Pee bagging

If ever there was a justly propagated stereotype, it is about men and their difficulties maintaining proper targeting while urinating. I like to think that I'm relatively careful, but even I have problems. I'm not talking about getting dropped off at home half in the bag, stumbling into the bathroom, and pissing into the trash can by mistake. I'm talking about day to day peeing. The very nature of the standing pee means there will be splashback. Within 24 hours of cleaning a toilet in a penis-laden household, there will be dried, yellow pee spatters on the rim. There will be pee splashed onto the floor around the toilet and the wall behind it. Even with mitigated pressure, this is unavoidable. Try pouring a glass of grape Kool-Aid from an 2 or 3 feet above the lip while standing over your brand new seersucker pants, and you'll see exactly what I mean.

Ang lives in a cozy condo in St Paul, just north of downtown. Her bathroom is comfortable, but is small enough that storage space is at a premium. This isn't at all unusual for buildings of a similar age. Unfortunately not long after we started dating, the cabinet above her toilet fell right off the wall. We discovered that the previous owner had quite obviously half-assed the installation. Not a single screw holding it up was anywhere near a stud, and it was only a matter of time before it came crashing down.

Now with even less shelf space for her makeup, hairdryer, curling iron, and other items typically found hovering a torso and head's length over a vagina each morning, Ang took to storing these items in an overnight bag next to the toilet. This immediately concerned me, given the splashy nature of the male pee. Despite my concerns, I kept quiet and simply made all the more effort to relieve myself with diligence and vigilance. But it bothered me. Each time I stepped foot in front of the toilet, I stared at that bag. That dark, red bag. Its darkened canvas would never readily reveal its regular exposure to a fine mist of pee. It was if time would slow, and I could see each minute, glistening droplet raining down into the bag and onto its contents. Then I would picture her waving these items around her face and hair, covering herself with an invisible powder of dried urine. Inhaling it. Breathing it. Digesting it. Knowing my imagination was getting the best of me yet again, I would shake off the thought (and my penis) and leave the bathroom without further concern.

As we got ready to go to bed at Ang's place the other night, I went into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and proceeded to rain down my pre-slumber liquid fury into the commode. Within moments of unclenching and reaching full flow, a sudden movement above the toilet rim caught my eye. I soon realized the toilet seat was falling back down. Shit! Instinctively, I hurriedly reached down to grab the ring so it wouldn't cross my stream. Unfortunately in the rush to reach the toilet seat in time, I lost my footing for a moment, causing a solid arc of yellow liquid to land squarely inside of Ang's overnight bag.

From the horrific bellowing coming from the bathroom, Ang immediately knew a urine-related incident had occurred.

"Alright, what happened in there?"

I hesitated for a moment, sizing up the situation. "Um... I peed in your bag next to the toilet."

"Aw shit!"

By this time, I had finished my business, flushed the toilet, and washed my hands. I opened the door to let her assess the damage for herself. Before I could say another word, she had grabbed the bag and was emptying its soggy contents into the bath tub.

Jesus! I just pissed in her bag. The least I could do was clean things up. "Oh, God. No, let me--"

"It's alright, I've got it."

I paced around in the hall for a few moments and returned to find her scrubbing the floor. Again, I offered to clean it up, but she responded, "Well, I'm already elbow deep in it anyway." She finished cleaning the floor and moved on to the spattered wall. After several minutes of furious scrubbing, she stood, apparently satisfied that the job was done. It was at that point that I noticed that a significant amount of it had sprayed into the cubby in the wall where the toilet paper roll sits. "Um..." I pointed to the cubby. She looked, sighed, scrubbed dutifully, then inspected the toilet paper roll itself to find it miraculously unscathed.

With her having completed the disgusting task of soaking up and cleaning my pee, I felt safe divulging the fact that if it had been her that had peed all over my house, she would be the one cleaning it up, not me. She laughed, so I'm not sure how serious she realized I was being. I didn't ask her to touch my pee. She volunteered. I wouldn't.

So now sitting beside Ang's toilet is a tightly zipped plastic freezer bag full of her peed-on beauty products. I still question the placement, since it doesn't solve the issue of external splashback, but at least the risk of filling the baggie with several inches of hot, steaming piss has been mitigated significantly. I only pray she doesn't find out it's been me shitting in her hamper and not her cat.