The Outhouse



     I spent several years of my adolescence in a cultural and
economic backwater called Sullivan County in northern
Pennsylvania.  With no substantive economic basis for
survival, it limped along with the rest of Appalachia,
beautiful and impoverished.  Elephants went there to die.

     If we define "normal" as "usual," then it was certainly
normal for many of the farms to have no electricity and
quite often, no running water.  That, in turn, translates
quite rapidly into no bathrooms.  The so-called
"backhouse" or "outhouse" was common in that part of the
woods.  It was as if the westward migration had eddied
around that part of the country, leaving it as an island
firmly entrenched in the technology and values of the turn
of the century.  Those of you who saw the motion picture
"Deliverance" might have an idea of our culture.

     While most folks were poor by our current standards,
we never knew it and more importantly, we never felt
impoverished.  For the most part, we had a good time. 
You'd smile at our notion of a good time, but for  us, it
was hot!  Saturday night.  A dance!  Often at the Grange
Hall.  Hard cider and soft women.  Man, we used to strut!

     There was a well-to-do farmer not far from us, a big
Swede with two good-looking daughters.  Most of the
young guys my age were sniffing around them, trying to
"make out."  Both the sisters were strikingly attractive. 
Both big--about 5'10" or so, maybe 150
pounds--Amazonian we might say now.  One was
blond and the other a brunette.  I was dating the blond and
was in lust, but I would not have thrown her sister out of
bed.  (She was big enough, however, to have thrown ME
out of bed!)

     One night I double dated with some guy.  I can't
remember him, but I certainly remember everything else. 
We'd been drinking beer on the way to the dance at the
Grange Hall, arriving there filled with ourselves and
needing to take a leak.  We were directed into a field
where there was reported to be an outhouse. 
All four of us went at the same time.  We found a rickety
structure with back-to-back privies, one for the men and
one for the women.  

     It was a warm summer night and the dance music
floated down through the grove, faintly heard.  Without
negotiating anything (what's to negotiate?) we all stepped
inside at the same time.  Suddenly it became very quiet.

     Through the wide gaps in the barn-like construction of
this privy, the lights from the dance hall cast soft shadows. 
Through these same gaps I could hear the girl's excited
breathing just inches away.  Suddenly we all seemed to
realize the same thing at the same time.  To all intents and
purposes, we were about to pee in the audible presence of
each other . . . maybe.  But who was to go first?

     Whoever the yahoo I was with mumbled, "Fuck it," and
whipped out his dick and let loose.  The sound of his
stream hitting the privy pit sounded like a gun shot.  "See
you back at the Hall," he said and left.  Then it became
quiet again.

     Did they think we were both gone?  Would they wait
and see if I left?  There I was, standing there, holding my
dick in my hand, wondering what to do next.  At age
sixteen I was inexperienced and a slow thinker.  Now, all
these years later, I'm experienced and a slow thinker. 
Fortunately, they perceived no quandary, for I heard them
giggle and one whispered, "You first."

     I was so close and it was so acoustically transparent I
could hear my date answer, "Oh, all right.  I'm about to
bust."  I heard the rustle of her clothes and the whispering
sound of her panties being pulled down, then a tinkle,
rapidly followed by the unmistakable erotic hissing of a girl
peeing.  I got louder and more forceful, hitting the water in
the privy with astonishing force.  She must have been
straining, for suddenly she broke wind.  They both laughed.

     "God, there's no toilet paper," my date complained.

     "Quit bitching," said her sister, "you never wipe out in
the barn anyway."

     "This ain't no barn," whined my date.

     Looked a lot like a barn to me.  

     "Move your butt, Joanne.  It's my turn," said my date's
sister, Pauline.

     I thought I'd gone to heaven.  I loved to hear girls pee
and here I was, about to listen in on one of the most
attractive girls in the country.  Would she tinkle?  Would
she hiss?  I was picturing in my young and horny mind the
dark curls of her pussy.

     Pauline said, "Oh, Jesus, I feel like a race horse," and
she let loose.

     "You sound like one too," said Joanne.  "No, actually
you sound like a double-cunted cow pissing on a flat rock! 
No contest.  You win!"

     Sometime later I learned they often had peeing contests. 
Duration. Distance.  Things like that.  Think about it a
moment.  Can you imagine a horny kid like me, walking
around with an ingrown hard on and a fascination for
peeing, meeting to lusty girls like this?

     After Pauline's torrent, it was silent again and then
suddenly, in a louder voice, she said, "Well, Billy.  We're
waiting.  You gonna piss or just hold it?"

     In an uncharacteristic moment of honesty, I replied,
"Cripes.  How my gonna take a leak with a hard on like
this?"

     As it turned out, they both viewed an erection as visible
proof of a compliment.  

     Joanne laughed and called over, "Oh goodie.  Billy's got
a bo-ner.  We're gonna have a good time tonight."

     And that was the start of an intense and wonderfully
erotic summer that ended only when Pauline married some
dude even bigger than her father.