Urine Therapy Is A Gateway Drug To Golden Showers

It’s a fine line between medicine and pleasure

I knew it didn’t bode well when I first met her mother — the old bat.

• She was sitting in a wheelchair, looking like a post-sex change Tutankhamun.

• She looked like someone had stolen her eyes and replaced them with diseased, cloudy marbles.

• She looked like an aging Freddie Krueger in drag.

• Worst of all, she always wore short skirts like a tidy tart on the piss in Watford. But she wasn’t a tidy tart. She was an eighty-eight-year-old dust sculpture, and her naked legs looked like dried-out twin chorizos.

They say that the girl you are with ends up looking like her mother, so of course, I was concerned.

When I dated Anne, she was forty-two. I was a youthful thirty-eight, and I told her that if she ended up looking like her mother, I would murder her slowly by putting rat poison in her soup.

“She’s eighty-eight, for fuck’s sake, Frank,” Anne said. “It’s not like I will go that way in the next decade.”

Anne had still not forgiven me for threatening to poison her soup. I told her it was an act of love since I loved her too much to leave her even when she became as horrible as old chorizo legs. She said I would need to make some extraordinary gesture to make up for my awful words.

Anne’s mother had this old white cat constantly sleeping in her lap.

I used to joke to Anne that her mother was a Bond villain and that we should kill her before she stole a nuclear weapon.

One day, I overheard that the old cat’s birthday was coming up, so I decided to make Anne’s mother happy by writing a song for it.

The cat’s name was Doctor Chestnut. The song went like this:

Oh, Doctor Chestnut.

With your white fur

You are fair game, my friend.

There is no one like you.

And now, as you turn twenty-two,

I’d like to wish

A happy birthday to you (to you)

I pulled out the song during Sunday afternoon tea while Anne’s mother was showing her guests pictures of when she was a dancer back in 1955 at the Rooroo Leroy Funky Club in Cape Town, South Africa.

As I began the third cycle of the song, and just before the surprising key change, Anne informed me that the cat was stone deaf and couldn’t hear me singing. So I stopped singing and stood there like a frozen scarecrow, the whole room silent and looking at me in disgust.

“What does it matter if the cat is deaf?” I shouted. “It’s not like he’s fucking listening anyway. He’s sleeping like a lazy fucker on old chorizo legs as usual.”

Anne’s mother may have been old, but there was nothing wrong with her reflexes.

Her marble eyes nearly fell out with anger, and she flicked her wrist like Jackie Chang, launching scalding hot Yorkshire tea straight into my face.

“I appreciate the gesture, Frank,” Anne told me later as she dabbed my face with liquid. It started to sting on the burns.

“What is that?” I asked. “is it ammonia?”

“It’s a special remedy,” she said.

“Yes, but it smells like piss. What is it?”

“It’s piss,” Anne said. “my piss, actually. You know, anything to do with the skin, you apply urine. It’s like a miracle remedy.”

At first, I was a little disgusted, but every day she dabbed it on, the burns felt better and better. Within a week, there wasn’t a single sign of scarring on my face, and nothing more was said about the horrible incident.

“You know you should drink a cup of your urine daily, Frank,” Anne told me a week later.

So, this is level two, I thought to myself. I began with just a shot glass — 30ml of piss. It had a bitter taste, like a strong IPA, but with a strange aftertaste that caused my face to spasm. The more I drank, the better I felt. My energy went through the roof. Eventually, I just pissed into a pint glass and drank the lot. I was a perpetual pissing machine (PPM). Not a drop of liquid left my body, but it got recycled back into me.

I read more about urine therapy and its benefits and started spruiking it to my friends like a piss-obsessed lunatic.

Then, about two weeks later, I had an outbreak of acne on my chin. Anne looked at me as we sat there watching TV.

“I can fix that, you know,” she said, “with my special remedy. Come into the bathroom, Frank.”

I knew what special remedy meant. It was no problem for me. I’d been drinking gallons of my own piss for weeks.

We went into the bathroom, and she stripped off her clothes and then mine until we were naked.

“You have acne all over your body Frank,” she said. I couldn’t see what she meant by that. There wasn’t a single bit of acne anywhere.

She told me to lie down in the bath. Then she hovered over me.

“What are you doing, Darling?” I said, but as I spoke, her hot piss hit me in the face.

“Darling,” I said, with a mouthful of her sweet nectar, “You seem to be pissing on my face.

“Sorry, “ she said, redirecting her piss all over my chest and body. She straddled me in the bath and brought herself to orgasm.

“Sorry, Frank,” she said. “I know it’s quite sudden. “I noticed it turned me on when we did your burns,” she said. “So, I figured, why not have a little fun while we treat you?”

“So that’s what a golden shower feels like,” I said. It didn’t turn me on tremendously, but the fact that it turned her on turned me on.

“If you are properly hydrated, it’s called a silver shower, Frank. Always remember that. Now, you piss on me — GO.”

Silver showers became a weekly treat in our house after that.

After a couple of months, we got bored and started experimenting with different types of piss — children’s piss, dog’s piss, tramp’s piss, that kind of thing. We would pour it over each other while we fucked.

But, things slowly became tense between Anne and me, mostly due to her mother. We broke up eighteen months later after I cheated on her with a Margaret Thatcher lookalike at a fancy dress party. Anne probably pissed on me another hundred times in those eighteen months, and I did the same to her.

I ran into her five years later with her new husband at a Kickstarter party for a sex shop called The Purple Beaver.

“How’s your mother?” I asked.

“She’s fine,” Anne said, “But Doctor Chestnut passed away,”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. It’s always sad when a cat dies.

I turned to her husband, a giant American.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Has she pissed on you yet?”

He punched me in the face hard.

My wife asked me what had happened and I said a stranger punched me for no reason at the opening of the Purple Beaver.

“You poor thing,” she said.

“I know. Can you put some of this on it?” I asked, pulling out a special remedy from my bag.

---