Piss Trigger

  
I worked in a group home for severely emotionally disturbed youth ages five to thirteen. I also lived there. It was a how I moved to San Francisco: an internship promising exciting and challenging work in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I had babysat, done a short stint in Minneapolis Unified School District, and worked for the YMCA. I thought the group home couldn't be too much different. I should have see the bronchitis and stomach flu I caught on the plane ride here for what they were: a portend of things to come.

I shared a room with another intern. He met his girlfriend, who also shared our room unofficially, while working there. They were your typical middle-class do-gooders: blond, white, East Coasters who would eventually become private school teachers or accountants or business people in suits. Their late night sex kept me awake a number of times. I never said anything, choosing instead to retaliate by masturbating as they came.

My roommate and I shared more than orgasms; we also shared responsibility for a room of four boys. I was their guardian Wednesday through Saturday. He parented them Saturday night to Tuesday. Our strict styles were complimentary and left little room for disruptive behavior, but they boys still managed an explosion or paroxysm or discharge at least once per shift. In the battle of nature versus nurture, their "supposed" nurture unleashed their animalistic nature. Our job was to redirect or contain their very nature so the boys could at least be open to nurturing. It tended to be sad and downhill thanks to the less-than-a-year cycles of interns that mirrored the youths' cycles of violence and distrust.

The thrown shit, perfectly aimed stream of piss, black eyes, wrestling youth to the ground or pinning them to a wall, padded room with a magnetic lock, waking up to screams of "Fuck you!" or "The Days of the Week" song, disclosures of sexual abuse from a seven-year-old took their toll on me. Conflict, on one level, became easier because it wasn't as bad or extreme as anything I experienced at work. A little normalization goes a very long way. It also unlocked triggers: the things I just wouldn't put up with outside the confines of the group home and the safety of a white padded cell. Piss was a trigger.

It started in a manner that I thought was innocent; later it turned out to be intentional. I can't recall how I met Jimmy, but he was the first boy I courted in San Francisco. I loved his smooth brown skin, deep chocolate eyes, and tempestuous temperament. He was familiarly dismissive, and I needed his attention. I believed I could crack his petrified persona. It was more a project than a relationship for both of us.

We went out one night to Hole in the Wall for cocktails and pinball. We both had a mutual admiration for The Twilight Zone machine even though we were horrible. It was my turn, and he left to wander the hallway-shaped and -sized bar. The flashing lights, beeps and whistles, and buzz from my Corona helped me forget the conflicts and problems at the group home. I had become bored with masturbating to the sounds of my roommates fucking. I didn't want to wake up to the sounds of chairs thrown at windows. I just wanted a good night's sleep. I was anticipating our night together at his apartment as we spooned and played with each other between stretches of restful sleep.

I was kicking ass at The Twilight Zone. The score increasing, my spirits raised. Then, a random guy approached the machine interrupting my game. Distracted, I hit the flipper button a moment too late and the pinball fell into the mechanical gutter along with my good mood.

"What the fuck!" I yelled at him. "Back off!"

He stood there wearing his denim and smug expression behind a facade of innocence. He apologized but didn't move. My friend returned laughing and smiling eager for his turn. I stepped aside and the uninvited guest touched my lower back. I spun around while slapping his hand away and screaming, "Fuck off!" He leaned in and whispered, "I want to piss on you."

Another "Fuck off!" was all I could muster.

Our guest never left our side. Jimmy laughed at each of his advances. I continued slapping hands away and screaming various versions of "Fuck off" or "Fuck you" or "Go fuck yourself". At one point, I pulled Jimmy aside and begged for his help in getting him to go away. Jimmy responded, "Chill out. It's only a bar. Where's he going to go?"

Our gamed ended and so did my time at Hole in the Wall. I gave up on a quiet night with Jimmy and resolved to smoke a joint and take a Benadryl for a hopefully uninterrupted night of sleep. Jimmy followed me outside. So did the asshole.

Jimmy pleaded with me to stay. I said no. The asshole unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick. "Will you stay if I piss all over you," he asked as he moved closer. I snapped and punched him. Besides my brother, I had never hit anyone. Sure, I had been in a number of fights, but I  was always on the receiving side. I felt powerful.

He immediately stumbled back shocked by the contact of my fist which didn't match my skinny legged royal blue silk pants. As he rubbed his cheek, he muttered, "God. I was only kidding. You're friend put me up to it."

Jimmy was laughing hysterically. I looked at him and proclaimed our relationship and friendship over. While there were many times before where he skirted the line or walked its wide edge, it now had been crossed. I was instinctively decisive and final. I loved that freedom.

I worked at the group home another few months until my internship ended. I had more shit thrown at me and more piss aimed in my direction. I broke up many fights. I even wrestled a young man to the ground in J-Town Peace Plaza. I never lost my temper.

Many years after leaving the group home, piss was no longer my trigger. I found that out one night while cruising a large muscular man who stood in shadows holding his crotch, eyes darting back and forth. He blended nicely into his background; you had to be looking to find him. I saw him and approached unsure of the risk but eager for release. He whispered what he wanted in my ear, and I giggled. I was intrigued and obliging. We walked behind the abandoned car wash on Sixth Street, and he pulled out his cock, bladder full. I put my face in his stream of warm salty piss. He smiled and got hard making it impossible to pee. He zipped back up.

We ended the evening in the bathroom of his hotel room at the Palace naked and wet. He was gentle and accommodating always asking permission for the kinkier things. I always said yes. I was safe. An orgasm or two and a shower later, we crawled back into bed and fell asleep spooning.

He gave me his number and asked to see me again, but we both knew we were travelers in the night. The morning and sun brought with it a different reality: I obliged to get over my piss trigger. Satisfied, I handed the slip of paper back to him and kissed him on the cheek. While I may have been the bottom in the bathroom, I was on top this morning.

"Sweetie, Last night was divine. Let's keep it at that," I said as I exited.

I've never been pissed on since.

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