SEXIS WRONG

and he was a regular ballbreaker—mad at the world for having
to come out of retirement because his wife ran off with all
his money with that “fuckin’ neeegro” down the street. He
hated this place...the whores who worked here and the pervs
he had to clean up after. We would surely all be fucked if he
caught sight of eight feet underneath the booth door. But fate
had been set. The money was in the machine, and the time
was ticking off the clock, and these lonely guys were hungry
for a show...although for $20, they weren’t gettin’ much.
I did a little striptease down to my G-string and pressed my
pink tits against the glass. They all moved closer to the window,
but none of them took it out. When the time was coming
to an end, the one with the glasses pointed to my G-string.
the glasses took out the money, then handed it to the guy in
the middle, who handed it to the guy at the end, who then
pumped it into the machine. The shade went back up, and
the time started counting down. I looked around the booth,
forgetting I needed something to pee in. I had left my mason
jar at home that day, much to my sudden annoyance.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, jumping out of the booth. I ran into
the bathroom, praying to God that the clear glass vase was
still under the sink. (“Dear God, I know I don’t go to church
much and all, and I make fun of all your fundie followers, but
please, do me a favor and make sure this vase is there so I
can pee in it in front of three Japanese men? Thank you, God.
It’s me, Pagan.”)
“You want me to take this off?” I asked. They
all nodded vigorously.
I slowly took off the G-string and crawled
around the floor like a sex cat, pausing here and there to flash
them some more pink. The short and round one in the middle
spied the time. He started searching my booth, anticipating
what I might whip out for the grand finale. When nothing happened,
he asked, “You like toys?”
“Mmmm...I love them, baby,” I said. “But toys are extra.”
I gingerly squatted over the vase and
raised myself with one arm.
The girls kept the vase under the sink, just in case...just in
case of a pee-show emergency. It was the perfect standing
feminine peeing receptacle, practically designed for such purposes
with a wide opening at the top and a long, clear shaft
for optimum voyeuristic viewing. Plus, the tank at the bottom
was ample.
The shade started to go down.
There was a long pause behind the closed shade. I heard a
voice pipe up: “You pee?”
I wasn’t sure if I’d heard right. “Do I pee?”
“Yeah, how much for that?”
I thought for a moment. I had always tried to avoid these type
of shows in the past, but it wasn’t because I thought it was
gross or dirty, which I don’t (unlike defecating on someone),
but it was more about the fear and anxiety of going to the
bathroom under the microscope.
I figured the worst that could happen is that nothing would
come out or that I’d panic and stream a puddle onto the floor,
both of which would be relatively easy to explain away. Besides,
money and circumstance often trump one’s will, and it
just seemed to fit that night that I would pee for them. It was
like I was a preordained player in a scene from a David Lynch
movie, and they were my casting agents. It was practically
theater...art, baby.
“Yeah, I’ll pee for you,” I said. “But it’s gonna cost you sixty.”
There was more talking, and I had to restrain myself from the
sudden impulse to cry out, “Torah! Torah! Torah!”
I peeked through the crack in the shade again. The guy with
I flipped on the light and bent over, and to my utter delight
it was there. There was no time to check its cleanliness—I
clutched it and ran. I was certain I had heard that urine was
sterile, anyway, and that babies consume their own urine in
the womb...or maybe I had misunderstood. Maybe it was
only sterile for a short while after its initial release from the
body.
Either way, I jumped back into my booth with the vase, and
the trio greeted me with smiles. They watched in amazement
as I carefully placed the vase in the middle of the booth. They
were entranced as if watching a magic show—their eyes
large, their mouths agape. I had some time to kill while I summoned
the flow, so I danced around the vase feeling more
like an Indian summoning the rains.
When the time clicked down to a couple of minutes, I gingerly
squatted over the vase and raised myself with one arm.
I used my free hand to spread my smooth lips and pulled
back a little, aiming my urethra while simultaneously sticking
out my clit like a tiny penis. I relaxed. I guess the dance had
worked because the golden stream, weak at first, eventually
blossomed and made its sustained way into the chosen destination.
Toward the end, the stream morphed into a dribble. I bounced
over the vase a couple of times to shed the last droplets, then
wiped my pussy clean with a baby wipe. The trio stood in si-
ASTONISHING TALES OF A PEEP SHOW GIRL 209