While in my second year of college, I had a job working the front desk at a hotel near SeaWorld. Most days, I went to my classes in the morning and then worked the PM shift at the hotel from three to eleven. One particularly rough day, after fighting with the housekeepers to get off their lazy Haitian asses and get the fucking rooms clean before check-in time, dealing with a pissy businessman who kept deactivating his key card, and arguing with an ignorant Hotwire guest who couldn’t comprehend that a request is NOT the same as thing as a guarantee, I was definitely looking for somewhere to unwind. I was underage at the time, but my friend who was working as a server in the hotel’s restaurant said she would take me her favorite nearby bar, one that had cheap drinks and that wouldn’t card me.
After work, we stopped by the bathrooms to touch up our hair and makeup. My friend was practically living in her car at the time so she had the majority of her closet shoved in the trunk of her car, where she rummaged through the pile and selected a change of clothes. Unfortunately for me, we were nowhere near the same size. So while she changed into a cute top and a comfy pair of jeans, my only option was to remove my pastel-colored striped uniform shirt to reveal a dingy white tank top, paired with my dressy New York & Company khakis and a pair of hand-me-down Louis Vuitton sneakers. (It may sound reasonably classy, but I assure you, the combination was anything but.)
Once we were done with our mediocre bathroom makeovers, we drove our cars down the street to a place situated in the corner of a strip mall. Upon entering this hole-in-the-wall pub, it was clear to see that this was a total dive bar, rank with thick clouds of cigarette smoke, a few tattered pool tables, and a sticky bar surrounded by dilapidated tables. It was awesome! We sauntered up to the bar and found a few vacant bar stools. Being a regular at this joint, my friend called over her usual bartender, a burly guy named Tony. She introduced us and, using a familiar feline to help myself remember his name, I endearingly renamed him Tony the Tiger. (Tip: This nickname bonding tactic also helps the bartender to remember YOU for the next time you happen to come in.)
After the introductions and some mild flirting with my new cuddly buddy, the first round of drinks came. Then the second. Then a round of shots, followed by third round of drinks. Between rounds, I’d walk (stumble) to the grungy bar bathroom to pee. Around last call, it was safe to assume that I had frequented the bathroom an estimated 5 times in the brief 3 hours that we had been there. Apparently, my bladder is the size of a jellybean.
Fifteen minutes after last call, we paid our ridiculously cheap tabs and were gingerly ushered outside. Standing on the crumbling sidewalk, I waited with my friend while she finished her cigarette before deciding it was time for me to start heading home. Because I was still taking classes at the main campus, I was living on the East side of town, near to the university. The distance between work and school was generally about a 45 minute commute, maybe 30 minutes at nighttime when there were hardly any cars on the road. I was confident that my last bathroom break would suffice until I drove the 30 minutes to my apartment. I was wrong.
About 10 minutes into my drive, I start feeling like I have to pee again, but not so badly that I need to pull over somewhere. I stubbornly think, “Yeah, I’m a tough bitch; I can hold it.” Another 5 minutes pass and the pressure in my pea-sized bladder grows even more intense. I try to distract myself by turning up the radio and singing along. Ineffective. Another 5 minutes pass and I simply can’t take it anymore! I realize I’m NOT a tough bitch and that I’m going to have to stop somewhere to use the bathroom... but where? I had never ventured out onto any exits, other than the one to work, and now it was 2:30 in the morning; I sure as hell wasn’t about to risk pulling off the highway into some unfamiliar, unpopulated, ghetto ass neighborhood that probably didn’t even have proper restroom facilities. I’d probably get raped, robbed, or shanked in the process anyway… Fuhhhk that!
Somehow, I manage to make it to a familiar exit without peeing my pants. Nearing the exit, I consider my options… I know I’ll unfortunately have to drive at least another three minutes to reach the closest gas station where, I remembered from a previous drunky encounter, I would need to get a key from the cashier to the unlock bathroom door; I didn’t have that kind of time now. I wasn’t sure I could even stand up without peeing, let alone wait for Punjab to grant me a key and then shuffle to the back of the Quick-E-Mart! Nope, I was going to have to do this the nitty gritty way. Up to this point in my life, however, I hadn’t had a successful peeing-in-the-absence-of-a-toilet incident since my diaper days. Any time I would try to pee while camping, hiking, or doing some other ridiculous outdoor activity white people like to do, I would inevitably come back with some amount of urine having made contact with my skin. I remind myself of this and of the inconvenient omnipresence of the PoPo as I ponder pulling over to the edge of the highway and poppin’ a squat on the passenger side of my car. I responsibly decide against that idea; the last thing I needed was for a cop to come by when this moderately intoxicated nineteen-year-old girl had her pants around her ankles and her bare ass sidled up against the car.
I needed a better idea; this had to be taken care of RIGHT NOW. I desperately look around my car for a cup, some tupperware, anything I could use as a provisional potty. Being the neat-freak that I am, however, the only things I have in my car are my text books, my school clothes, and a Walmart bag I keep to contain any trash. I am busy cursing my tidy ways when I find an empty water bottle buried in my handy little trash bag.
After clutching the bottle like an Oscar, I toss it in the passenger seat as I unbuckle my seatbelt. Next, I unbutton my neatly-creased dress pants, unzipping them the rest of the way before turning on the cruise control and shimmying them off. I pull my thong down around my knees and throw a sweatshirt under my now-naked butt before I grab the skinny, Nestle Brand water bottle from the seat. Approaching a straight portion of the highway, I use my legs to lift myself a few inches off the seat before I crammed the opening of the bottle into my hooha. A huge relief comes over me as I relax my Kegels and pee explodes into the bottle. I wait, anticipating pee to seep out onto my hand/sweater/butt cheek/somewhere because that was my curse... my I-can’t-successfully-pee-anywhere-but-a-bathroom-without-getting-pee-on-me curse... but, strangely enough, I don’t notice anything.
After I’m done, I tighten the lid on the bottle and drop it into my cup holder. I slide my undies back up and sit down bare-assed on my sweater, then buckle my seatbelt (Click it or Ticket!). When I finally pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I (crookedly) park my car and wiggle back into my pants. I get out and, using the Mag-lite from my glove compartment, inspect my car and my recently ass-tainted sweater for any escaped liquids. Much to my disbelief, I find nothing. I drunkenly clamor up the stairs and persuade my roommate, {KriceKrispies}, to come outside and double check my car for me. Luckily for her, she didn’t find anything either.
Unfortunately for a friend riding in my car the next day, my pee was super clear after an innumerous amount of beverages, and the fact that it was in a water bottle made it rather well camouflaged. My friend drank some. Keep the secret, okay?
