teashoesandhair:

artemisgarden:

frogsandcoffee:

thefingerfuckingfemalefury:

when-fates-collide:

jerseydevilslesbianlover:

pidge-gunson:

neko-crimson:

what the actual fuck

Men don’t know women can pee

ive been sitting on the toilet for 20 minutes trying to piss but the pee keeps getting lost in my confusing Woman Body

how does shit like that get published

I feel like my eyes were just assaulted

She probably wants to get checked for a UTI and maybe start some cranberry pills.

I mean sometimes it can take a minute for me to pee even though I have to, but I doubt it’s cause the pee got lost.

She had to sit on the toilet for some half day, waiting for the pee to come. Men, they were able to conjure it up immediately, that was one of their powers, that thunderous splashing as they stood lordly above the bowl, like piss lords. Lords of piss. A man’s urethra is his castle, she thought. Short and straight, so that the piss didn’t get lost in a tangled labyrinthine mess of insides, like hers did. She checked her watch. Another five minutes had passed. She thought that she could feel her pee making its way through her body, dripping slowly through the maze of her miles long urethra somewhere around her elbow. Only an hour or so to go before it reached the toilet, she thought.

Above her, there was a patch of damp on the ceiling, like the old house was bruised inside and flowering damp all around her. She thought of the damp, trying to turn wet thoughts into pee. Men never had to do this, she thought. There was no black magic in it for them. She bet they didn’t even have to burn rosemary in the corners of all their good rooms in the hours before they wanted to pee. Had she burnt enough rosemary? Had she remembered the words of the sacred piss chant? She hoped so. She remembered being 11 years old, desperate to go to the toilet and being unable to think of the words. She hadn’t peed for two weeks until her father, lips pursed in manly irritation, had reminded her of the verses. Thank god for the piss lords.

She remembered, too, seeing her father once on a camping trip when she was young, standing outside their tent, hands clasped in front of him. She had heard rather than seen the steady stream of urine, had heard the confidence of the easy flow, and rage had coursed through her veins like her own pee had to, all through the twists and turns of her body. Had her father even made a blood sacrifice yesterday? Had he been standing outside all night long, as she had to if she wanted to pee in the morning? No. He was baron of his own liquid waste. It wasn’t fair.

Fifteen more minutes. She felt the urine inside her, somewhere close to her appendix, nearly at the end of its odyssey. She thought of Odysseus. He wouldn’t have had to do this. He could have pissed over the side of the boat any time he wanted.

The damp above her head seemed to grow. Hours passed. Slowly, slowly, she began to pee. Her legs cramped from sitting on the bowl for half a day already. It would all be over in an hour or so.

My father, she thought, MBE of his urethra. And I, a woman, whose pee does not come easy. This was normal. This was how women were made. She knew it, because she was a woman, not simply a male fantasy. She was not written by a man. She was real. Flesh and cold blood and retractable claws. Women are weird. That was the simple truth of it.

After what seemed like a day, largely because it was, the slow, steady dripping stopped. She stood up on shaky legs and zipped up her jeans. Making sure that both her knees were facing the right way and that her lizard skin was fully concealed, she opened the bathroom door. Dawn had come. Plenty of time left to photosynthesise before the great moulting, during which her second eyelids would manifest. The life of a human woman. So alien to men.