How to pee standing up

You too can make the world your toilet

Frank climbed over the railing, unzipped his jeans, and pissed a golden stream out into the sunset.

Against the twilight valley below, it made an impressive sight. I automatically reached for my camera, but I had left it in the car, along with the wine we’d been drinking at this scenic overlook.

“That’s the pinnacle of manhood, right there!” Frank exclaimed, leaning back and aiming for the stars. His spirits, like the sparkling arc jetting over the precipice — a word I’ll never hear again without thinking of that moment — soared and lifted. He was on top of the world.

I rather thought that the moon landing had been mankind’s highest achievement, and on a personal note, I had imagined that some of the things we’d done earlier that day might have created an unsurpassed level of bliss, but there it was: drunkenly standing on the edge of a cliff and peeing off it was as good as it got.

His flow diminished, started up again, and then declined in a spatter as he shook out the last few drops. I imagined villagers far below listening to the sounds on their tin roofs and giving amazed thanks to the Lord for the moisture falling out of a clear sky. Shakespeare would have had an apt phrase to describe the glory. “It droppeth as the gentle rain,” perhaps.

He tucked himself away and smiled at me. “Your turn.”

“Me?” I squealed. “But… there’s no way… I can’t.”

“Of course you can. Dead easy. Take your undies off.”

In my defence, Your Honour, I’d had more than a couple of glasses of cheap chardonnay, I was busting, and there was nobody around.

“I’ll hold you,” he said. “You’ll be right.”

Before I had time to consider the wisdom of my actions, I was wriggling out of my panties. Frank took them, stuffed them into his pocket, and held me as I awkwardly clambered over the railing. God, that metal was cold.

He hooked his leg around a post, wrapped his arms around me, and I cautiously shuffled in front until I was standing where he had been. Right on the edge.

“Don’t look down,” he instructed me.

Of course, my eyes dropped. Along with my expectations for long and happy life. This was the way I’d go. Cartwheeling into the void in a spray of urine. At least my underwear would be clean.

Frank tugged my skirt up. His voice dropped and became calming, steady.

“It’s all right. I’ve got you. Spread your legs. A bit wider.”

I moved my feet on the ledge and pointed my knees east and west.

“Good,” Frank said. “Now pull your bits apart, pull up with your fingers to aim, and give it a burl.”

How on earth had he become an authority in female anatomy? Well, I could think of some close work he’d done earlier, but this was expert technique. I made a note to quiz him later on exactly how he had gained this knowledge. But first, my bladder had reached that urgent stage. We were just moments away from launch.

I reached down, two hands, and pulled “my bits” to either side. My knees opened even wider. His arms were a comforting band of steel around my hips.

“Pull up with your fingers,” he instructed. “You have to aim out, not down.”

He was looking down over my shoulder, but if he could see more than a few blonde curls from that angle, he was doing well.

I pulled up with my fingers, tilted my pelvis, and gave in to the pressure. Dear Reader, I became a fire hose.

I won’t say that it was my finest moment, but it wasn’t bad. There was no way I could aim up into the sky, or even horizontal, but the stream burst out, thin and clean, clearing the edge of the world at my feet by a wide gap, and curving out into the valley, gleaming in the last golden rays of the sun before vanishing into the twilight world beneath.

“Woohoo!” someone yelled. It was me.

So this is what being a man is like, I thought. I pushed harder. My glittering arc rose and then fell, losing its strength as my bladder drained.

“Big finish,” said Frank into my ear. “Force it out and stop clean.”

Cripes, where had he learnt this stuff?

I pushed the last out and clamped myself shut. A drop or two landed on the rock at my feet, but that was it.

Frank reached down, took one of my hands and guided it to the railing behind us. He helped me over, and then followed me back to safety.

I opened my arms and lifted my face for a kiss. He tasted of sweet wine. And victory.


Image credit: Photo by Arthur Brognoli from Pexels
Inspired by this (untrue, in my experience)
story about Frenchwomen.

life, travel , , ,


    1. Every woman is different. With men the hole is always on the end, but the female location has more variety and shape. Just the way we’re built.

      Have you tried digging a finger in – carefully – just ahead of the urethra to tilt the opening forward?

      Starting and stopping with confidence, rather than gingerly, helps the stream get over the “dribble” phase.

      Britni, whizz doctor


    1. Thanks! I know it can be done. Maybe not by every woman, but some. Worth a try.

      I wanted to give step by step directions without being too anatomical. And to make it an enjoyable story.

      This is not to say I approve of public mountaintop micturation.


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