My filthiest secret started in the shower

It all started with a question that at the time seemed downright filthy to me. I was chatting with Mateo, a guy I’d met on an app and with whom I still hadn’t gone beyond words, when he dropped something on me that left me staring at the screen, mouth open.

—Have you ever pissed yourself in the shower? —he wrote, just like that, without beating around the bush.

I read it twice. How can someone be such a pig?, I thought. I was seconds away from blocking him. But he kept insisting, calm as could be, as if he were asking me what I’d had for dinner.

—Try it once —he said—. And then tell me what it felt like. Just that.

I told him he was disgusting and closed the conversation. But the question stayed inside me, turning over and over, like those songs you hate and can’t stop humming.

***

The truth is, and I hadn’t told anyone this, it wasn’t the first time the subject had crossed my mind. Something absurd happened to me: every time I got into the shower, just as soon as I felt the hot water hitting me, I’d get an overwhelming urge to pee. I’d have to run out, soaking wet and covered in soap, leaving the bathroom floor a mess, and go back in freezing. I’d normalized it as just another quirk, one of those strange body things nobody talks about.

That afternoon, two days after my conversation with Mateo, I got into the shower thinking about anything but him. I soaped myself all over, my hair full of foam, and then that familiar feeling came back. The urge. The water beating on the back of my neck, the sound of the spray against the tray, that same old pressure.

And for once I didn’t get out.

I stayed still, eyes closed, legs a little apart, and let it happen. It was quick, almost silly, a different kind of warmth between my thigh and the water that was already hot. The shower spray washed it all away in seconds. Nothing was left behind. Absolutely nothing happened.

Such drama for this, I thought.

I finished showering, dried off, and for a while I felt slightly dirty, in a good way, like when you do something you know you shouldn’t and nobody finds out. That same night I wrote Mateo two words: “I did it.”

—And? —he replied instantly.

—And nothing. It’s not a big deal.

—It will be —he answered—. Give it time.

I hated that he was right.

***

What I discovered in the days that followed was that he was right about everything. What the first time had been a stupid experiment, by the third or fourth had become a habit. I’d take that over coming out soaking wet and then pushing a mop around to collect the water from the floor a thousand times over. So, without really noticing, shower piss became part of the ritual, as normal as lathering my hair.

But then the other thing started. The thrill.

One morning I caught myself seeking out the sensation on purpose. I spread my legs wide and let the near-boiling water fall over the top of my head while I let go, feeling the heat run through me inside and out at the same time. Other times I did it with my legs pressed tightly together, feeling everything concentrate. One afternoon, for no reason I can explain, I dared to cross my legs, holding back until the very last second, and when I finally gave in I had to brace myself against the tiles.

I must be filthy, I thought. But I laughed to myself under the water.

It wasn’t long before I started touching myself. I’d lean my back against the cold wall, open my legs, and while one hand took care of the usual, the other would drift down slowly. The combination of the two things, the forbidden and the familiar, made me come faster than ever. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound, even though I lived alone and nobody could hear me. It was a secret even from the walls.

I told Mateo some details, just enough to keep him hooked, and he filled my head with new ideas in return. But the truth was I didn’t need him anymore. The one in charge now was my own curiosity.

***

And as always happens with something that turns you on, the day came when it stopped being enough.

That’s the trap with these things: what at first makes you nervous and gets your pulse racing becomes routine if you repeat it enough. The transgression wears out. And then, without meaning to, you start wondering how to twist it one step further. How to move up another rung. I wondered about it in bed at night, with a stupid grin on my face, knowing that sooner or later I’d cross another line.

The chance came on its own, as good things always do: when you’re not looking for them.

It was midmorning on a Saturday and I’d just gotten up. I was wandering around the house in an old pair of leggings, one of those thin, worn-out pairs that are almost see-through from so much use, and nothing underneath. I was about to change when the doorbell rang. Long, insistent.

—Fuck —I muttered.

It was two guys from the gas company, there to make some kind of tariff change. They caught me without a bra, without panties, in those worn leggings that left nothing to the imagination, and with no time to react. I opened the door thinking it would be a minute.

It wasn’t a minute.

While one of them checked some papers, the other never took his eyes off me. And he wasn’t looking at my face. His gaze was fixed a little lower, at the exact point where the thin fabric clung to my body, and every time I moved his eyes followed the motion. He can tell I’m not wearing anything underneath, I thought, and embarrassment shot up my neck like a blaze. How mortifying. He notices. He knows I’ve caught him staring.

The worst part, or the best, was that the guy was fucking hot. Big hands, a chiseled jaw, a half-smile that appeared every time our eyes met for a second. I couldn’t cover myself without giving myself away. I couldn’t kick them out without seeming hysterical. So I just stood there, letting myself be looked at, feeling that gaze run all over me.

Does he like me?, I wondered, and I hated how much the answer mattered to me.

And then, right then, I felt it. The same urge as always, the one from the shower, but this time without water, without soap, without ritual. Standing in my own hallway, with a stranger devouring me with his eyes and his partner a meter away signing papers.

The idea hit me so hard I had to clench my thighs.

***

I didn’t do it there, of course. I’m not that crazy. But the seed had already been planted, and as soon as I closed the door I knew exactly what I was going to do.

I got rid of them with some excuse or other. I said I’d think about it, that I’d call them, whatever it took to get them off my back. The guy with the smile left me a card and held it a second too long before letting go, brushing my fingers. I shut the door and leaned against it, my heart racing.

I was still wearing the leggings. Still had nothing underneath. Still had that feeling between my legs, and now, on top of that, the image of those eyes burned into my head.

I walked to the bathroom slowly, savoring every step. I got into the shower exactly as I was, dressed, with the old leggings stuck to my skin. And I didn’t turn on the water.

I stood in the dry tray, closed my eyes, brought back the image of the guy looking at me, his crooked smile, the way his eyes dropped without even trying to hide it. And I let go.

The sensation was brutal. The warmth of my piss soaking into the thin fabric, running down my thighs, over my calves, soaking the leggings until they clung to my body like a second burning skin. Without the shower water to wash everything away, this time I felt it for real, every inch of it, the contrast between the heat running down and the cold of the tray beneath my feet.

I’m filthy, I thought. Really filthy. But is that so bad?

I didn’t bother looking for an answer. I slid one hand over the soaked fabric, feeling the warmth through the material, and started touching myself without taking anything off. The image of the guy, my own transgression, the absurd and enormous secret of what I was doing in my bathroom on a Saturday morning, all of it merged into a wave that buckled my knees. I had to press my forehead against the tiles so I wouldn’t fall.

When I finally turned on the water, the hot spray fell over my head and began to dissolve me, foam and all. Little by little I pulled the leggings down, helping with the water sliding over me, until they were crumpled by the drain, old, twisted, mute accomplices to my perversity.

I stayed under the water for a while, smiling like an idiot, feeling more alive than I had in months.

***

That night I wrote Mateo.

—You were right —I wrote—. About everything.

—I told you to give it time —he answered—. Want to tell me how far you’ve gone?

I stared at the screen for a good while, with the gas guy’s card still on the kitchen table, his phone number looking back at me from the cardboard.

—Not yet —I finally wrote—. This has just started.

And for the first time in a long while, I knew it was true.