I’m seeking some advice, as a new sink pisser and ecological warrior.
Let me start from the beginning. To understand my journey you will need to understand the origins of my sink pissing obsession.
I was born in the dark, cold hinterland of northern Scandanavia – a fishing village. I won’t give you the name for fear of my anonymity being compromised. During the lighter months, fishing boats with tough, hardy men used to come and go at our small harbour, and the fishermen would unload their hauls of salmon; and then unload their piss into the sinks in the local taverns.
The locals called them savages. When I was a boy – old enough to be influenced by what I saw – I went into the toilet at my local public house, and there I saw a great big man, with a huge, hairy back and, leathery skin… He was standing on his tiptoes, completely naked, groaning with pleasure as he pissed heartily into the sink, the golden nectar from his member letting off a gentle steam that wafted delicately through the air, juxtaposed with the harshness of his body.
“SEVEN LITRES” he groaned, as he finished up, and started putting his clothes back on, stuffing his newly-relieved dong back into his overalls. I didn’t know what he meant, but I didn’t have time to ask, as he shuffled past me and back to the bar, spitting blood on the floor as he went.
I ran home right away…. “Mama, Papa!” I shouted, “Brothers, Sisters…” I gathered everyone in the toilet, eager to show them my new trick. I took off all my clothes, grabbed my boyish penis, white and untouched like the rest of my body, and began to piss in the sink. “Edgar, what are you doing?!” shouted Papa. He slapped me around the cheek and I was sent to my room for a week, only to eat bread and water. My family told me I was shameful, and that I must never do this again.
Years passed, and I left home. I studied to become a plumbing engineer. I left home and went to work for bathroom company in the USA. I invented new toilets, sinks… showers, with more efficient effects. I got married, and had two children.
I was obsessed with pissing in the sink, but I could never bring myself to do it. Even in my own home. The shame was too much. My father shared my shame. On my wedding day, he couldn’t look me in the eye.
My wife thought I loved her, but how could I love another when deep down I felt this overbearing shame? I looked at my kids. “Do you love us, Papa?” They asked. I looked away in disgust.
Therapy was no help.
“Why don’t you just… piss in the sink?” One of these $200-an-hour-charlatans asked me.” I spat in his face, threw my money on the ground, and walked out… “It’s not that simple.”
I didn’t sleep, but when I did, I dreamt of the burly man in the fishing village, butt naked, pissing into the sink. So eco-friendly, such as good way to save space in the bathroom… but requiring such confidence and freedom. That I did not have. I broke every mirror in my house in a blind rage. I got drunk and sang sea shantys and hit my wife.
Then, one day I got a call. “Edgar, it’s your father.”
Heart attack. The funeral would be held two weeks later.
I gathered my family, who cowered in fear under my fists and alcoholic rage, and told them to pack their things. My children, whose names I could not often remember, were glad to be out of the house.
On the plane over, I drank ten beers and locked myself in one of the toilets. I heard a knock on the door after an hour or so. “Excuse me, are you okay in there.” It was a woman’s voice. I told her to go away. I was in floods of tears, looking at the sink, willing myself to piss. But I couldn’t. I smashed the mirror with my forehead and heard more knocks. “Leave me alone, I yelled.” Eventually a woman opened the door. I smacked her around the face with the plastic cup I was drinking from, causing a bruise. I was immediately apprehended by several passengers and the flight was diverted. I spent several days in an airport holding facility before finally being let out again.
Luckily, we were already back in the fatherland, so we could continue via train. My family cowered next to me as I drank an entire bottle of vodka on the six hour journey northward, listening to Genesis on my phone and spitting at any of the other passengers who tried to tell me to turn it down. “What have I *become*?” I said to myself, as Invisible Touch reached its crescendo on the tinny sound of my scratched iPhone 11.
We arrived at the funeral in poor spirits. I was becoming increasingly consumed with the idea of pissing in the sink, and my tragic inability to follow through. I spoke loudly to the other guests about my failing marriage and disappointing children, making sure they were in earshot. “Just *look* at her,” I said, motioning to my wife, as I told my Uncle Olaf about our intimacy problems.
I continued to get drunk throughout the funeral, drinking heavily throughout the morning, into the main proceedings. I vomited heavily during the ceremony, dropping to all fours and spitting chunks all over the floor. “*Don’t look at me!”* I bellowed at my mother. What an embarrassment.
I went to the toilet. I looked into the mirror and saw myself – a shadow of a man – looking back at me. But hang on a second, there was someone else there. A burly, hairy hand gripped my shoulder. It was the sailor, from all those years ago. But he looked like he hadn’t aged a day. Still naked. Still strong and proud.
Without a word, he grabbed my penis from inside my vomit-soaked trousers. He pulled it out, and motioned towards the sink. “Now… you can,” he said. I pissed… slowly at first, and then; the dam broke. I hadn’t pissed all day. My vision was blurry, I was shaking uncontrollably and swaying too and fro because of the booze. But my sailor held me steady, guiding my excited member into the sink… The feeling of liberation was instant. I saw the ghosts of my forefathers standing by me. My father was there, he was nodding with pride. He looked my in the eye, his ghostly figure glancing between my eyes and my stream of piss.
My wife was there too, in all her natural beauty, and my children! And, I remembered their names. Little Kobe and Le Bron – my brood. And they were beautiful too, and I loved them. I felt the weight of years of failure and shame lift off me as the flow of my de-hydrated piss filled the sink, skimming the outside of the rim like a beyblade which has just been let rip, and then dancing towards the plughole with joy.
At the end, I was done. I collapsed in a heap. Soon after, my wife came to find me.
“Oh Edgar…” she saw immediately in my eyes that I was healed. She came to me and held me close on the floor, covered in piss and vomit. My penis had again flopped out of my trousers and immediately became erect at my wife’s touch. “I am going to make you feel like a woman” I said, slurring through the alcoholic daze and elation, as the sailor watched over us both. I mounted her right there on the toilet floor, and my children gathered around, and all of my extended family, watching and cheering as we climaxed together. After we were done, I got up, spat on the floor, a mixture of vomit, blood and whiskey, and walked out of the bathroom, standing taller than ever, holding one arm in the air like a champion.
“Did you see him?” I asked my wife as we walked past the procession.
“Who? There was no one in there but you, Edgar”
I smiled… My guardian angel, I thought to myself.