So About That One Time I Wet Myself At My Crush’s Front Door

I sat on the toilet seat all weed out and cringed to the gods for the next most painful 4 minutes of my life.

We’d kept regular contact for the 9 months I’d spent away as a nomad. Late night conversations about anything and everything and a genuine friendship built over that period of time.

I had a very innocent crush.

After a month of being back home we finally decide to meet up. This one evening he invites me to come along with him and a few of his friends to watch one of the local Ska bands. Having a somewhat weak spot for any sort of subgenre of reggae I obviously take him up on the offer. As the night unfolds I’m meeting more and more of his friends than we both expected and am feeling uncharacteristically quite shy despite the two pints of mango cider that have definitely left me feeling the teeniest bit buzzed. He’s non-stop apologising about the fact that he keeps having to introduce me to more people and (after the initial horror of feeling awfully uncool around his seemingly very cool friends) the only thing I can think is how cute it is that he’s whispering sorry each time he does.

Brownie points right on the rise.

We part from the rest and on the way back to his, he’s talking me through the hip places to be in his town whilst walking for what feels like forever in the September cold when I feel a very sudden sharp pain in my lower abdomen indicating that my bladder is not happy. I wince and ask if he has a toilet in his house that I’d be able to use once we arrive (in a manner way too calm for the knife stabbing pain I’ve just felt).

I’m doing my best to ignore it and keep up conversation as we get in.

Not a minute later he’s quietly turning the key in the front door. We step in and just as he’s gearing me up to introduce me to the figures we’ve noticed walking around the kitchen ahead of us, I feel a warm gush of liquid down my trouser leg and into my shoes. I COULD CRY, seriously close to tears, face flushed.

My hands fly up to my face as I’m stood there in my squidgy, wee shoes unable to move out of utter shame. He ushers me upstairs as I’m fumbling over my words about how embarrassed I am. With each step my shoes squelching as a wet reminder of what I’ve just done. I’m sat on this toilet seat for those 4 minutes, waiting on him to clean up downstairs. Mortified. He comes upstairs seemingly completely unfazed by the most embarrassing moment I’ve had in forever and hands me clean clothes after I’ve been contemplating for the last few minutes as to whether it’d be best for me to go home and never talk to him again.

Honestly, I don’t know what I would do had roles been reversed. But they weren’t.

It was me who wet myself in front of his door and me who will forever feel shame about it.