I awoke in my bed, slightly hung over and still next to the girl I’d hooked up with the previous evening. While trying to gauge the severity level of my impending hangover, I began to sense a strange cold feeling around my body. It took me a moment to realize what I was feeling: wetness. It took me a longer moment to fully process the ramifications of this realization. A quick smell check confirmed the obvious: urine! Holy shit, I thought. Was I so wasted last night that I wet my bed?! Now, drunkenly wetting your bed is certainly not unheard of in the male community (I knew a guy in college who did it so frequently he should’ve worn a diaper to bed after parties), but I’d never personally done it before. The fact that this had happened with a woman present quickened me with a potent blend of rage/shame/terror. How was I going to get out of this? My brain raced with the most retarded schemes imaginable. Wakie, wakie, my dear, I brought you a huge glass of orange juice, and – oh butterfingers! I spilt it all over you and the bed! But then I made an intriguing discovery… My left side was bone dry.The sinister wetness was confined solely to my right side, next to the young lady. Said young lady was still dead to the world, which afforded me some freedom to investigate. To my building surprise, the bed all around her was engulfed in wetness, which meant only one thing: It! Was! Her! There was no doubt about it. This female had peed in my bed. I have never been happier about something urine related before or since. But the wave of relief that swept over me soon ebbed, and a new wave of unease crept in. What the fuck am I going to say to this girl? While the idea of me pissing my own bed was impossibly humiliating, I had to imagine it would be doubly so for this chick. The situation was so awkward I couldn’t even be angry. I just felt bad. Plus, I couldn’t exactly get on my high horse. A couple years prior, I had drunkenly sleepwalked out of my room and peed on my living room floor while my roommate was playing video games because I thought I was in the bathroom. Another important thing for me to consider: did I want to maybe see this gal again? She was very cute. Though, you know, she also pissed all over my bed.If we’d been at her place I would have just slinked away while she slumbered in her waste. No luck here.Was there conceivably a way to get her up, out of my bed, without her ever knowing what she did? I could just push her out of bed, maybe. I could still perform my asinine orange juice spilling trick. Ultimately the decision was made for me. While I was in the bathroom, relieving my incredibly full bladder (thank you very much), and cleaning myself where foreign urine had touched me, the lady got out of bed and got dressed. We had some standard morning-after chatter. Boy, I’m hung over. Blah blah blah. Etc. Then she scurried off, saying she had somewhere to be. That was it. No mention of the unmentionable. I was quite happy to have avoided the awkward conversation, but as time went by something began to nag at me: she peed in my bed then just left without saying anything! It was possible that she hadn’t realized, but that seemed unlikely. It was pretty damn noticeable. And as I went through the heinous process of cleaning my mattress, this began to bother me more and more. She had to know! Weirder yet, she contacted me for another date. As our next rendezvous approached the unanswered questions here began eating me up. Did she know or didn’t she? Was she just rude? Or stupid? She can’t possibly think I didn’t notice the ocean of urine soaked into my bed, could she?
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