Posted by Terry on December 30, 1998 at 17:52
Mulling over the times I've seen women definitely and conspicuously wet, rather than just glimpsing them in crowded bars, at parades, or what-have-you, I keep coming back to two incidents. One was on campus at night, the other in one of my poetry classes. I summarized both of these in a posting several months ago, but it's buried in an archive now. Pleasant memories are always worth revisiting.
The first incident was a chance sighting in "Campus Town," the district of bookstores, clothiers, fast food joints, bars, and barbershops at the heart of the sprawling university where I took my graduate degrees. When I wasn't wetting myself in my apartment or a bar, I used to cruise the streets of Campus Town looking for wet crotches and asses among the collegiate beer guzzlers, many of them quite inexperienced with the effects of alcohol. This one night, I happened to reach the main intersection, which was very well lighted, just as two young women were coming around the corner in front of a bookstore. One was slender and blond, but I don't remember her clearly because it was the other one who caught my eye. She was a sturdily built women, anything but whispy, not at all overweight but solid in the thighs and buttocks, and was wearing rather "dressy" navy slacks, cuffed, in some kind of gabardine fabric, that were comfortably tailored, snug without being tight. I saw at once that she had peed down her legs. The wet swaths were perfectly defined in the light of streetlamps and storewindows as she walked along, chatting with her friend and trying to act normal.
The two had probably been at the fraternity/sorority bar just around the corner from the bookstore, it had been packed to the rafters as usual, and they had been standing in a press of people, filling up on beer, with little chance of reaching one of the johns in any reasonable time. Especially if they were talking with other friends, it would have been difficult to break away, and she might have thought she could hold it until they left to get some food. Having been in similar circumstances myself, I could easily imagine her standing there, holding on with all her might as she tried to smile and make conversation, probably knowing deep in her heart what was about to happen, and then at some juncture feeling the first warm spurt inside the snugness of those heavy slacks and whatever she was wearing under. As spurt followed spurt in that gentle pump-like rhythem we all love, she would have had that sinking, giddy feeling we get when we know we're about to wet ourselves, and then she must have thought "to hell with it" and just relaxed and let go. The piss had followed her inseams down both legs, fanning out slightly so that as it flowed out onto the floor at her feet it soaked her cuffs from front to back almost. Sooner than she might have wished, her friend was ready to leave, and she had to make her way through the crowd and out onto the street, feeling the freshly wet fabric against her legs as she walked, probably squishing a little in her shoes.
As they walked along past the bookstore, her slacks were conspicuously wet in both crotch and ass, and the swaths down her legs were obvious from both directions. I had spotted her first as she approached, and then I followed them into the nearest McDonald's. Yes, she had to go into that brightly lighted place in wet pants. That must have been where the two of them had agreed to grab a bite. I don't know whether her friend had noticed the wet slacks yet. She must have before long. I felt a little apprehensive, a little guilty following them like that, especially when the wet one glanced back at me. So aftr loitering as long as I dared, I left them to their evening and went home -- or maybe to Murphy's to swill beer and piss myself. Never saw them again, but obviously have never forgotten them, either.
The other incident occurred in a poetry class I was teaching. One of my students was a "foxy" long-legged blond with long, straight hair who looked great in bomber jackets and jeans and cowboy boots. She was bright, confident, and articulate, and I didn't see this incident coming at all. I mean, there was no prior hint of nervousness or preoccupation. We had a guest poet one day, and I sat at the front of the classroom with him while the students formed a semi-circle in their little chairs with writing arms, facing us. The blond was slightly to my right, a row or two back, but mostly visible because of the irregular arrangement of seats. She had worn a "weather coat" that day, a longish tan wrap in the London Fog style, whether by chance or design I don't know. I was hung over the back of her chair. She sat with those long, levis-clad legs crossed casually as she listened and took notes. You know by now the way my mind works, and if she had made the slightest suspicious move I would have noticed. But she didn't. What happened was that at the end of class, as I was thanking our guest with some other students and everyone was leaving, she stood up and turned around to lift her coat from the chairback -- and voila! The lady had pissed her jeans. Nothing ambiguous about it. Wet in a distinct, fresh, almost glistening ellipse from high on her hips out over both buttocks and down symmetrically over the edges of the patch pockets to cover the back of her legs almost to the knees. It was beautiful. A perfect jeans job. She never looked my way, never made eye contact with anybody as far as I could tell, but just slipped her coat on, picked up her books, and walked out. The wet denim may have been visible below the coat in back, but I was in no position to follow. I never saw her do it again, and as a teacher I could not touch on such a personal matter in conversation as the semester wore on. We played it straight, our glances never betrayed a thing, she took the A+ she legitimately deserved, and that was that. But the image of her wet, Levis-clad backside is like a photograph to this day.
The only other time I saw a young women wet her jeans like that was in a Chicago restaurant called Fritz That's It, on Dickens Street. She was with family, apparently, seated at a long table in the next room, visible through a wide doorway, and when she stood up to go somewhere (to the ladies' room, probably) I had a clear shot of her backside. The jeans were wet in the familiar elliptical shape, touching the patch pockets and curving into the thighs. A nice image, not as wet as my student, though, and for some reason not as powerful a memory.
I think the reason my student's wetting her levis struck me more forcefully was that it had happend a very few feet from me, while I listened obliviously to poems about nature or whatever, and left me imaging how it felt -- sitting there in the wooden chair with the writing arm, other students crowded about in the semi-circle, all eyes front as she felt the pressure building down there. Did she let go deliberately, because she liked to and had come equipped with a long coat just for that purpose, or did she hold it as long as possible? Since there was no fidgeting, my guess is that she held it as long as she could without moving, sitting with her legs crossed, and started letting go when the pressure crested and she had either to pee or to squirm. However it happened, I keep thinking about the warm spreading moisture in her crotch, spreading out into her thighs, down around her buttocks and the backs of her legs, as she sat there surrounded by other students and listened to our guest. "Um, there it goes," I imagine her thinking. "Yeah, I've gone it now. I'm wet now. Geez, I'm wet. I don't believe I just did that. Oh, well, it's done now. Play it cool, kid."
She must have loved the walk back to her sorority house across campus and the slow process of undressing in her room, peeling those wet jeans off.
Email: terry@wetjeans.com