Bladder Of Hercules

It was 1973. Tricky Dicky was POTUS, 'Nam raged on with body bags arriving at Alameda Naval Air Station every day, and I was a long-haired hippie living in the Bay Area, actually out in a wooded part of Menlo Park at the time, and occasionally I'd make the trip to The City to sex out. Mainly I avoided SF because I was into dude sex, and most of the dudes had split for other places, leaving Baghdad-by-the-Bay to the attitude queens. The city had been a great place in the late 60's and earlier 70's, a very heady time, and when I wasn't indulging myself in my own pleasures I would shake my very available twenty-something tush on the stage of a bar on Mason St. or occasionally slick back my hair, put on a suit, and hustle tourists in upscale places. (I had a perverse daydream where, the day I received my Ph.D - I was in grad school off and on in those days - I would pick up a trick in front of the St. Francis and after he paid for what he thought was rough trade, would inform him that he could call me Doctor Weiss.)

But now, in '73, coke and early disco and institutional faggotry had infiltrated San Francisco's gay infrastructure and finding a Man was a rare event. Against my better judgment, my wanderings one evening had brought me to Dave's, a bathhouse on lower Broadway near the (now defunct) elevated highway, which was a place where most of the clientele divided the world into "Rendezvous dolls" (if you know what I'm referring to you, you dirty old man, you) or "toads." This made for a less than hot atmosphere for my kind of hubba hubba hubby/b-i-i-g dude high testosterone sex. And you didn't know what frustration was unless you'd been at Dave's at 4am and hadn't found anyone you really wanted to score with and you suddenly heard your locker number over the PA: "Locker 69, bring your clothes and keys to the office, we have a room for you!"

After catching some zzz's in my chaste cubicle, I checked out around 8am, had some steaming congee for breakfast in Chinatown and headed to the seedy old Greyhound terminal on Market & 7th to hop a bus going down the Peninsula. I was still frustrated by not getting off, so as I passed it on the way, something made me plunk down $3 to get into this sleazy 24 hour grind house at the corner of Jones & Golden Gate, I think, diagonally across from St. Anthony's soup kitchen, where they played het porn and where there was homo action. I didn't expect much at 9:30 in the morning and the place was indeed virtually deserted. I went up to the men's room, pulled down my pants, sat on the toilet, lit up a jay and decided I would give it an hour.

So there I was in my green and yellow tie-dyed t-shirt and jeans jacket with aquamarine rhinestones, nicely stoned, the bathroom window slightly ajar to let in the fresh San Francisco morning air, when this B-I-G, strapping stud of about 40 in a brown bomber jacket walks in - a trucker? a cop? A professional wrestler? None of the above? Who cared!?! I mean, this guy was total construction worker muscle and reeked of male pheromones. He looked a bit drunk (if you've ever lived in SF, you know it's a town where the drinking starts early) and the haste with which he moved to the urinal told me he had to take a Wicked Piss. (The toilet seat was out in the open, and the urinal was right next to it.) He took out this en-orm-ous long thick dick and was about to pee when he saw me looking at it.

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"You like this?" he says, moving slowly toward me and languidly waving it like a snake charmer. He starts wiping his cock sideways across my face.

"Yeah," I say, opening my mouth, into which he inserts his gargantuan schwantz. Now I'm a good cocksucker, I can take almost any cock to the hilt, but I was lucky to get half of his giant member into my mouth, which was stretched wide by the sheer girth of it. If you're thinking "beer can," think Fosters. I started going at it, he puts his hand on the back of my head, (doncha love it when a stud takes charge of your head?) and -- well, I sensed again that.. you know how you can tell when a dude really has to take a leak? As fonda peter as I was, I had golden shower on my mind, so I took my mouth off of it, looked up at him, my face all pretty and innocent as I could manage, and sweetly said the magic words:

"Would you like to take a piss on me?"

He didn't say anything, laconic Steve Cochran-type bull that he was. Putting his pussy pleaser in his fly for the moment, he went to the doorway of the men's room, looked out into the hallway to see if anyone was there or on the staircase leading up to it, and satisfied that we were alone, came back right in front of me and took it out again. I was attempting to remove my jacket and shirt when I felt the first few drops hit me on my still clothed chest.

"Hey!" I said in protest, and the next thing I knew this firehose gusher was hitting me in the face with enormous force. I mean like Niagra Falls.

Talk about finding yourself suddenly in the Here and Now! My edge of inhibition vanished and I decided if I was going to get totally soaked in my clothes, what the fuck. I opened my mouth and he kept pissing in it, and after I had swallowed a few mouthfuls, he methodically wet down my chest and stomach and started pissing on my dick. I slid down in the seat so my asshole was exposed and he pissed on my puck. He pissed on my legs. He pissed on my pants. He pissed on my shoes. He moved the stream back up my body and pissed in my hair. He pissed on my backpack, which was resting on top of the flush chamber. Back to my face. Back to my chest. Several minutes had gone by. He was still pissing gallons. Evidently he had the bladder of Hercules. As he just kept pissing and pissing and pissing I had plenty of time to start whacking, bring myself to the edge, and get off. He pissed on my dick, kind of lovingly as I recall, as I came. I think he got off on pleasing his urinal.

I laid back exhausted. He was still pissing. It just went on and on and on. The floor was flooded. I felt like Gulliver in Brobdingnag being pissed on by one of the giants. Finally it was over. For sheer force and volume, utter abandon and a source who was hotter than hell, I had just received the piss of my life.

He turned around and started to put himself away. With his ass in my face like that, I reached out and stopped his hands, seductively directing his pants down to his knees and diving into the most pristine, roseate hole, spreading the two massive mounds of his big, butch butt. He stood there regally receiving my tongue's lascivious homage. I wanted to show him how much I appreciated what he'd done. How-ever, when I impulsively tried to stick a finger in his hole, he slapped my hand away. Nothing of the entrance variety, apparently, was allowed to breech the ass lips citadel of the King of Pissers. He pulled up his pants, headed out without a word and was gone.

I got myself together, and soaked and reeking of urine, headed for the bus. I didn't give a fuck if any little old ladies of any sex on the San Jose bus were to smell something funny, there were probably not enough neuron connections in their gray matter to register that I had just got peed on.

When I got to Atherton, where I had stashed my bike in the woods off El Camino Real, the sun was glorious. The sky was intensely blue. The flowers were in bloom, butterflies were fluttering, and the birdies were going tweet, tweet, tweet. As I bicycled to my cottage in Menlo, I was thinking of --- nothing. I was content and deliriously happy.

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