I'd stayed late at the Université de Montréal to research and do some study group work. It was now time to go home.

Before I left, I knew my bladder was filling, but I’ve always been a bit of a camel, having learned my lesson with the nuns in grade school. I hopped the 51 bus to Métro Laurier (the longest leg of my commute), down the stairs to the tracks, travelled one stop to Metro Mont-Royal, and back up the stairs to street level.

That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Each Métro station usually has a convenience store, a “dépanneur”, and if I begged hard enough, I could get them to let me use the employee bathroom. It wasn't going to happen: the dépanneur was closed.

I made my way to the 97 bus stop, the pressure in my bladder building. I stood in line, squeezing those Kegels to great success. The bus rolled in and I thought, “OK, I’m going to make it.”

I climbed up the three steps. Uh-oh! Better hold my thighs together. Deep breath. Concentrate. Squeeze.

I paid my fare and made my way to a window seat.

You know how busses are on a schedule, right? Well, as luck would have it, this one was ahead of schedule. We lingered while the bus driver read his newspaper, occasionally interrupted to take fares. Minutes felt like hours. I was in a different world, a world where I was totally focused on controlling my bladder. And I was nervous. Eyes squeezed shut, knees bruising each other from clamping. I was a picture of tortured concentration.

But finally, we were off. Ahh! a sigh of relief from me. Until we hit the first pothole.

GEEZ US CHRISTMAS! Gasping made me lose focus. Not a good strategy. Good Lord! I had ten stops left to go!

As we rumbled down the city street, hitting one storm drain and pothole after another, I started a rhythmic moaning under my breath. I could feel my cheeks flushing and a light perspiration at my hairline. My seat mate must have thought I was sick or crazy. All I could think was if I peed my pants on the bus, I couldn’t avoid getting him wet. The thought of the embarrassment renewed my will to control my bladder.

So far, my camel self was shining through. The tradeoff was acute discomfort in my lower tummy from the effort of holding enough tension to keep my bladder from overflowing.

My stop was coming up. I was going to have to unclench my knees, maneuver around my seat mate, swing my knapsack over my shoulder and make it to the bus exit. Worse, I’d have to part my thighs to climb down the three steps to the sidewalk.

Oh, Lord! I was barely breathing. Panting, really. Climbing down the steps was agonizing. Once on the sidewalk, I took a moment to compose myself. I had three blocks to go. OK. Deep breath. NO! Not a deep breath. Hold my breath, clench, and take mincing steps.

I made it down the block to the first street corner. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle across the street and down the sidewalk. I was trying to match in speed the sense of urgency radiating through my body and invading my mind. Geez, my bladder felt like it was going to explode! I was on the edge of desperation.

Half-way down the block, I tripped over the uneven sidewalk. Not a fall-on-my-face trip. Not a fall-to-my-knees trip. Just a trip that had me stumble awkwardly, arms windmilling.

And that’s when I lost all my concentration, and a gush of pee dampened the gusset of my panties.

For long moments, I was totally unaware of anything but my bladder, overwhelmed with the shivering pleasure of release.

My tummy was so sore. I relaxed it, just a little. It gave way to a trickle, joining the dampness already collected in my panties. A trickle isn’t bad, eh? It provided such huge relief! I had goosebumps from the rapture of giving in, just a little.

Unfortunately, once those doors open, they don’t shut. It’s a one-way valve. 

The dampness turned to wet. Certainly wet enough to stain my jeans, making my loss of bladder control obvious. This was distressing.

All the while, I was mincing down the street as fast as I could. I crossed the next street corner, so inconveniently well-lit. My crotch was marked from the base of my jeans zipper to the cheeks of my bum and down a couple of inches on the insides of my thighs. I was mortified by this telltale soaking of my clothes.

I spotted the stairs to my apartment half-way down the block. I prayed I’d make it with no further incident.

Nature disregards prayers.

I was overcome by the inevitable.

I gave up, and just gave in.

The intense frisson of pleasure engulfed that whole region of my body, from just above my mons to my perineum. For hours, my mind had been focused right THERE.

Helplessly absorbed in the near orgasmic joy of release, I peed down the inside of my thighs, the liquid following the path of the seam of my jeans, turning them indigo blue. My bladder was very, very full - so full that my jeans weren’t sufficient to absorb the pee. It dripped into my loafers and every step I took was a squelch soaking into my socks.

I should have felt humiliated, but at this point I didn’t care for anything but the pure happiness of feeling relaxed in my body. It was too damn late to care, anyway. I just let my bladder do its thing. Ah, satisfaction!

I squelched up the wrought iron spiral staircase to the second floor of my building, and wetly stomped up the inside staircase to my door.

I grabbed my key, unlocked my door, and let it yawn open. I dropped my knapsack and finally asked myself if I really was going to walk in my nice, clean apartment, squelching pee all the way to the bathroom tucked way back there.

NO FREAKIN’ WAY!

I stripped outside my door, never caring whether my neighbour appeared on our shared landing or not. I stripped right down to my skin: no jacket, t-shirt or bra, no shoes, socks, jeans or panties. I left it all on the landing, stepped inside, closed the door and took a bath.

After my bath, I did a couple of loads of laundry.

I can’t remember what I did with the loafers. They were pretty stinky.