I guess anything that occupies the genitourinary system has a place on the LPSG blog pages. There was an article recently about the warm pleasures of being pissed upon. Here is a true story from my high school days, when we were all a little crazy some of the time and some of us were quite crazy most of the time.
This happened in the bathroom in the boys' locker room. I had just unzipped my trousers and was digging out my tingling dick to answer its message when a classmate – I'll call him Jack since that was his name – stepped up to the next urinal to join me for our afternoon leak. Jack was one of the most popular students in our high school, a terrific athlete and a star of basketball, track and apparently his own newly-invented sport of long-distance target pissing. For as the pisswater began to flow from his long, uncircumcised, almond-tinted tube, Jack began to slowly walk backwards: one step, two steps, three, four... until he was about ten feet from the porcelain receptacle.
The effluent of his fleshy fountain was curving through space, hitting its mark while missing me by mere inches. We both laughed, but I was ready to tell Jack to do a Kegel and move down a couple of spaces. I'd certainly have to call a foul on him if he caused me to go drenched and smelly through the rest of the school day.
At the same time I was temped to suggest that when the next winter storm goes though that we get together (maybe organize competing teams) and see who can sign his name biggest in the snow.
O===w
This happened in the bathroom in the boys' locker room. I had just unzipped my trousers and was digging out my tingling dick to answer its message when a classmate – I'll call him Jack since that was his name – stepped up to the next urinal to join me for our afternoon leak. Jack was one of the most popular students in our high school, a terrific athlete and a star of basketball, track and apparently his own newly-invented sport of long-distance target pissing. For as the pisswater began to flow from his long, uncircumcised, almond-tinted tube, Jack began to slowly walk backwards: one step, two steps, three, four... until he was about ten feet from the porcelain receptacle.
The effluent of his fleshy fountain was curving through space, hitting its mark while missing me by mere inches. We both laughed, but I was ready to tell Jack to do a Kegel and move down a couple of spaces. I'd certainly have to call a foul on him if he caused me to go drenched and smelly through the rest of the school day.
At the same time I was temped to suggest that when the next winter storm goes though that we get together (maybe organize competing teams) and see who can sign his name biggest in the snow.
O===w
