MY FIRST TIME
                    (C)1994 Alan M. Schwartz

It was my personal adventure in the fourth decade of life to be 
boarded for two months in the Gerald and Edna (cess)Poole 
dormitory of the University of Victoria, British Columbia 
secondary to doing some organic chemistry on selectively (I 
hoped) hypertoxic materials.  My residential diverticulum was on 
the fourth floor where the "older students" were kept sequestered 
far away from pulsating floods of undergraduate beer barf below.  
It was about 0200 hours one summer Saturday morning when a victim 
of potent Canadian beer and awful Canadian pizza loudly tossed 
technicolor chunkies under my window, awakening me.  I rolled 
over and looked toward my window, bereft of screens and dark in 
the moonless night.  I thought back to my days as an 
undergraduate, and got out of bed.

I strode naked to the full length window and pulled the curtain.  
Stars twinkled amidst clouds flowing across the sky.  The ground 
was black as velvet.  A cool breeze ruffled my nether locks 
causing two free-ranging organs to rise in search of a warmer 
nestle.  I lowered my hand to scratch my perineum and momentarily 
indulge in other male peregrinations, finally to come to rest 
surrounding my phallus.  It relaxed into my hand with four 
fingers cradling its underside and my thumb securing its head.  
It was such a brisk and lovely night, and my need was urgent.  
Why not?

I stood there estranged in a foreign land, surrounded by 
jabbering Socialist twits, immersed in a barren paucity of 
distaff topography, subjected to diurnal gastrointestinal insult 
within an institutional cafeteria and recipient victim of 
unceasing Northern Pacific drizzle.  I had never done it through 
a window though I had heard tales of those who did.  I was 
determined that my first time would be memorable.  I thrust my 
groin forward and peed out the window into the dead of night.  
The steaming citron stream of my innermost self arched four 
stories through space, the hot kinetic thread utterly dissipating 
into the void.  I bore down to thicken and further pressurize my 
discharge as the night swallowed it whole.

Five hundred surging milliliters later my brook ran dry.  Three 
muscle contractions and a dynamic shake finished the job.  I once 
again looked into the cool anonymity of the British Columbian 
night, unseized my manhood and departed for the warmth of my bed.

The People's Republic of Canada is a repressive state.  It bans 
such seditious literature as "WIRED" magazine because the Internet 
contains information unwashed by Ottowa's censors.  Normal human 
sensuality is basically foreign to a proper Canada, the only 
local erogenous zones being the pensions doled to any politicos 
surviving at least one unimpeached term in office.  It was no 
surprise when the next morning saw every bulletin board across 
the dorm and throughout campus offering substantial rewards to 
informers and threatening massive civil and criminal penalties to 
anyone involved in pissing out a dormitory window.  The next 
night everybody was doing it.

Had the campus administration proscribed putting beans in your 
ears the Health Center would have been beset with plugged ear 
canals.  Dormitory grounds everywhere became faintly ammoniacal 
as the fad rode fat and sassy for almost a week. We braced 
ourselves for a withering blast of discriminatory snit from the 
local Lesbian exercise in yellow journalism - the "Martinet" - 
which was also the campus newspaper.  (Canadians are terrifically 
fond of their victims - genetic, physical, behavioral, cultural 
and social culls - in fact, just about anybody other than an 
employed Caucasian heterosexual male or a married mother is 
eligible for government support and counseling.)  It appeared 
that free space water sports were not yet a venue for Canadian 
political feminism, and they were all caught with their dialectic 
down.  Before any interlabial urinary meatus could be exhorted to 
vent into the night in a politically correct manner we were all 
back to using the water closets.

The Southern California nights are sultry, here where I live.  I 
recently mentioned in passing to my beloved that perhaps I ought 
to pee out the window rather than trudging down the hall to the 
john late one evening.  She was very supportive, offering to 
fetch the dictionary that I might read the definition of 
"defenestration."  I took that as a dissenting vote and demurred.  
I had had my first time, it was good, and I would save further 
adventures for their proper moments.