nothing else. This made the sex really good. And made everything else hurt me.

So we washed the piss off and then we pissed off. (Is that too cute? I kind of liked it.)

I don’t drive, so Pan had dropped me off at the cottage and the X brought me back. I was feeling weird anyway. 3 days it had been. 3 days of not being a human. Of not speaking normally to another person. Just him and me and the gap we’d made between us.

I used to really push myself with him. Through walls of endurance and shame. I don’t know why. We hardly spoke on the drive home. The X had a way of making me feel guilty. Now I know it was because he felt bad about what he’d let me do. But then I just felt used.

The real truth is, the X, over and above anyone else was the man who made Bitchy Jones. I have a lot more scars than he does.

A few days after that he called me and told me about his new vanilla-conversion-project girlfriend. And that that relationship had actually started before we went away. He’d known he was leaving me that whole three days. He’d always wanted me to piss on him. It almost felt like when that happened he’d realised he was done with me.

But, I mean, it wasn’t like me and the X were ever going to get married or anything. The rejection hurt me, but I was in love with someone else all along anyway.

I’ve been in love with the same person for 12 years.

Pan. Always. I went home to Pan after I’d climbed out of that emotional pit. And like with many things, Pan had been the first.

Pan was the first man I ever pissed on. I might have pissed on Pan before we’d actually had sex. The first things we did together were me pissing on him and me stubbing cigarettes out on his chest. That seems such an odd place to start now – I don’t remember it seeming odd then.

I was 23. So was he. He was wearing this cheap suit. He wore that suit every day. Reservoir Dogs had just come out. Black suit, white shirt, black tie. Still love men in suits – still love ties.

Just like the X would years later, he lay in the bath. It was daytime. Daylight outside.

And it was really hard to do. It’s really hard to break your conditioning and piss like that.

And it’s really hard to piss when you are turned on because all your cunt is engorged with blood and everything is sex-swollen and gets in the way.

This is so fucked up. Something that really fucking turns me on is really hard to do *because* it turns me on. It would be *easier* to piss on someone if it wasn’t at all exciting. What a fucking stupid piece of ironicana.

I used to think – hiss, spit – much easier for mandoms and their hosepipe attachment. But actually, don’t they kind of have the same problem? Like, when they start having a good time doesn’t their hosepipe attachment get a lot less flexible?

Either way, this whole thing was not thought through. If that isn’t an argument against intelligent design I don’t know what it.

Pissing on people is not as easy as it looks in the movies. But it is worth it.

Like: In the mouth. In the hair. In the open eyes. So pretty. Then on the floor so he can lick it up. Wipe it on his face. That’s my favourite. Hand flat in it, then wiped right across the closed mouth. His hand or my hand – both work for me.

I thought that suit had been thrown away, but I asked Pan while I was writing this and he says he washed it. He says we still have it somewhere. He’s such a romantic.

So there’s piss. Right there at the start of the best relationship I ever had. And at the end of the (debatably) worst one. Piss. Hello. Goodbye. Where most people might have a kiss.

Afterwards I think fuck it and drop right down in there with him and feel it on his skin, seeping through my clothes and lick his sticky, salty, musky face.

Because I want it too. Me mixed with him. My piss on his skin. I want it to fill up my senses. Because I am not cold and I and not detached. And I am not reserved. My heart is in the room too. My body is warm inside. I love it. Piss.

So I climb in with green apples and the dirty back streets and known why it rhymes with kiss.

Piss.

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Filed under The X, bdsm, confinement, dom, fetish, how to be a sadistic bitch, humiliation, kink, making him vulnerable, male doms, male subs, masculinity, misery, oral fixation, pan, piss, those gags that hold the mouth open