The Pissing Contest

It was in the Fall of ’47, early in the school year. We were waiting for school to start that morning, a Tuesday. Wim Odegaard was the youngest, he was in Grade 5. Me, I was in Grade 6. Then there were the Bather boys, Gerald and Old Pete. Gerald was about my age, a month younger. Old Pete was 2 years older than the rest of us, but still in Grade 5. Luckily, he was the runt of the litter and kind of slow, in more ways than one, so when that time-honored form of negotiation, fisticuffs, came to bear, we could all take him.

Wim was the Huck Finn of the group. A little wild and always in trouble. He came up with the idea. We should have a pissing contest. Find out who was the champion pisser of the whole school. Since the girls obviously weren’t going to be that effective, and the older boys would only pick fun of our harveys, we decided the four of us represented the final cut.

We didn’t want an audience so we snuck around to the back of the school. Of course, this was a farm school. One room. One door. The entire school was about the size of your average classroom today. So sneaking around back didn’t guarantee much privacy, but at the time it seemed rather big to us.

Nobody wanted to go first, so we finally decided oldest to youngest. Besides, Old Pete was too thick to care about exposing his harvey. If it went okay for him, then the rest of us would be willing to try.

So, Pete stood about 3 feet back of the wall, pointed up and began to pee. It hit rather low so he aimed a little higher. But he was too slow. Already the power had begun to wane and his arc peaked about a foot from the wall. All in all, we all thought we could do better. Pete complained. He said if he’d known he’d have saved his morning pee for the contest. He had a point.

Next was my turn. I learned from Pete. I stood a little closer. And, being the scientific type, I thought I’d try to crack the whip, getting the arc higher. Out came my harvey. I started a little lower than Pete had, but quickly whipped upwards. My arc did real well as far as I was concerned. I got a good foot and a half on Pete. I tried whipping again, but already I was running out, having myself also taken a morning pee before I came to school. When done, I stepped back. You could see Pete’s splotch on the wall, and over a little to the right you could see my clean arc. I was quite proud of my shot, even as I wiped the splatter off my face with the sleeve of my jacket. It was a good shot, nothing to be embarrassed about, and given the nip in the air my harvey was glad to be back inside.

Then came Gerald. Gerald worried me a bit. Every morning in school he’d be hopping at his seat waiting for recess so he could have his morning pee. We always told him he should pee before he came to school, but he said he didn’t have to then. The teacher would also tell him he should go before class and wouldn’t let him out, so more than once he didn’t make it. (Had its advantages though, nobody ever did sit in Gerald’s chair.)

Gerald stood up. A little farther back than I did. He smiled, confident he’d win. His harvey was even swelled it was so ready to go. But as he was pulling it out and getting ready I guess it decided it was time because suddenly he was peeing out of control. It hit his free hand and caught the edge of his fly. In his panic he let go and sprayed my foot while it flicked over and just missed Wim who jumped out of the way. Gerald managed to get control of the beast and quickly aimed up as high as he could. But already the pressure was less. He tried whipping it like I did, but whipped more to the side than up and didn’t get enough height. It was close though.

Brian WideenSummer ’96

He parked his harvey and started to complain. He didn’t seem to care about the wet stains on his pants or his dripping hands. We stood clear while bits of pee flicked off his hands as he gestured wildly making his case. But there was no room for complaint. He had the shot and he couldn’t control it. He demanded a measurement even though we could all see he was a good inch below the top of my arc. But we measured. It was closer than we thought, but clearly at least half an inch lower.

I was happy. Little Wim couldn’t hope to get higher than me. He was shorter and younger, and no way could he pack the power of my bladder. But I was nervous, Wim had an odd look on his face, and it was his idea. Throughout the contest he’d not participated in any of the debate or the measuring. He sort of looked like I figured Mighty Casey looked before he struck out. Hopefully, Wim would strike out also.

Wim pulled out his harvey. It was quite small, and he was standing six feet away. But then he did something odd. Wim was the only one who hadn’t been circumcised. So he grabbed his foreskin with both hands, squeezing between thumb and forefinger. He squeezed so hard he started to wince. We didn’t know what he was doing until his foreskin started to swell up like a balloon. He was peeing! It grew larger and larger, I thought it might burst. I could see his eyes begin to squint in pain. It felt like we watched him for 10 minutes slowly filling this pocket balloon, but it must only have been a few seconds. Then, his fingers moved apart a little, stretching the foreskin, and the pee began to shoot out. It was balloon fight technique at its finest. He was pointing downward at first but then he aimed upwards and his pee arced so high it went clear onto the roof. He continued to spray for a few seconds until we heard the teacher yell “Wim Odegaard, what are you doing?” Wim immediately let go, the remaining pee burst out in a gush as though he’d popped that water balloon. He shook the pegMom always said “Shake the peg or a little will go down your leg”put it back, and said to the teacher, “I had to pee.”

Wim got the strap, the rest of us only got yelled at. But Wim was happy. It was no contest. He was the undisputed, hands-down, champion pisser.

Brian WideenSummer ’96