Losing the Pee Argument

I never take baths. Baths cost too much time and water. You sit and fester like a chicken breast. Plus, I don’t have a good tub. Note to future self: get the jacuzzi tub the size of a Mini Cooper, you cheap fuck. My tub is an embarrassment I lock in the basement and feed through a small slot on the door.

I took a bath. I was going to take a shower, but at the last minute I remembered this show from the other day where some tard told the doctor she had extremely painful anal fissures. He said, “You’re brave to say that on national television.” He said many people have ass problems and nobody talks about them. I thought: Why are you talking about your anal fissures on TV with your face so prominent? He recommended she soak her ass in a hot bath. As I stood in the tub to take a shower, for some reason, I remembered the anal fissure lady. A bath sounded suddenly good.

I turned the water up to super hot and plugged the drain.

At first I stood there and looked at my feet. The water was slow. My toes weren’t drowning very fast. This will take forever, I thought. Maybe I should sit down so at least some more of my body can get wet and I won’t just be standing here naked, staring down my feet, feeling foolish.

I sat with my knees against my chest and my arms wrapped around my knees. I looked like one of those magazine covers where the famous star poses nude, but you can't see anything because she’s cockblocking you with her pose.

I thought, I should lie down. That is how you take a bath.

I lay down in the tub. I had to bend my legs. The water flowing from the faucet was all I could hear. It grew higher and began to feel nice and warm.

I relaxed as the water rose. I noticed the hot water creep up and cover other dry spots. I watched as it came up over my hips and drenched my pubic hair, below my belly button, and then over my belly and up to my breasts until eventually I was just an island composed of head, breasts, lower thighs and knees.

When I was just the island, I turned off the water and grabbed the soap. I grabbed this scrubber I never use and soaped it up and lifted parts of my body out of the water to soap them. I felt like one of those old fashioned ladies in the westerns in a claw foot tub in the middle of a room with my hair piled above my head loosely, right before the hard gunslinger with a soft heart busts in and says he needs to dive in my tub to hide because he’s being chased by some Mexican lenders.

Then I soaked again, thinking of the anal fissure lady. I reached down and spread my butt cheeks and felt the hot water hit my anus. This is what the doctor wanted the lady to do. I might be healing my own anus this very minute. Maybe the lady is taking a bath right now and is spreading her asscheeks too. We are simpatico in soaking our assholes.

Then I felt the onerous urge to pee.

You cannot pee right now, I told myself. You will be soaking in your own piss. I told myself: You’re right. I sat there. Everything so hot, so soothing, so relaxing.

You cannot piss! I ordered. That is so gross. But I couldn’t relax. If I peed, then I’d just rinse off after. We’d just soap it off in the shower. I got mad because I was losing my argument to not pee. I was convincing myself. And then, yes—I did. I peed in my bathwater.

It felt exquisite.