The first time I ever pissed on someone we took each other’s piss virginity. I remember feeling his heart beat on the brink of explosion, how his hands met each other as if he was trying to hold himself. My own excitement overcame any anxieties as I squeezed him gently in his saran wrapped body. Having presented himself as if he were a little gift just for me, a perfect little toilet with new attachments. When I relieved myself of all the water I had drunk in preparation for that day, I watched his anxieties disappear as he tried to catch every drop into his mouth. It made me giggle with delight to witness his dreams come to reality.
I’ll admit that growing up I didn’t see the appeal in piss play, I remember the many debates with friends over whether piss or spit was better. I understood fluids to some degree, but it wasn’t until that moment I grasped everything about it. For someone to consume what I had made, what I labored over in cup after cup of water or juice, and then to receive it with such pleasurable desire. Some days I will fill my body with beets to turn my piss bright pink or consume asparagus to make it more intense. It’s a full body experiment that allows me to become Frankenstein, bringing life into another’s body, an electric charge that echoes through every vein rejuvenating their system. Whether it was the degradation in subjecting someone to becoming an object for my use or the anticipation of wanting, it was this bodily exchange that opened my world, or rather added onto it nicely.
Piss is power and love, the manifestation of someone consuming a part of me and what I desire so much so in my vore fetish. This intersection of piss and vore is beyond exciting, it challenges my own body against another’s, how I can control and alter it in order to transform someone, this someone who became my something. It scratches this itch in my brain, the place between academic and pervert, for in all my years of desire hinging on the metaphorical consumption as a symbolic gesture of love and transfiguration it could finally come to full fruition.
The act of pissing almost has an animalistic quality to it, a marking of territory, of ownership. It is for this period of time they will be forced to carry me on their skin, in the back of their throat, in their own bladder to be transformed. I live inside of them, I am a part of them. It is the type of eroticism that is all consuming, one that when I am taking on a new life inside of them the greatest tragedy will be when I am pissed out of their body. Exorcising the time we shared together, where we became one, and it is nothing but heartbreaking.
I didn’t know piss could be as tragic as it is breathtaking, that it would make me sad at the idea of myself being scrubbed off another’s skin or remade and disposed of in a toilet. In some ways I am constantly seeking this consumption of my desire, to exist inside those I play with. Muffling the last tragedy with each new life I’ve given to another, merged and made in my own fluids. Constantly chasing after the next iteration, hoping I will fuel their body with my own essence.