It Happened to Me: I Had a Golden Shower

At the very beginning of what I now know was a mid-life crisis, I let a guy pee on me.

Nov 23, 2011 at 9:00am | Leave a comment

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At the very beginning of what I now know was a mid-life crisis, I let a guy pee on me.

I was freshly separated from my husband, with whom I hadn’t had sex in five years. Yes, you read that right. I hadn’t had sex in five years. It’s a long story how that happened -- and not something to go into here. Just know that I was sex-starved.

More than that, I was desperate to know I was desirable.

The man who would pee on me was in the army in Iraq when he first emailed. He’d read my memoir and felt that he and I were similar. We both had used sex to feel worthwhile in the world. He was only 25. I was 39. And he was edible.

We dirty chatted on Facebook. We sent one another naughty photos. And then, he was coming home for two whole weeks in September. I won’t say where he lived, but I will say that it was a place that made total sense for me to happen to be to promote my book. So I made arrangements.

My army man had told me stories -- many, many stories of how he’d humiliated women, how he’d enjoyed moseying into their lives to serve his own needs. He had gotten head from a woman he deemed unattractive then urinated all over her bedroom door on his way out. How he’d taken women from behind and then laughed when they asked if he’d call. It was a part of his issue, the same one I had described in my book, just from a different angle.

Where I’d slept with boy after boy in the misguided hope that they’d think of me as a long-term partner, he’d slept with girls to rack them up, to feel like a stud. He rarely wanted to sleep with the same girl twice, not if it would get in the way of notching up more.

He was trying to tell me something, I realize now, about how he worked, about how this was going to go down. He told me he saw me as the ultimate conquest, the author of a book he admired, and lost in my ego and -- let’s face it -- my libido, I didn’t hear his warning.

Instead, I fantasized about what he said he planned to do to me. He walked me through it, making me so hot I could barely focus on anything else. And then, the time arrived.

We spoke on the phone first, and he told me he planned to urinate on me. There it was: my biggest warning. But I didn’t take it. Instead, I wanted it. I wanted to try something new, to fall entirely beneath a man’s will. I wanted him to take me, to do with me what he would.

When he arrived to the hotel room, I immediately sensed his nervous energy. Later, a friend told me I could have been killed. I didn’t know this guy at all. Also, he could have recorded the whole thing and put it up on the Internet, could have ruined my career as both writer and teacher. She was right, I suppose.

In the moment, though, I wasn’t taking cues to be careful. I had one plan after five dry years, and it was to fuck. He didn’t waste any time. He pushed me down on the bed. I liked that. But rather than kiss me, which would have been passionate and arousing, he ordered me to take off my clothes down to my panties. OK. That was good, too.

I did as I was told. He walked over, tweaked my nipples a few times. Then he grabbed my hair and yanked me onto all fours on the floor. I giggled nervously. I wasn’t so sure about this anymore.

He pulled me toward the bathroom and demanded I get into the tub. He took off his wife beater and blindfolded me. I waited, kneeling in the tub. I definitely didn’t like this anymore, but I had been trained in my life to take what I could get when it came to sex, that you don’t get started and then pull out like a tease. And, besides, there was a part of me that was curious to see where things would go.

“You’ve got a great body for your age,” he said. “And a nice fat ass.”

He leaned over me and smacked it. Then he stuffed his half-erect penis into my mouth. I tried to use my hands to keep from gagging, but he easily used one hand to hold them behind my back.

“No hands!” he barked. He never got fully hard. When he disappeared for a moment, I was relieved. At this point, I just wanted it to be over.

I heard him turning on the water in the sink and gulping it down. Then it happened: he pissed a hot stream over my chest and down my legs. I started laughing nervously again, and he aimed it straight into my face. I tasted some. I turned my head. I’m pretty sure I yelled, “Stop!” He told me to wash off in the shower.

Later, after he left, never to be heard from again, I called my friend and told her the whole story. This is the friend who said I could have been killed. She was not amused. When I told her he said I had a great body, she said, “You need to hear that, don’t you?” It was a mean thing to say, but she was understandably heated at me. She saw that I was heading down a path I’d been before I was married, a path both she and I had thought I was done with.

I wasn’t done.

I went down that old path, only briefly though, maybe out of habit. But pretty quickly I transformed my next year and a half of middle-aged singledom into a year of seeking out what I wanted sexually. I can tell you quite confidently that it is not getting pissed on.