When it happens in the extremely occasional television or film scene (the first episode of Billions comes to mind, as well as the movie I See You), it seems so easy: someone squats a bit, or doesn’t even, or pulls out a penis, and voilà—someone else is getting pissed upon. I can’t remember exactly how my most recent ex-boyfriend and I started talking about my peeing on him during the last time we got back together. But I do remember clearly that during our preceding separation, all I’d wanted to do was pee on things.
My couch, for example. And so I did, having laid down one of the leftover puppy pads meant to keep blood or drainage off my upholstery after some surgery or other. And on my bed. I did it when I felt like it, when I felt a buildup of sensation and urgency in my pelvis, and while it took some time and effort to relax enough to get there even with the leak protection, it always happened. I can’t remember what my ex and I were doing this particular day he offered for the many-th time for me to pee on him, but on that day, I said yes.