Unveiling Secrets in Therapy Pairing

Coffee, tea, or...pee? Part I

Urophilia [u″ro-fil´e-ah]
a paraphilia in which sexual arousal or activity is linked to urine.

In another post I posed the question of "kink" versus "heightened sexual intimacy." Just as homosexuality used to be classified in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual as a mental disorder requiring treatment, so are "kinks," which leads to guilt, shame, low self esteem, depression and worse. Been there, done that, worn the T shirt. Enough on that, if it's not your interest, then stop reading now.

Ever since I was a lad, steeped in the tradition of "we don't discuss those things," the sight, the sound, and scent of a woman's pee peppered my mind. Of course, at that point in my life, it was purely imaginary; a fantasy. As my guilt and shame grew I sought therapy, and in this therapeutic retreat me were paired off and asked to share our most intimate sexual fantasy with one other person. As luck would have it, I was paired off with pretty Paula, and her fantasy was having wild sex on a train, or something, "Risky Business" had recently come out, I think. When it came my turn, I opened my mouth and could not for the life of me get the words out: "I've always wanted to taste a woman's pee." Couldn't do it. Ended up skulking off, damning myself for a wretched pervert.

A few years later, and this is back in the Dark Ages before the internet, when everything was magazines and snail mail, I acquired the services of a lovely Dominatrix, of African descent, Mistress Mir. I wrote to her, and flush with embarrassment told her that I craved to taste a woman's urine.

We met that first time, in the refurbished dungeon basement of her stately New Jersey home (she made a very good income helping out shy males) and we got down to matters at hand. After barely 30 minutes of gazing into her honey brown eyes, I felt the years of shame melt away. Without a word, she bade me to join her at this elegant wet bar, and poured us both a finger of champagne (and I do mean champagne, I know what you must be thinking, shame on you). Just being in this woman's kind and accepting presence shed years of tension and misery.

Silently, she motioned me to get on my knees. Without a word, she took her champagne flute and placed it below her magnificent vulva and released a golden stream, filling it to the top. She then placed it to my lips and had me drink it. The effect was like a blast of lightening clanging through my brain. To this day I recall three levels of flavor: salty, a heady, woody aroma, and something I can only describe as eau de vagina. It was better than tequila, and potent kick of the precious liquid filled my sinuses and left me gasping in shock and awe.

Once I had drained the flute, she lifted my chin and leaned over and gave me a deep French kiss. MaryMotherofDog, I nearly fainted from joy. As our sweet session wound down a few hours later, I erupted in an orgasm that sprayed yards of semen across the room, splattering upon the wall. Yes, it was really that good.

As the years rolled by it became my determined interest to seek this forbidden fruit with every beautiful lady that ever invited me to be her partner. It was very, very hard at first. The beautiful Sarah, the prim, Blue Blooded White Anglo Saxon Protestant of whom I mentioned in another post, who became profoundly and eagerly anally erotic with only a little coaxing, was the first woman I asked, after gathering my courage for weeks in advance. Oral sex with her was one of life's great thrills, so I had a tiny, tiny taste of what was down there, and damned if I didn't want more, so much more.

She listened to me with those grave gray blue eyes, and didn't say yes, but, I noticed, didn't say no. She never did treat me to that joy, but I adored her and enjoyed to whatever she would allow. Just never happened. (Part II to be continued)