Date: Wed, 15 May 2002 14:55:12 -0400
From: Jerry Weiss <jerry.weiss@vnsusa.org>
Subject: The Bladder of Hercules (ws)

If you are offended by M/M sex stories, why are you here?  Also, if reading
erotic material has local legal restrictions, particularly as to age, I
think your local authorities are deluded, but please take your teenage
woody somewhere else until you're legal.

All standard Nifty author's rights apply.

Comments?  Send to Jerry at jerryw@pipeline.com or jerry.weiss@vnsusa.org


THE BLADDER OF HERCULES

This story is 100% true, and although it happened almost 30 years ago in
another time and space, it remains my number one piss experience of all
time and I still jack off to memories of it.

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.

"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.

-- Jerry Weiss