People...I’m not the only deviant in town. There are many others in this world. And this story belongs to one of them. Meet Dame Pussington, first of her name (but not of her nature). Dame Pussington is the loveliest lady of the night I’ve ever had the pleasure of calling friend. She recently shared this story with me over one too many glasses of wine, and I felt it was one that you, my dear readers, would also enjoy.

So...enjoy!

When you’re employed as a sex worker you get to know the lingo pretty quickly.

It was probably one of my first shifts that someone explained what a “Golden Shower” was to me.

“You mean someone will pay me $100 to pee on them?!”

I was astounded and delighted.

I had a working bladder and urinary tract.

I currently peed several times a day without getting paid for it...it was money down the drain!

Not everyone I worked with offered it, but I figured, why the fuck not?!

I’d pee on anyone who could pay for it.

So I eagerly awaited my opportunity to do so.

My first golden shower came sooner than I’d anticipated.

A client come in and asked in the intro room whether I’d be available for a golden shower.

It was all I could do not to shout “Boy howdy” and fireman carry him up to the booking room.

But instead, ever the professional, I gave him a demure smile and said that sounded lovely.

I later learned that this client was something of a pro when it came to “singin’ in the rain”.

He’d booked golden showers so regularly that he’d earned the nickname Rainman.

After the booking was made, we went up to the room.

I was so excited I could’ve peed myself...except I didn’t, because I was about to do that all over his face.

Rainman got undressed, had a shower (because I like my clients squeaky clean before I pee on them), and climbed into the spa.

He was ready and waiting for my creative juices to start flowing.

I carefully straddled him, preparing to unleash my golden goodness all over him.

I was ready.

I was going to be a Golden Goddess!

But as I stared down at his expectant face, I felt like someone dammed my flow.

I pushed, I strained, I exerted as much effort as I could into making the flood waters burst forth, but all I ended up with was a sore urethra and a disappointed client staring up at me.

Not even a trickle could I bring forth.

I had let my client down.

I had let my parlour down.

But mostly I had let myself down.

I wasn’t the Golden Goddess.

I was the Damsel of Drought.

I had a dust bowl between my legs.

Oh, and a client who was still waiting for satisfaction.

I explained to him that tonight just wasn’t going to be the Gold Rush he’d paid for.

Rainman was kind and understanding.

He accepted my substitute of a massage and hand relief, and confessed that watching me try my darndest to pee all over him had been oddly satisfying in it’s own way.

I learned a few things that night, about making my golden dreams come true.

Next time, I would be prepared!

I would be mentally and physically ready for the challenge.

Mostly by having a full bladder.

My next opportunity to do my golden rain dance, came sooner than I expected.

A client, whom we’ll imaginatively call Bob, rang the parlour asking to book a golden shower in advance.

The two other service providers on shift that night didn’t offer it, so the booking fell to me.

I had time to prepare!

I drank all the liquids in sight.

Three cups of tea? Check.

Two cups of coffee? Check.

A litre of water? Check.

My bladder was full enough for Noah to sail his ark across.

Bob was scheduled to come in at 8pm.

By 7:55 I was ready and waiting.

By 8:15 I was really ready.

And by the time he actually arrived at 8:30pm I was ready to perform his booking in the entrance foyer.

I more or less dragged Bob up to the booking room and threw him into the shower (because I still like clients to be clean before opening my golden gates upon them).

I sat Bob in the spa, despite his protestations that perhaps we should take our time, and wouldn’t we like to get to know each other?

He explained that he hadn’t really done this before.

He was something of a golden shower novice.

More of a golden drizzler really.

Bob expanded further, saying, “Yeah, I guess I was kind of looking to explore this a little. See if there’s something in this fantasy that I like. So I was, uh, thinking you could maybe pee on me a little and then maybe, um, we could build on that?”

Determined to be the consummate professional I nodded and asked him to tell me more about what he was after.

Where did he want me to aim?

Head?

Chest?

Penis?

“I was, um, thinking if you could maybe pee on my stomach, and then, like, it could run down over my dick?”

I gave him a confident smile and straddled him, leg hitched up at the right angle so I could aim for his navel.

I looked down and saw his enthusiastic erection and knew this was my chance to be the Golden Girl I’d dreamed of.

Smut Buttoners...have you ever operated a fire hose?

You know how those old cartoons show people getting lifted off their feet and into the air by the sheer pressure of aquatic force flowing forth?

Well...yeah.

Despite going for his belly, there was so much liquid inside me by this stage that aim wasn’t really a luxury I had any more.

Most of it jet pulsed onto his neck and chest, but it also spattered across his face, along his arms, and pretty much everywhere else as well.

I watched in detached horror as my golden gift became an ammonia-scented armageddon, destroying everything in its wake.

Bob’s eager erection went from firm to flaccid in the space of about half a second.

I’ve literally never seen a penis deflate quite as quickly as his did, under my golden geyser.

Bob stared up at me with soulful eyes and asked, amongst spatterings of pee, “Could you...uh...stop?”

I looked down at my still steady stream and then back at him, “No. I don’t actually think I can.”

Bob took this with grace and continued to sit under the downpour.  

It went on for a lot longer than I thought I was actually capable of.

Bob and I made awkward eye contact several times during this, both of us silently acknowledging that this wasn’t how either of us had imagined our night progressing.

By the time my bladder was finally empty, Bob was defeated.

We sat in stilted silence for a moment before I offered him a consolation cup of tea.

Bob suggested he might perhaps take a shower first, a real one he clarified, and would collect his cup of tea in the bar downstairs.

I waited in the bar and passed Bob his cup of chamomile as he came down.

He took the cup and saucer, hands shaking as he held it in front of him.

He stared into the cup of lukewarm yellow liquid, and I swear I saw his eyes twitch as he started to have PTSD flashbacks.

I repressed the urge to get him a trauma blanket and support animal.

I never saw Bob again after that day.

And I gave up on my dream of becoming a Golden Girl.

My days of Singin’ in the Rain are over.

I made my peace with it.

But sometimes, when I’m sitting alone in a quiet room, sipping a cup of tea, I’ll stare into the cup and think of Bob.

That is all.

You may go now.