Pissing in the Sink (Part 1)

In the heat of the moment, a daring request,
He tells me the bathroom's occupied, he's pressed.
Desperate for relief, can barely hold it in,
"I could just..." he eyes the sink with a grin.

I roll my eyes, play along with his game,
Acknowledging the weirdness, but not the same.
I'm game for anything, especially with him,
What comes next? Watching him piss in the sink on a whim.

He stands taller than usual, muscles tense,
Balancing on his feet, over the sink's edge intense.
I watch, flicking ash, trying to hide my fascination,
As he pees, a performance of a unique sensation.

His eyes flicker between the stream and my face,
I giggle, pretending it's all just a funny grace.
It shouldn't turn me on, but it does,
His act of vulnerability, without any pause.

He keeps going. And going. And going.
It gets harder to hide my fascination.
I’ve never seen a guy piss like this before,
Pissing as giving me a performance.

The smell lingers, I can almost feel the warmth of it
It smells hot and dark and alien, running down the plughole
Should I lecture him or wrinkle my nose in disgust
or whine ‘eww boys’ and ask to rinses the sink with bleach.

Watching his open fly should be gross I suppose,
But I'm mesmerized, by his hands and his pose.
I don't care about germs or the sink's state,
His display of intimacy, I appreciate.

He shakes off, with a wicked grin in his eyes,
"Now you do it," he challenges, no surprise.
Dark eyes, a love unreturned but still strong,
I'll do anything he asks, even if it's wrong.