Post-Eucharist Watersports

It seems as though most of my earliest memories involve church. Not a surprising consequence due to the amount of my formative years that was spent within a church. It was there that I can remember so vividly my first encounter with an activity I would learn much later in life is defined by Urban Dictionary as 'watersports'.

It was a Sunday in early spring. Exact day is a little fuzzy as other events, naturally, take precedence in my mind. It was nearing the end of communion, a ritual (for those readers who have been fortunate enough not to have been subjected to organized religion) that involves eating stale, unleavened wafers and drinking a thimbleful of grape juice. To every child who attends church this magical moment is the epitome of adulthood.

As a 6 year old my bladder instinctively knew the moment that would be the least convenient to have the urge to pee. Trying to avoid the wrath of God, I held it. And held it. And held it. But it was soon going to become a choice between God's eternal displeasure or a leaky bladder in old age (I still pride myself on having a pristine bladder). And once I chose long term urinary stability, so did my friend Eric and we would hold it no longer. So with the urgency that only two 6 year olds can express, we were allowed to get up and go to the bathroom.

We B lined it straight for the facilities. I, being the responsible child I was, relieved myself and was urging Eric to hurry because we were missing vital hell-damning information. As I have never asked Eric what divine inspiration he had for doing what he did next, I'm going to apply Occam's Razor here and deduce that God probably did not inhabit him or speak to him through the urinal, but in fact there was no inspiration and he was just being an immature bastard.

He looked at me with a mischievous grin on his face and turned his 'disco-stick' in my direction and proceeded to empty the contents of his bladder on me. As an adult, unless it was consensual (as it so often is these days in public restrooms), if that ever happened to me I would probably shove his head into the urinal (given he didn't surpass me in weight) so we at least would both being leaving that bathroom covered in his piss. At 6 the reaction is a little different. In all honesty there really wasn't much of a reaction. I stood there unsure of what etiquette would dictate I do in this situation (always the stickler for manners). Do we genially shake hands and leave? Should I have held mine longer to reciprocate? Would he forever think of me as the boy who didn't know how to respond to being peed on?

(This moment got framed and sits prominently on the mantel)

Thankfully I was saved from having to make that crucial decision (heaven forbid it wasn't the right one!) by someone else's excretory system (or more likely, he was just sick of listening to Pastor Dan ramble on). When he saw Eric standing there with his dick pointed in my direction and me drenched, he knew exactly what to do (probably had a run-in like this himself. Learn from your mistakes, that's what I always say).

"Stay right there, I'm going to get your dad." (Thank God I know now the correct response to watersports is to get some paternal involvement)


A few minutes later my dad came in carry a towel that was normally used for drying off Christians after being baptized (God must really hate me). He wrapped me up, stuck me in the car, drove me home, and I had a bath.

Needless to say, we didn't invite Eric back to church. (That'll show him! While he's burning in Hell he'll rue the day he peed on me)