Life Hack: Spare Bed as Toilet

Hi! My name is Ophelia. I'm a stout but well-proportioned and apparently curvy half-Asian/half-Latina college girl. I'm 19, and I guess you could call me a bit of a geek. I graduated from high school summa cum laude and wear a rather cliché'd pair of glasses with little or no make-up. My fashion sense is relatively simple, usually consisting of faded blue jeans, a tucked-in white tank top, a belt, and a flannel overshirt.

I'm not sure whose bright idea it was to organize the dorms in one of my university's largest residence halls the way that they are. A "unit" is a pair of bedrooms with two beds in each room linked by a shared bathroom. A "block" is a division of five such units with a shared kitchen. Seriously, four girls sharing one bathroom? I would wonder what the architect was smoking that day, but actually, it seems to work surprisingly well. So I guess I ought to give him or her the benefit of the doubt. Still, on the face of it, it just doesn't sound like something that would work as well as it does until you actually see it.

You see, my roommate Erin moved in with me because she had fallen on some hard times in terms of financial aid and could no longer afford the more expensive one-bed-per-room dorms. She was accustomed to a lifestyle that was...adventurous. Not only that, but she was also bit loose-lipped about her sexual behavior. Now, I'm not a prude, but I am a nerdy virgin who believes that certain information should stay in the bedroom for the comfort of others, so it was often a bit awkward with her. I envied her tales of a private bedroom,...until she disclosed that she actually had two beds: a "sleeping bed" and a "sex bed." The convenience has something to do with laundering the linens, but I cut her off with a loud protest of "TMI!" before she could go into detail. You would think I would be a bit relieved when she moved out after her financial aid situation improved, and I was in general, but she even managed to make her departure awkward by insisting that I keep the lower bunk bed that had been hers, including all the bedclothes, for "other purposes." She insisted that I had a "hot body" and that I would soon come into my own sexually. Still, we parted on overall good terms. She was friendly enough and never pressured me to be more exploratory before I was ready. If the worst that my first college roommate did was make me feel a bit squeamish sometimes, I was probably one of the lucky ones. Still, I very willingly shoved the whole thing into the back of my mind, made only slightly more difficult that no new roommates were forthcoming for quite a while.

Then, it happened. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. My drinking habits and the fact that I still had two other quasi-roommates in the other half of my unit were a recipe for disaster! I'm a bit of a Pepsi addict, and I quickly got into the habit of bringing one into any particularly boring class to keep me going. Another peculiar thing about me is that soda tends to go straight through me, and with a vengeance! Within about half an hour of polishing off a can or bottle, I feel the familiar pangs of a nascent urge to pee. About a mere five minutes later, I'm practically bursting! There's very little build-up or warning before I'm holding on to what feels like a gallon or two. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the severity of this effect had never really hit me before, because relief was always easy and quick. Even with my busy schedule, the timing of my commute from campus to my dorm worked out just about perfectly, as I usually made it home just as I was beginning to noticeably dance around.

For a valedictorian, I really should have known better than to rely on such delicate timing, because one day, I arrived at the dorm to find a closed bathroom door greeting me for the first time. My first reaction was mild confusion as to what could have broken my roommates' usually non-overlapping hygienic routines, and I jiggled the knob just to verify that it locked. My bladder protested with a sharp but tolerable pang, and I briefly rubbed my crotch through my jeans before resignedly letting my backpack fall to the floor. Well, it's a bit of a bummer, I thought, but they probably won't be long at all. I can hold it for a few minutes.

I decided to check my e-mail and maybe coerce myself into starting that paper whose due date was hovering dangerously near. On second thought, I chuckled at my own naivete. It was hard enough to discipline myself under normal circumstances, but now I had the distraction of a rapidly filling bladder. After verifying that nothing particularly important or engaging fun had come into my inbox and grumbling at all the spammers for giving me so many flashes of false hope, I turned a hopeful look to the bathroom door. It was still closed, and as if on cue, my bladder decried the situation again with a somewhat stronger and more sustained twinge. I sighed and decided to see if some random YouTube videos could make the time pass faster, making sure to avoid anything that looked remotely like it could make me laugh. It turns out, that only works when you're actually bored, but when you're desperate to use an occupied bathroom, nothing you watch is adequate distraction. I was barely into the first video I found before I failed to resist another look at the door, which remained closed.

That was the first time I realized that I could be in serious trouble, as the momentary pangs were growing into a more steady discomfort. I sucked in a deep breath through O-shaped lips before resuming the acoustic cover of some pop song that I don't even remember now, but even when I eventually tried something more intellectually simulating, I kept having to re-watch several parts of the global warming debate because I just couldn't concentrate with the pressure building in my groin. Within about ten minutes, I was massaging my crotch almost constantly, and my knees had started bouncing on the edge of my desk chair along with my ankles on the floor. In within another ten minutes, my YouTube viewing had almost come to a standstill as I started leaning back and forth rapidly and repeatedly almost in sync with my bouncing legs. All the while, I looked at the door at intervals of what felt like eternity but in retrospect I estimate were probably about 30 seconds on average, and each time, the increasingly imposing door taunted me with its relentlessly closed status. Meanwhile, the clock seemed to crawl slower than it had in any class.

By know, the discomfort was fully sustained and had spread throughout my entire lower abdomen, and I suddenly realized that an accident had become a very real possibility. I finally decided to stand up to see if that would ease the tension. Big mistake! The act of standing caused the strongest pang of urge I'd ever felt on top of the more steady pressure that I had ironically sought to reduce. I cast another hopeful look at that blasted door and let out a loud moan as I ventured skipping over to verify once again that door was in fact locked. It was. I groaned and began bouncing up and down, using the incidental and haphazard rotation to scan the room for any viable container and finding none. Why did I have to be so diligent about disposing of all those soda bottles?

Instead, my eyes randomly landed on the lower bunk bed and lingered there. Only in my desperate state could I even believe what I was suddenly considering. It probably wasn't what Erin ever had in mind, but surely it would be no less messy. I shook my head and groaned as my sense of decorum protested fervently, but its inner voice was dwarfed by that of my now-aching belly. Trying to convince myself that the door would open just as I took the plunge, I looked around to make sure there was no other option, but a final swelling in pressure made my decision for me. "Screw it! I can't hold it anymore!" I groaned. With so little time to spare that I now marvel that I even had the foresight to yank back the sheet and comforter, I pulled down both my jeans and panties in one swift motion, turned around and collapsed onto the exposed mattress as if onto a toilet. The edge right up against my calves, I braced myself with both hands...and let loose.

My eyes almost completely closed, I let out a muffled gasp as I immediately started peeing like a racehorse. What I'm sure would have been quite the forceful torrent had I hovered rather than outright sat nevertheless made itself known by the loud hiss it made as it spread wide and deep into the surprisingly absorbent bed. Plus, although the relief would have easily been pleasurable enough, the warmth on my thighs, crotch, and butt rendered the whole experience almost orgasmic. Finally finding my voice, I arched my back and moaned loudly as the flow suddenly got even stronger and my relief even greater. I stayed in that position, breathing heavily, until I had finally relieved myself completely and the unseen torrent abruptly dwindled to nothing. Looking back, it probably took about two or three minutes for me to unload all that pee, but it felt much longer and yet not long enough at the same time.

"Hoo!" I finally sighed before slowly standing up to survey the damage. I was pleasantly surprised that none of it had soaked through onto the floor, especially given the volume that I had expelled. The top of the mattress and fitted sheet were, of course, thoroughly drenched, but not so much that simply throwing the comforter and sheet back into place couldn't hide the whole incidence. Although I almost never have guests, that was a comfort. I further realized that I could launder it without anyone even knowing, since everything that needed cleaning would be hidden by the comforter and sheet, which would ease my paranoia about people figuring out what I had done simply by the odd time I would be visiting the laundromat. I bent down to get a slightly closer look and realized that Erin had left a mattress protector under the fitted sheet. Given her sexual habits, perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was very grateful to her at that moment. Despite myself, a half-sheepish/half-sly smile bloomed on my face. Harrowing though it was, the whole experience was paradoxically exhilerating and, I daresay, arousing. "Other purposes" indeed!

Over the weeks that followed, I found myself actually hoping to find myself in a desperate situation like that again. After about a week, I started deliberately drinking more and taking more time than usual to walk home just to tempt fate. It worked once or twice, but that only made me more comfortable with the mischief of it all, and eventually, I stopped pretending that I even needed to be that desperate. I have since then gotten into the habit of laundering the protector and fitted sheet every five days or so. Strangely, the perfect storm of extreme relief and warmth never seems to get old, nor does the volume of pee ever seem significantly less despite the fact that I'm not always as desperate as I was the first time any more. Just recently, I was ironically engrossed in a YouTube video when that familiar urge hit me. Hoping to finish the video first, I held it and let the pressure build up before I finally decided to just go right there. I casually rose from my desk, lowered my pajama pants, pulled the quilt and sheet back, sat down, and promptly unleashed my usual gallon. I gasped and moaned several times as is typical, to the point that I might sound like I'm actually having sex if anyone were to hear me.

I doubt Erin would have ever anticipated this, but somehow, I suspect that she would be proud of me!