A while back I wrote this:

“Are you surprised I’m the one who peed on her?” the enigmatic girl asks.

You choke on your smoke. Urine is sterile though: less dangerous than blood and saliva and semen and shit. Piss on a wound if there’s no clean water available. Peepee girls. Pissy pussies. You wonder, is it an evolutionary category-error that we piss, more or less, through our genitals?

“Well, yes, I suppose. A little. You seem so… reserved.”

And she is. Laconic. Indifferent. Still waters. Running waters. The stream interrupted slightly by her labia, little rivulets running down her legs perhaps, the main flow splattering the recipient’s breasts. That unmistakable psssssssssss. Must smell like piss, but then again most pussies smell a little pissy sometimes. Not unpleasant really, pissy pussies are.

I’m still not sure how I feel about pissy pussies, but I’m pretty sure no sane woman would let me stick the neck of a champagne bottle up her cunt. A Corona bottle, perhaps, but not a champagne bottle. (Gallery at Pee Pee Babes)