Val
Sat, 9 Apr 05, 10:53 PM
I blame it on these women stricken with sudden incontinence. I have paid up, remembering the last thing I read being about an unexpected attack in the library and on my way home. I woke to a brisk sunny day this morning which degenerated fast after I'd got myself into town with only a light shirt and jacket into spitting and by now, has developed a wind like a nasty draught that gets everwhere, especially through thin Diesel jeans. They are more cotton that denim and probably women's since they actually fit if a bit Italian round the privates and came out the wash yesterday.
After the morning's freeze-fest, I had changed into a comfortable simulacrum of a stretchy floral net curtain with a woolly polo-neck on top and an imitation leather over that. Unfotunately, nothing tucked in so the wind froze its way all round my waist, bladder and kidneys even though they weren't actually exposed. It must be about a quarter mile or less to the I-net café. I am halfway back, in the lighter street passing the pub, heading towards the busy 24-hour Centra when a familiar tingle hits further back than usual straight at the main deep testicle-scrunching muscles.
By the time I'm passing Centra, I'm passing water. No question of spurts or squirts here, wagon-loads of Viagra wouldn't give a Willy a snowball's in Hell of becoming William against this wind (somebody explain to any pure Greek Islanders here. Anyway, the modern language pronounces it Lezhvush) and this is straight through and lucky I can't find decent men's nylon skimpies any more (and only expensive Sloggi women's shortlets stretch the right way) so it's thick cotton warming little patches over my chilled bladder. I like them tight, holding things up. Washing has made these jeans quite light from certain angles though they're not really faded. Breathing condensation on them would probably turn them as dark as the overcast night sky.
By the time I'm in my own street, facing a long queue of cars stuck at the lights, the trickle down my left groin is finding its way through the gap round my left (and bigger) testicle and down my thigh. I need to cross the street, which can be a bit of fun at night wearing only reading glasses (I lost my others a year ago in gratuitous violence) with sight so short that they actually lengthen my left focal distance. So I do it cautiously wondering what the headlamps I'm passing between might show up. Leastwise, I am now on the left and any light worth naming from behind. I have always been fascinated at the ability of streetlamps to light a way without illuminating a thing (like religions). It's like I've heard of dentistry under hypnosis, "I felt the pain but it didn't hurt". I see everything without noticing it.
Not pain, but a combination of sudden warmth over chilled groin almost immediately chilling back again and and if it doesn't hurt, it certainly feels like ants scurrying around the dangly bits from the inside. Bet it does this to clitoridas (I learnt Greek at school so I've snobbed it into the Accusative. I even know it meant a door bolt as well: Kleîtoris) and vaginas. I also learnt Latin, imagine 12 year schoolboys discovering that's where yer Legionarius stuffed his sword!)
In the patio, up the steps and mmmm, feels so good and comforting, just like a lovely warm hand or tongue I've been missing for ever so long (girlfriendless and last one a good Catholic granny at 43 so shy of doing but gorgeously appreciative of being done to). Naturally, while I'm imagining the horde of Russians in and out of each other's flats on the other side waiting for me to burst in leaving a trail down the stairs, the zip is skinning my hand while I ease the Silk Cut out of a breast pocket to get at the keys buried beneath. I am paranoid about losing keys because a month ago I did and himself had no duplicate for Flat 14 so had to change the lock. Though unlike the previous place, I can rely on somebody to open the house door and climb through my window.
Eventually, I get the wrong key in the lock. By now, I have a womanly feeling of wet all underneath the one women might reflect is a very nice part of making love too, so don't be shy of getting on top and leaving something more appreciative than the sheet soaked! (Women are just lazy really, too much knee effort required. I'm lazy too: get up there girl!).
I cannot walk on stairs; I run, usually two at a time. I think unconscious psychology has taken over knowing that The Bog is down there and through the door. I only live in a basement (perhaps) from the flat on other side, I look out over a boring yard where the refugees gather to smoke so I need to draw the curtain for privacy. Sod knows, I lived in Birmingham for years, so I'm familiar with level tunnels that turn into bridges and ground floors averaged between well above at one end and under at the other (anybody know the QE2 nurses' home?). My inner left leg is now soaking and I can't stop the flow, even if it is more cok that won't stop than bladder pressure.
Naturally, I shove the wrong key in my own lock while trembling with something close to a mini-orgasm and by the time I have got into the flat and straight through the next door into The Bog (they don't say that here because Ireland is full of real bogs: they call it the Jacks, delightfully Shakepearian as in a character called Jacques for no reason always pronounced as Jake-weez. A dig at the French was as popular then as now).
Once I'm in, the mere sight of porcelain has the flow unstoppable but still not actually forced. There's a mirror enough to show I'm well stained and anyway my left shoe is all squelchy. That is bad news, since they are suède shoes that don't take kindly to getting wet. I was intending to wear these jeans tomorrow but I can't be arsed. Into the shower. I don't want to sit down and spoil the lick down my legs. For some reason it favours the left, probably because that testicle is bigger and holds my briefs open. All the same, I don't enjoy wet feet!
So I'm girly-squatting in the shower compromising relief and sparing my foot. I won't sit or I'd only wet my bum, not so sensitive. My thighs, that's different. Wouldn't it be nice now for that young Russian next door to wander in, take one look and drop her own pants for a nice long lick. As likely as me for Hell when the Jesus UFO Raptures the Faithfull! I'm upright enough to wet my legs. I'd like it to be both legs equally but feminists could have told me that since the left is the traditionally feminine side, that is the one that gets itself pissed on. Feminists could probably also tell me that even thinking of a woman in a sexual context renders her a barely human inferior object of exploitation only capable of association with a man at all if she is such a bimbo she does not realise how he is abusing her.
I'm all wet. Isn't it lovely. I should strip off and clean up but no. this light material feels good warm and wet, though more comforting than thrilling to want to masturbate. I recall a young lover telling me she masturbated herself to sleep without climax. That's how I feel but I couldn't do it except by default. I feel about as randy as a cup of Ovaltine. I do feel comfortable and know from memory that if I could curl up with somebody, even though we were tired and comfortable together, little touches would somehow excite the relevent parts even though we were relaxed half asleep and it's quite different from lust rampant even if it took a delightfully long wet time. Sadly, I have never experienced such gentleness wet, though I have dry.
So (for technical types, this is called recursion descibed perfectly in The Devil's Dictionary as Recursion: see Recursion) I sit down to write the sensation up. Of course I can't because it is past and to think of writing needs dissociation from sensation. Even so, when I sat down, my soaked briefs and clinging jeans were a caress, especially around the comforting warm goolies.
Now, I feel almost dry but not for long because a bottle of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon has been enjoyed and this time, I have enough control over my bladder, but enough enticement from my damp but drying jeans to feel the sensation of holding back and of, maybe women can't, losing conrol to relieve pressure inside while restraining it further down the line as I could not when frozen.
So now, writing about it, I can feel sensations that control it, but a bottle of wine and cool wet thighs later, my bladder squeezes, I feel the thrill whether I can hold back through all that channel or whether I feel tensing force it out. It's more thrill to play me, body against myself, the kind of thrill I'd love with a friend but see only in most cases as ritualised S&M play I can't handle it's primary concern with the 'domination' uppermost. My jeans haven't dried, but this time, I can hold back enough to feel the sensations of holding back that I can't guess for a woman but I bet it's better.
However, sitting in my jeans dried to damp, I can now hold back and feel further. Now, when I lose it, it is sharp in my penis, not deeper as before. My bladder is not pressing but irritation right at the front is. I should use the toilet normally but it is too late. My legs are crossed tight, constricting under my testicles but more to comfort them than to prevent release. It is like a woman sitting with legs crossed to squeeze her vagina, it only restrains the determined part indirectly by reminding of the sexual component.
My wet jeans thrill and tease every time I move. I long to be the source of thrills unable to hold it and guessing what I feel, as I would thrill to a woman as unashamed as I would like to be of admitting equal sexuality. This time, I can hold back. I don't want to, but I don't want to lose it deliberatley either. I want the sensation of holding for all I'm worth and still feeling that near-orgasmic tickle-burning. I would love of course for it to be shared, and to enable restraint to be genuine, to need to hold back, to have more than just determination.
I feel it slowly in the sexual places but different from sex, as much more thrilling probably closer to how women feel exterior need for relief, lasting pre-orgasm tingle. I'd love to know a woman was feeling her pants wet for enjoying my sensations but I only ever met one or the rest were as inhibitted as men about possible antagonism for admitting the other sex equally sensual.
We'll never know exactly how each other feels. I'd guess I feel more like the tip of a tongue on the clitoris than deep full-body liberating sensuality. I don't want intercourse, the sensations prevent it, but I would love to hold a woman coming slowly to manual and oral climax while I feel through wetting hours of intensity orgasm only gives for seconds. Then again, it is not only 'external', my bladder contracts and I enjoy the warmth all over my front. For some reason, most goes to the left, even though I am sitting down. I expect it is something to do with briefs and foreskin.
What the hell, every woman here can share my thrills and maybe some men. It's so wonderful to feel split between the part one in control and the part that can't respond to control.
After the morning's freeze-fest, I had changed into a comfortable simulacrum of a stretchy floral net curtain with a woolly polo-neck on top and an imitation leather over that. Unfotunately, nothing tucked in so the wind froze its way all round my waist, bladder and kidneys even though they weren't actually exposed. It must be about a quarter mile or less to the I-net café. I am halfway back, in the lighter street passing the pub, heading towards the busy 24-hour Centra when a familiar tingle hits further back than usual straight at the main deep testicle-scrunching muscles.
By the time I'm passing Centra, I'm passing water. No question of spurts or squirts here, wagon-loads of Viagra wouldn't give a Willy a snowball's in Hell of becoming William against this wind (somebody explain to any pure Greek Islanders here. Anyway, the modern language pronounces it Lezhvush) and this is straight through and lucky I can't find decent men's nylon skimpies any more (and only expensive Sloggi women's shortlets stretch the right way) so it's thick cotton warming little patches over my chilled bladder. I like them tight, holding things up. Washing has made these jeans quite light from certain angles though they're not really faded. Breathing condensation on them would probably turn them as dark as the overcast night sky.
By the time I'm in my own street, facing a long queue of cars stuck at the lights, the trickle down my left groin is finding its way through the gap round my left (and bigger) testicle and down my thigh. I need to cross the street, which can be a bit of fun at night wearing only reading glasses (I lost my others a year ago in gratuitous violence) with sight so short that they actually lengthen my left focal distance. So I do it cautiously wondering what the headlamps I'm passing between might show up. Leastwise, I am now on the left and any light worth naming from behind. I have always been fascinated at the ability of streetlamps to light a way without illuminating a thing (like religions). It's like I've heard of dentistry under hypnosis, "I felt the pain but it didn't hurt". I see everything without noticing it.
Not pain, but a combination of sudden warmth over chilled groin almost immediately chilling back again and and if it doesn't hurt, it certainly feels like ants scurrying around the dangly bits from the inside. Bet it does this to clitoridas (I learnt Greek at school so I've snobbed it into the Accusative. I even know it meant a door bolt as well: Kleîtoris) and vaginas. I also learnt Latin, imagine 12 year schoolboys discovering that's where yer Legionarius stuffed his sword!)
In the patio, up the steps and mmmm, feels so good and comforting, just like a lovely warm hand or tongue I've been missing for ever so long (girlfriendless and last one a good Catholic granny at 43 so shy of doing but gorgeously appreciative of being done to). Naturally, while I'm imagining the horde of Russians in and out of each other's flats on the other side waiting for me to burst in leaving a trail down the stairs, the zip is skinning my hand while I ease the Silk Cut out of a breast pocket to get at the keys buried beneath. I am paranoid about losing keys because a month ago I did and himself had no duplicate for Flat 14 so had to change the lock. Though unlike the previous place, I can rely on somebody to open the house door and climb through my window.
Eventually, I get the wrong key in the lock. By now, I have a womanly feeling of wet all underneath the one women might reflect is a very nice part of making love too, so don't be shy of getting on top and leaving something more appreciative than the sheet soaked! (Women are just lazy really, too much knee effort required. I'm lazy too: get up there girl!).
I cannot walk on stairs; I run, usually two at a time. I think unconscious psychology has taken over knowing that The Bog is down there and through the door. I only live in a basement (perhaps) from the flat on other side, I look out over a boring yard where the refugees gather to smoke so I need to draw the curtain for privacy. Sod knows, I lived in Birmingham for years, so I'm familiar with level tunnels that turn into bridges and ground floors averaged between well above at one end and under at the other (anybody know the QE2 nurses' home?). My inner left leg is now soaking and I can't stop the flow, even if it is more cok that won't stop than bladder pressure.
Naturally, I shove the wrong key in my own lock while trembling with something close to a mini-orgasm and by the time I have got into the flat and straight through the next door into The Bog (they don't say that here because Ireland is full of real bogs: they call it the Jacks, delightfully Shakepearian as in a character called Jacques for no reason always pronounced as Jake-weez. A dig at the French was as popular then as now).
Once I'm in, the mere sight of porcelain has the flow unstoppable but still not actually forced. There's a mirror enough to show I'm well stained and anyway my left shoe is all squelchy. That is bad news, since they are suède shoes that don't take kindly to getting wet. I was intending to wear these jeans tomorrow but I can't be arsed. Into the shower. I don't want to sit down and spoil the lick down my legs. For some reason it favours the left, probably because that testicle is bigger and holds my briefs open. All the same, I don't enjoy wet feet!
So I'm girly-squatting in the shower compromising relief and sparing my foot. I won't sit or I'd only wet my bum, not so sensitive. My thighs, that's different. Wouldn't it be nice now for that young Russian next door to wander in, take one look and drop her own pants for a nice long lick. As likely as me for Hell when the Jesus UFO Raptures the Faithfull! I'm upright enough to wet my legs. I'd like it to be both legs equally but feminists could have told me that since the left is the traditionally feminine side, that is the one that gets itself pissed on. Feminists could probably also tell me that even thinking of a woman in a sexual context renders her a barely human inferior object of exploitation only capable of association with a man at all if she is such a bimbo she does not realise how he is abusing her.
I'm all wet. Isn't it lovely. I should strip off and clean up but no. this light material feels good warm and wet, though more comforting than thrilling to want to masturbate. I recall a young lover telling me she masturbated herself to sleep without climax. That's how I feel but I couldn't do it except by default. I feel about as randy as a cup of Ovaltine. I do feel comfortable and know from memory that if I could curl up with somebody, even though we were tired and comfortable together, little touches would somehow excite the relevent parts even though we were relaxed half asleep and it's quite different from lust rampant even if it took a delightfully long wet time. Sadly, I have never experienced such gentleness wet, though I have dry.
So (for technical types, this is called recursion descibed perfectly in The Devil's Dictionary as Recursion: see Recursion) I sit down to write the sensation up. Of course I can't because it is past and to think of writing needs dissociation from sensation. Even so, when I sat down, my soaked briefs and clinging jeans were a caress, especially around the comforting warm goolies.
Now, I feel almost dry but not for long because a bottle of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon has been enjoyed and this time, I have enough control over my bladder, but enough enticement from my damp but drying jeans to feel the sensation of holding back and of, maybe women can't, losing conrol to relieve pressure inside while restraining it further down the line as I could not when frozen.
So now, writing about it, I can feel sensations that control it, but a bottle of wine and cool wet thighs later, my bladder squeezes, I feel the thrill whether I can hold back through all that channel or whether I feel tensing force it out. It's more thrill to play me, body against myself, the kind of thrill I'd love with a friend but see only in most cases as ritualised S&M play I can't handle it's primary concern with the 'domination' uppermost. My jeans haven't dried, but this time, I can hold back enough to feel the sensations of holding back that I can't guess for a woman but I bet it's better.
However, sitting in my jeans dried to damp, I can now hold back and feel further. Now, when I lose it, it is sharp in my penis, not deeper as before. My bladder is not pressing but irritation right at the front is. I should use the toilet normally but it is too late. My legs are crossed tight, constricting under my testicles but more to comfort them than to prevent release. It is like a woman sitting with legs crossed to squeeze her vagina, it only restrains the determined part indirectly by reminding of the sexual component.
My wet jeans thrill and tease every time I move. I long to be the source of thrills unable to hold it and guessing what I feel, as I would thrill to a woman as unashamed as I would like to be of admitting equal sexuality. This time, I can hold back. I don't want to, but I don't want to lose it deliberatley either. I want the sensation of holding for all I'm worth and still feeling that near-orgasmic tickle-burning. I would love of course for it to be shared, and to enable restraint to be genuine, to need to hold back, to have more than just determination.
I feel it slowly in the sexual places but different from sex, as much more thrilling probably closer to how women feel exterior need for relief, lasting pre-orgasm tingle. I'd love to know a woman was feeling her pants wet for enjoying my sensations but I only ever met one or the rest were as inhibitted as men about possible antagonism for admitting the other sex equally sensual.
We'll never know exactly how each other feels. I'd guess I feel more like the tip of a tongue on the clitoris than deep full-body liberating sensuality. I don't want intercourse, the sensations prevent it, but I would love to hold a woman coming slowly to manual and oral climax while I feel through wetting hours of intensity orgasm only gives for seconds. Then again, it is not only 'external', my bladder contracts and I enjoy the warmth all over my front. For some reason, most goes to the left, even though I am sitting down. I expect it is something to do with briefs and foreskin.
What the hell, every woman here can share my thrills and maybe some men. It's so wonderful to feel split between the part one in control and the part that can't respond to control.