Dribbly Little Dramas

Thanks to our awesome Gold-tier patron Samantha for commissioning this festive story!

***

Ugh, this is so stressful! Why the heck did I ever apply to be in this stupid Christmas play, anyway?

I'm here backstage, safely tucked into a corner away from all the hustle and bustle of changing costumes and frantic calls for hairspray and the rattle of stagehands hastily making last-minute adjustments to the furniture. Here I'm safe: just me in my costume, seated with the script in one hand and my water bottle in the other. Here I can run over the whole thing over and over, anxiously checking to see whether all my lines are safely stowed away somewhere in the depths of my brain…

Now if only I could focus!

But of course my nerves won't let me. Instead, my brain is telling me about how Josh is out there in the crowd, about how he's going to be smiling and waving, about how I simply can't forget my stupid lines – not in front of him and god and everyone. It's not that I have a huge role, of course. But still, I've never been the best at remembering stuff. And what with all the scene changes, and last-minute tweaks to the script, and, and-

I take another anxious swig of my large water bottle, finding myself fervently wishing it was vodka instead. Because while chugging water like this may definitely help calm my nerves, something stronger might actually give me the courage I need right now – or at the very least, the tipsy boldness not to care.

Well, nothing for it. Just gotta get through somehow. Now let's see: after the second scene, am I supposed to come in before the music starts, or after?

Even as I begin to force my wandering attention back to focus on the script, my brain is darting out again to mull over something else. Something… kinda embarrassing. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat at the thought, and that very action re-confirms what I'm thinking about. That subtle rustle… that slightly puffy thickness between my legs…

Yeah. Underneath this silly retro T-shirt and tight pair of booty shorts – the appropriate costume for the air-headed, loud-mouthed ditz I'm playing – I've added a discreet little flower-festooned pull-up.

Definitely not because I need it, of course! It's all because Josh was teasing me about how frequently I use the bathroom when I'm nervous, that's all. It was really just to shut him up, I swear. Never in a million years would I think of actually… you know, using it while I'm onstage. Good grief, what kind of dirty-minded exhibitionist do you think I am?

Speaking of which… hmm. Maybe I'd better run to the bathroom once more before the curtain goes up. Really don't want to have to go in the middle of the performance… But even as I rise, I hear my name. "Alesha! Hey, come over and help us practice this one last time, okay? We've only got three minutes left!"

Which I do, of course. Because I'm a fucking idiot.

***

Not half an hour later, I'm already regretting my decision – deeply. We're only in the third scene, and I'm already feeling an urgent pressure growing in my bladder: the kind of pressure that is physically impossible to stave off for long. Which, you know, makes sense. Because now that I think about it, I must have unthinkingly refilled my water bottle at least twice in the last two hours before the show. Which means… three times 16 ounces. Same as six times eight. Oh, no – 48 ounces?!

Again, I'm an idiot. But there's not much to do, is there? I'm on stage, after all – simpering and acting as much like a dumb bimbo as I can – and there's literally nothing I can do to escape right now. See, the play's a comedy about a wacky family and their Christmastime together. Their second son has come home from college with his new girlfriend  – that's me – and I'm supposed to be dumber than a box of rocks…

At least that's accurate, huh?

I'm biting my lip now while the other characters deliver their lines, feeling the ache of my poor bladder swelling and the shiver of urgency rippling over my entire body. Nobody can know – no one. I simply can't let Josh see how badly I need to go… and just how uncannily accurate his jokes about his dribbly little potty-trotter are becoming…

Ahem. Oh, god – that's a signal to me! "Um- Oh, really?! I didn't know you was a doctor, mister! Hey, you wouldn't mind checkin' my heartbeat, would ya? Pretty please? I can take this silly ol' shirt off right this minute…" Ugh, at least that gets a laugh from the audience. I'm tugging at my skimpy top, and now at least my pained lip-biting looks like I'm trying to be sexy. That's comforting, at least…

By the end of the fourth scene, I'm almost doubled up in pain, and with a big scene coming up next, I know I can't possibly make it through until the intermission without people noticing. I've gotta let go… just a tiny bit. Just a little dribble, surely. That's what pull-ups are for, right? No one needs to know, either; as soon as we're done, I'll dash off to the bathroom and rip it off, and I'll tell Josh I had to get rid of it before anyone saw me wearing something so… juvenile.

The first trickle escapes me as I trot out on stage, but of course no one notices. As badly as I need to go, my bladder has gone almost numb – so the little spasms and subsequent trickles that occur all throughout our big number slip by almost unnoticed. I'm genuinely dribbling, soaking my pull-ups like some over-excited three-year-old… and while on stage in front of an entire audience.

I'm not sure whether I should be humiliated at what I'm doing, or relieved that at least I have a pull-up to help me. Because, sure it's embarrassing, standing up here while simultaneously feeling the warm, wet trickle of my own urine seeping out into my babyish underwear. But god – I don't even want to imagine how mortified I would be if these silly booty shorts were actually filling, staining, growing dark with rivulets of my warm pee in full view of everyone…

By the intermission, I'm shaky with relief. Not only have I managed to remember all of my lines, but the pull-up has saved my stupid ass! Now all I need to do is rush off to the little back-stage bathroom and let it go for real-

Oh, shit. It's locked. Occupied. And though I wait, shifting nervously from foot to foot, it remains stubbornly occupied until the end of intermission. Which means that, throughout the entire second act, I'm trapped in my wet pull-up: grudgingly and desperately dribbling out a tiny bit at a time, fervently hoping that the poor, flimsy garment can handle just a tiny bit more…

And then, at long last, it's over. Scattered applause grows stronger, and the curtain comes down, and cheers and hoots erupt. We step forward and bow and smile our way through seemingly interminable curtain calls, and amid the crowd I even catch sight of Josh beaming and laughing and clapping excitedly. Then the lights go on, and the curtain comes down for the final time. And finally, finally, I'm free. Free to run back to that blessed bathroom, and let everything flood out for real…

"Um, Alesha?" It's one of the other actors: my character's boyfriend's little sister, a petite brunette who's just a freshman in college. "Umm, I think- I think something might have gone wrong? Are you feeling okay? I think you might have-"

As I follow her shy gesture, and rush over to a mirror in the corner, and crane my neck backward to see what's the matter… my gut churns in a sudden swell of mortification. For there, blossoming huge and dark and incriminating across the seat of my denim booty shorts, are two giant leaks: a visible testament to the inadequacy not only of my poor, stupid pull-up… but of my own poor, stupid bladder.

Which means – as my brain so helpfully supplies – that I was up there for this entire second act in visibly wet pants. Basically wearing a giant, flashing neon sign reading "I just peed my pull-ups." In front of everyone. And yes: in front of- of-

Fuck. Josh is never gonna let me forget this, is he?