Piss Queen

I DID NOT GROW UP to be a Piss Queen.

After a month or more complaining about my unrequited baby lesbian love, I was set up on my first blind date by my patient friends.

She was slightly older than me, Butch, kinky, smart, funny and above all not looking for a serious girlfriend—according to her text message.

She met me at a prearranged bus stop and stood with flowers in hand and looking dapper. When we hugged I put my nose against the skin of her neck and smelled a spicy resinous scent that I discovered was actually a hippie oil knock off of Obsession. I blushed when she stepped back from our hug, made shy by her gaze that sped from my eyes to my tits to my shoes. She licked her lips.

There was a moment when we started walking hand in hand, that I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She gave people that Yes this is my girl look. Being a chubby femme Black girl, I rarely saw that kind of want on the face or in the eyes of my dates and I’d realized then, I ached for it. I remember her warm hand on the small of my back as we walked to the restaurant. When people looked at us, she tightened her grip on me. She didn’t try to pretend we were just friends; it was obvious to everyone that I was hers.

If I close my eyes now and think about that date, I can’t remember the exact details. We had an intense nerdy conversation about Dune. We debated the possible ramifications of lesbian Bene Gesserit faction taking over Arrakis. Between the nerding and flirting we talked about other books and our mutual newly acquired love affair with swing dancing.

After dinner we shared a cigar, a scotch and cheesecake—my favorite dessert. Then, I was ready to hand over my panties.

So when she asked if we could see each other again my answer was a resounding hell yes.

By our second date, I was blinded by the booty. My mind was set on fucking the smirk right off of her face. All I wanted was to get back to her apartment and get naked.

Over a big plate of fries and a pitcher of beer, we established:

1. She liked to be dominated.

2. I wanted my boots worshipped.

3. She wanted to be humiliated and slapped.

4. I wanted to pull her hair, call her names and sit on her face.

Everything was right until I mentioned I had to pee and she asked, “Have you ever tried water sports?”

I hadn’t. I didn’t want to be peed on but, after being urged, I agreed to pee on her and we headed to the bathroom.

I waited outside her bathroom door and hopped side to side and did the pee pee dance while she rummaged around to preparing in ways that I was not privy to, but only heard.

I had to go so bad I didn’t really care what she was doing in there. As I was hopping around in her hallway holding my crotch with both hands I realized having to pee did not make me feel sexy. I was less aroused than before and even worse—I felt silly.

When she finally opened the door, she stood naked with her hands behind her back. I stopped doing the pee pee dance and pinched her nipples. I slapped her across the face and she made a sweet little mew noise that put me right back in the right frame of mind. I wanted to pee on her, call her a slut and screw her cross eyed.

I don’t have a huge bladder capacity. Matter of fact I’m one of those people you don’t want to take anywhere on the road because I’ll be begging to pull over and pee every twenty minutes. By then I was beyond capacity. I really had to go. Bad.

After all that teasing I took my panties off and sat on the edge of the tub, scooting back until my business end was in line to fire.

And then things started going downhill because peeing on command was not easy. So, I started to laugh. It started with a cute giggle and escalated until I was in absolute hysterics, my mouth wide open with horrible braying laughter. I laughed so hard I snorted. I just could not stop, nor could I pee.

There I was, boots on, dress rucked up around my waist with my butt hanging over a bathtub while a naked woman begged for my “golden nectar.” It was so ridiculous I laughed more until my giggles moved into my belly and I bent at the waist hugging my knees and gasping for breath.

The more offended she got, the harder I laughed, and the more pressure on my bladder the more I laughed. I laughed so hard I fell off of the tub and curled up on her bathroom floor howling. Tears streamed down my face I was snorting and drooling.

“STOP LAUGHING!” she yelled. She stood up in the tub with her hands on her hips and accused me of ruining the scene.

Her face turned red with anger. I laughed harder. I had crossed the line and could not stop because I was getting yelled at by a naked lesbian for not peeing when she wanted me to pee.The only thing I could do was apologize and when I did, she got back down in the tub.

So I stood and looked down her, but then, I started laughing again.

I dredged up some sort of grace I never have had in my life since, spun and plopped my butt on the toilet and had one of the most satisfying pees of my entire life.

She stood up again and yelled at me some more. She demanded that I leave immediately despite my further apologies and promise of other kinds of kink.

I peed, she yelled and I laughed.

The only thing to do was leave. I walked out without my panties. They were left in a silky little puddle on her bathroom floor. I walked from her apartment to a nearby bar and giggled into my drinks until I decided to go home and while I got tipsy, I hoped she found a bad bitch femme to beat her up and pee on her.

But at least I know now, I’m not the one.