One of the worst parts of being a boozehound, for me, was pissing everything. If wetting the bed as a youth is horrible, doing it as an adult is horrifying. Sleepovers in middle school were anxiety provoking, but sleeping at someone’s place—lover or friend, as a drunk adult was terrifying. There was a night where I actually asked someone to sleep in their tub, like, preemptively knowing what i’d do to their guest bedroom. Here are the top-5 bedwetting moments of my life (that I remember):
Your dog did it.
When I lived in Chicago, I routinely got drunk at a girl’s house and fell asleep on her girlfriend’s couch. Every morning I woke up, I found i’d pissed her couch. And every morning, they blamed the dog. I don’t know if this was to save me the embarrassment or if they truly believed the dog pissed the couch whenever I happened to sleep over. I hope they threw this couch away.
I once fell asleep (read: passed out) during a three-some. While the other two participants continued exploring one another’s bodies, I began relieving myself subconsciously. I came to when my body was introduced to the ground after they shoved me out of bed.
NYC Cab (s)
What I hated about living in Astoria most was that it was a long way away from Chelsea, where I spent a lot of my time. EVEN if I peed before leaving, there was a chance that i’d need to pee before I made it back to my apartment (this meant I routinely pissed at train stations and in between cars surrounding train stations). Sometimes, to save myself the embarrassment, I took cabs. I was in a cab one night when I felt the urge to pee. We’d just turned on to street leading to the Queensboro Bridge. I figured, oh what the fuck, I’ll just piss myself, and i’ll be home in 10 minutes anyway. Nope but not because there was traffic. The cab driver wasn’t having it. After turning on his light to find out why I was pouring a drink out in his cab, he threw me out when he discovered I wasn’t actually pouring a drink out in his cab.
Bonus: I didn’t have to pay for a cab from chelsea to the upper east side.
Bogus: I had to take the train from 59th St to 30 Av in piss soaked jeans for all to see.
During someone else’s college tenure. I spent the night before a party they were hosting getting drunk with them. I slept on what I thought was a couch but soon discovered was nothing more than a glofiried sponge. When I awoke in the morning, I quickly learned there was no way to dry it. Wringing it out was impossible (also gross). The air conditioner wouldn’t dry the cushions instead spread the smell of urine around the apartment. I tried for a hail-mary as I bailed, tossing a blanket on the mess I’d caused. I returned to the house later that evening to find the party in full swing, with caution tape surrounding the entire perimiter of the couch. I walked past it and party-goers giving me a little more than side-eye, through the kitchen and out the garden gate, never to return again.
I woke up next to a man (gasp) in Vegas, with one functional eye (double-gasp) and a urine spread nearly the size of a king size bed (gasp-gasp-gasp). Did he pisss it? Did I piss it? Did we both piss it? Like adults, neither of us discussed it as I kindly asked him to leave so I could continue my descent into my own personal hell/hangover. I’ll never forget the size of that circle nor the cleaning lady’s face the day she saw it.
Today, nothing beats waking up in a dry bed.