I mentioned in a previous article that on Christmas Day, whilst you were sitting down to a full-on roasted dinner with crackers, party hats and lots of noise, I was sat on my own listening to Chill Radio and eating noodles in tomato soup. Wearing a Batman onesie.
I slipped the mention of the Batman onesie in, but thought I’d best expand, so here we go.
Ok, I was, genuinely, sitting eating noodles in tomato soup whilst wearing a large ‘Batman’ onesie.
I spent all of Christmas Day wearing my Batman onesie.
You think I’m making it up don’t you? Genuinely, factually, actually, I wore my Batman onesie for Christmas Day and I ate noodles and soup for my dinner.
What do you mean by saying that explains why I was on my own?
Anyway, it was the first time I’d worn a onesie, let alone a Batman onesie. To my horror I discovered a onsie is not ‘having a wee‘ friendly. I had been putting off going until the last minute, being engrossed in something I was writing, and when my body said “Wait no longer, fool” I headed to the nearest toilet.
Now, as a man, I either urinate by standing there and unzipping my fly to allow my very tiny willy to poke through, or I sit and wee like a girl. The latter I normally do when I’m just out of bed and am half asleep and so fear my aiming ability in the dark might be a bit off.
When one is dying to have a wee and when the brain knows you have arrived at a place to have a wee, it starts to accept that it is indeed time to have a wee. At this point you usually have enough time, literally a few milliseconds, to whip the willy out or ‘drop trou’ (or whatever ladies call it) before becoming a water fountain. Or wee fountain.
So, it was at exactly this point in the process that I discovered no immediately obvious way to allow my willy to point its little self out of my onesie. Damn, this was a bit like getting on a bike for the first time without a clue how to steer or brake. Why hadn’t I pre-thought the need to wee and worked out a practical solution.
Now contracting every pelvic area muscle I could access to avoid weeing myself, I desperately searched for an exit strategy. The only way to un-onesie myself seemed to be by unzipping the long zip running from my neck down to my belly button. This I did whilst dancing on one leg. However it wasn’t enough. Willy access or egress was impossible. Well, not unless it had been transplanted to my belly button, which it hadn’t. Using a crouching movement the, ahem, tip of my willy was exposable, but it was held firmly against my body. Any wee would be all over me. I’m sure that’s a fetish, but it’s not one of mine.
Try as I might to twist and turn I couldn’t seem to release myself. Well, not myself, my willy. The problem, my engineering brain quickly concluded, was that the arms of the onesie kept pulling the lower part of the onesie up and over my willy. I had to remove the onesie from my arms. I’d never done this before. So, whilst hopping and part crossing my legs, I tried to remove the onesie from my shoulders and roll it down my arms.
This took many a go until I eventually got one arm out. One free arm is not enough. By doing exceedingly desperate helicopter blade impressions I managed to get the second arm out. Instantly I was able to pull the onesie down like a pair of trousers. Concerned that a disaster was about to befall me, I twisted round and sat on the loo in order to finally, with a loud and long ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhh‘, release the wee. The relief was orgasmic.
It was at this point that I looked at where the top half of the onesie was. It was trailing all over the floor snugged up to the toilet bowl. The floor and area on our particular toilet is clean. But is this what happens to the top half of a onesie every time? If so, it means that in less clean households or public places, the top half of a onesie gets covered in wee or worse from whatever residue is around the toilet. Then the wearer puts that back up around their shoulders. This must mean, unless I’m missing a trick here, that many onesie wearers are walking around with a top covered in wee and remnants of pooh, sick, period blood, or whatever else has dribbled down the outside of the toilet bowl or the floor it stands on.
Dirty filthy onesie bastards!