FOREWORD (28 page)

When a little boy pisses behind a tree, he’s not just relieving himself. It is a symbolic act. There’s a kick in it. It’s freedom!

Choosing water sports as the ultimate way of defying authority carries a certain irony. On the surface it signifies rebellion, being grown-up, tough, unbound by dainty, sissy notions. But underneath, wanting to handle excrement shows a yearning to live once more in the freedom that only babies are granted. Properly understood, water sports fantasies are not so much about wanting to break away from mother and her rules as they are about wanting to live once again in the Edenic anarchy before she made rules for us at all.

Another confusion about water sports: They are often mistaken for fetishistic activity. For instance, Bernard (above) calls himself a “diaper fetishist,” but it is apparent from his own letter that it is not the diaper that turns him on. If that were so, he would just go out and buy a diaper and play with it, and that would be enough. For Bernard to get his full enjoyment, however, he must lie in bed and wet himself. The diaper may have become eroticized because it happened to be what he was wearing as a child, but it is the act of wetting that carries his special excitement.

There may be an overlap of emotions here; but as a rule we can say that the fetishist is someone who finds his principal excitement in an inanimate
object
, the person who goes in for water sports or other forms of humiliation gets his kicks Nancy Friday

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from an
activity
, performed either by himself or another person.

MELVIN

I am turned on by the fantasy of a woman wetting herself accidentally. I guess this comes from an actual happening.

We had been out drinking one night last year, and my wife had to piss. I kept riding around looking for a place to stop and she was almost hysterical before I finally stopped at a service station. I will never forget my excitement as she ran to the restroom and found it taken. She ran back to the car and stood there nearly crying as she asked me to help her. I looked at her face and she was biting her lower lip and whimpering helplessly. I looked down at her crotch just in time to see the stream of gold flow out from under the legs of her cut-off jeans. She just stood there until she was finished then she got in the car. I took her home and screwed her in the driveway without even caring if someone looked. Now every, once in a while she will dress up and wait as long as possible before letting me watch her wet herself. It’s a great turn-on.

FITZ

I am a twenty-five-year-old married male medical student.

I have decided to send you information about my sexual fantasy (I have only one) because I feel it is held by few other men. My sexual fantasy deals exclusively with women’s urination.

My fantasies are an outgrowth of two incidents that occurred during my adolescence. The first occurred when I was fifteen. I was standing close to a young woman who peed in her jeans while waiting in line to use a ladies room at a county fair. The other incident occurred two years later. I was Men In Love

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in the midst of a heavy petting session with a girl in a secluded wooded area when she suddenly said, “I gotta pee.” She then yanked down her panties and peed right there in front of me. I was fascinated, watching her thick, copious, yellow stream rush to the ground. I was sexually aroused by both of these incidents.

My sexual fantasies thus always revolve around a woman who desperately needs to relieve herself, but for some reason is unable to find a toilet or reach a toilet in time and is forced to relieve herself in an unorthodox manner. The unorthodox manners include squatting in semipublic areas, wetting her clothes, or using receptacles other than a toilet to deposit her pee (i.e., trash cans, kitchen sinks, swimming pools, telephone booths, tissue boxes). Sometimes the woman in my fantasies is able to accomplish her task without anyone finding out about her misdeed. I come to climax when they pee.

This has been my sole masturbatory fantasy for several years now. I enjoy normal, ordinary, but quite satisfactory coitus with my wife. Our intercourse does not involve any aspect of my fantasy. In fact, my wife does not even know of my fantasy.

CYRUS

I am a reasonable-looking guy, fit, healthy, mature (forties), active and fairly intelligent – I think. I live in a most staid, stolid and quiet town. Now to my story. I am into w/s and this was started several years ago by accident as I shall relate. This first part then is factual and gives birth to my fantasies.

I was courting a pretty nurse called (not real name) Pat.

One early morning, we were returning from a party driving down what was then a brand-new highway. In those days, there was no speed limit, but stopping on the road was a very big no-no, unless an absolute emergency, such as a mechanical failure or heart attack or some such problem.

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Pat suddenly announced her need for a toilet and I confessed a similar requirement. We both, however, knew that the next turnoff was near Pat’s apartment and there was no way off the road until then. It was not much longer before Pat looked at me and stated the situation to be desperate for her; was it for me? To which the answer was obvious. Reminding me that doctors do not recommend holding ourself to the point of pain, Pat suggested letting go just a little to relieve pressure. Since I was already beginning to overflow, driving with one hand clutching my groin, I didn’t object. I glanced at Pat and said, “We’re nearly there now.” “Good,” she said,

“once inside the door we’re safe.”

Outside her door we both stood clutching ourselves and jiggering about like a couple of Indians on the warpath (or was it a rain dance?). Finally we are in and the door bangs shut. As I turn towards the bathroom and enter, Pat pushes against me and clutches my groin. Despite everything I rise and clutch at the crotch of her shorts. Amazingly we masturbate each other to a thundering climax and then urinate where we stand, in our pants. I should have felt ashamed, but didn’t.

A week later, pat was pretty drunk and when I helped her out of the car amongst some bushes, she simply spread her legs and bent her knees until I could see her green panties, and pissed right there. This time I am fascinated watching urine spurt out of her panties and onto the grass. I become fiercely aroused and we made love.

Thus was I introduced to water sports. Our sex was always shattering. I did not marry Pat and my regrets are of no importance now. I know now that I am highly aroused regardless of who is peeing. However, for the same reason pictures of nude women leave me cold, so a girl emptying herself must be wearing panties in my fantasies.

My fantasies take several forms but usually consist of a young lady still dressed for tennis being taken short in her sports car in the middle of a traffic jam. She hangs on desperately. (I should state here that I myself dress in tight underwear and very tight pants for these fantasies.) Back to my girl Men In Love

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friend in her car. She is in trouble and she pees just a little, enough to soak her crotch. She is forced to do a little every few minutes now. Suddenly the traffic starts to move and our lady must now drive. (I am getting quite wet myself now.) Our girl gives up and urine spurts in an enormous stream between her long legs, off the seat and onto the floor of the car.

To get to her apartment in daylight, she dons a tight pair of track suit pants in red, and makes it into her apartment where she does not even attempt to be normal, but stands in front of a mirror and watches the darkening patch as she pisses nois-ily yet again. I myself am soaked by this time and have to masturbate furiously to get rid of the sexual need.

On odd occasions, in my flights of fantasy, the poor woman is forced to sit in her own shit as well.

Always after these fantasies and after masturbation, I am both amazed and sometimes disgusted with myself. I do not like being kinky (and in all honesty that is what it is). However, I cannot stop. I am sure that if ever I am fortunate_

again to meet a girl interested in w/s, I will eventually lose interest after trying it “for real” again. I am convinced it is the only cure for me, since I could never openly discuss my hang-up with anyone other than someone else into this weird business.

It seems to me that it is not the urine which excites, but the act. In short, “being very naughty.” Whether it is a childhood hangover, or an act of rebellion together with sharing that act, which is the “come on” for such flights of weird fancy, or another deep-rooted need to rebel against our normal everyday restraints, there are very obviously many people who,

“normal” in all other respects, need an escape which is
different
.

I wish I knew.

It is no coincidence that in this super-conglomerate age, when people feel so powerless that 50 percent of the elector-Nancy Friday

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ate doesn’t even bother to vote in presidential elections, increasing emphasis has come to be put on what is called the

“human potential movement.” If you can’t change your outer environment, work to change the inner.

People in desperate circumstances do something similar. It is called “identifying with the aggressor.” This usually entails taking on some of the qualities that most oppress us. People who have fears and anxieties about being victims dress up in Nazi Party uniforms. “If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em.” In Melvin’s fantasy (above), the woman’s need to pee is urgent, but there is no relief in sight Is it very difficult to imagine the scene reversed – when Melvin was a little boy, desperate to pee but sternly forbidden by a woman (mother) to do it until he could find a toilet? The harsh treatment that once was Melvin’s lot to bear is now turned around. It is exciting because he identifies not with the person in pain but the oppressor – the stem disciplinarian he once perceived mother to be.

However, Melvin’s fantasy rewrites history. When Melvin could not hold himself in and wet his pants, his mother most likely scolded him, perhaps spanked him, too. But now, having put himself in his mother’s place, he can treat the woman the way he once wished mother would have treated him.

When she wets herself,
he gets so excited that he cannot wait
to make love to her.
His fantasy is a rebuke to the cruel mother of long ago and a sexual turn-on at the same time.

Melvin’s psychology has certain similarities to Fitz’s.

Both men are inflamed by notions of women so outrageous, so out of control that they will do anything, women so on fire to satisfy their natural body functions that modesty and social inhibitions are forgotten. We will meet this woman again and again throughout this book. In various guises, the totally abandoned woman is the queen of male fantasy.

It is unfortunate that given the way we are all brought up, mother is the one who is going to be remembered as everyone’s first great puritan. So much of men’s rage against Men In Love

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women stems from the second year, when mom had the necessary but thankless job of teaching continence.

One of my hopes for the future is that as mothers have to go out of the home to work, fathers will have to play a larger role in their children’s earliest years. We may never feel grateful to the person who toilet trains us, but I see it as a great advantage to men and women alike if this thankless job is divided up between two people, mother and father, a man as well as a woman. Mother has had to bear the tantrums and ingratitudes of socialization alone too long.

Until father takes some of the brunt of the infant’s anger, it is all too easy for men to see every woman as naturally stepping into mother’s shoes, singing her old song: “No, no, no!” In the heady excitement with which the woman in Fitz’s fantasy pees in “trash cans, kitchen sinks, swimming pools, telephone booths,” he finds license to break the rules himself.

Why not? The woman herself has broken the First Female Commandment: She has said yes.

10

Voyeurs and Exhibitionists

We speak of “feasting the eyes,” a metaphor that tells us there is a primitive, even somatic pleasure to be derived from something supposedly so intangible as looking. Satisfying food is being offered, a basic hunger is being fed. A walk through a rose garden shows these needs are felt equally by both sexes.

There is a need complementary to looking: the equally primitive and satisfying desire to be seen and admired. “Let me take you in,” men say to women; rarely is it heard the other way around. A woman may adore a child with her eyes.

By the time she’s adolescent, society has made it clear she must not ogle men. Nor do “real” men seek attention for their physical qualities. Equal and reciprocal hungers in both sexes are not being met.

The situation is complicated because there is no socially acceptable way to say “Feast your eyes on me.” Even though women are allowed –
encouraged
– to exhibit themselves as the source of physical beauty for both sexes, they must pretend to do it unawares. To attract attention is unladylike; to solicit compliments is bad manners. If, despite all these stric-tures, she succeeds in catching a man’s eye, there are further rules.
Why, the way that nasty beast stares! He just undresses
you with his eyes!

Is it surprising that when a woman is admired, she only half enjoys the flattering glance? The other half is wondering if it is flattering at all. Am I being a fool, a show-off? Have I gone too far?

I have heard supposedly evolutionary arguments used to explain that natural selection demands that men be the look-ers, women the exhibitors. This sounds to me like another version of the refrain that men are active, women passive.

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Before they are culturally inhibited, children of both sexes shout “Hey, look at met” and have to be taught not to parade naked into the living room when there are guests. It is testi-mony that the desire to be seen and liked/ loved for what one shows is, once again, innate.

If the situation is difficult for women, I think it is even more so for men. Their desire to be seen and admired can only be expressed through the woman on their arm. No wonder these inhibited desires go underground and emerge in fantasies. The forms the masculine conflict take in this chapter are love of women for what they slow, anger at women that they either do not show enough or do not wish to see what the man himself would like to reveal.