Outhouse – Erotic Story
Outhouse is an erotic story about teenagers and their fascination with the toilet habits of others.
I spent several years of my adolescence in a cultural and economic backwater, Sullivan County in northern Pennsylvania. With no substantive economic basis for survival, it limped along with the rest of Appalachia, beautiful and impoverished. Elephants went there to die.
If we define “normal” as “usual,” then it was certainly normal for many of the farms to have no electricity and quite often, no running water. That, in turn, translates quite rapidly into no bathrooms. The so-called “backhouse” or “outhouse” was common in that part of the woods. It was as if the westward migration had eddied around that part of the country, leaving it as an island firmly entrenched in the technology and values of the turn of the century. Those of you who saw the motion picture “Deliverance” might have an idea of that culture.
While most folks were poor by our current standards, we never knew it and more importantly, we never felt impoverished. For the most part, we had a good time. You’d smile at our notion of a good time, but for us, it was hot! Saturday night. A dance! Often at the Grange Hall. Hard cider and soft women. Man, we used to strut! Years later, a man said to me, “Billy, you’re the only guy I know who struts sitting down!”
There was a well-to-do farmer not far from us, a big Swede with two good-looking daughters. Most of the young guys my age were sniffing around them, trying to “make out.” Both the sisters were strikingly attractive. Both big – about 5’10” or so, maybe 150-160 pounds – Amazonian we might say now. One was blond and the other a brunette. I was dating the blond and was in lust, but I would not have thrown her sister out of bed. (She was big enough, however, to have thrown ME out of bed!)
One night I double-dated the sisters with some other guy. I can’t remember him, but I certainly remember everything else. We’d been drinking beer on the way to the dance at the Grange Hall, arriving there filled with ourselves and needing to take a leak. On enquiring where “we might take a leak,” we were directed into a field where there was reported to be an outhouse. Our need was pressing and all four of us went at the same time. We found a rickety structure with back-to-back privies, one for the men and one for the women. Or so we presumed, although there were no visible signs to confirm this.
It was a warm summer night and the dance music floated down through the grove, faintly heard. Without negotiating anything (what’s to negotiate?) we all stepped inside at the same time. Suddenly it became very quiet. The air was thick with unspoken tension, for we all realized the ventilated intimacy of this outhouse at the same moment.
Through the wide gaps in the barn-like construction of this privy, the lights from the dance hall cast soft shadows. Through these same gaps, I could hear the girl’s excited breathing just inches away. We all seemed to realize the same thing at the same time. To all intents and purposes, we were about to pee in the audible presence of each other … maybe. But who was to go first?
Whoever the yahoo I was with mumbled, “Fuck it,” and whipped out his dick and let loose. The sound of his stream hitting the privy pit sounded like a gunshot. “See you back at the Hall,” he said and left, buttoning up. Then it became quiet again.
Did the girls think we were both gone? Would they wait and see if I left? There I was, standing, holding my dick in my hand, wondering what to do next. At age sixteen I was inexperienced and a slow thinker. Now, all these years later, I’m much more experienced and a slow thinker. Fortunately, they perceived no quandary, for I heard them giggle and one whispered, “You first.”
I was so close and it was so acoustically transparent I could hear my date answer, “Oh, all right. I’m about to bust.” I heard the rustle of her clothes and the whispering sound of her panties being pulled down, then a tinkle, rapidly followed by the unmistakable erotic hissing of a girl peeing. I got louder and more forceful, hitting the water in the privy with astonishing force. She must have been straining, for suddenly she broke wind. They both laughed.
“God, there’s no toilet paper,” my date complained.
“Quit bitching,” said her sister, “you never wipe out in the barn anyway.”
“This ain’t no barn,” whined my date.
Looked a lot like a barn to me.
“Move your butt, Joanne. It’s my turn,” said my date’s sister, Pauline.
I thought I’d gone to heaven. I loved to hear girls pee and here I was, about to listen in on one of the most attractive girls in the country. Would she tinkle? Would she hiss? I was picturing in my young and horny mind the dark curls of her pussy.
Pauline said, “Oh, Jesus, I feel like a racehorse,” and she let loose.
“You sound like one too,” said Joanne. “No, actually you sound like a double-counted cow pissing on a flat rock! No contest,” she complained, “You win!”
Sometime later I learned they often had peeing contests. Duration. Distance. Things like that. Think about it a moment. Can you imagine a horny kid like me, walking around with an ingrown hard-on and a fascination for peeing, meeting two lusty girls like this?
After Pauline’s torrent, it was silent again, and then suddenly, in a louder voice, she said, “Well, Billy. We’re waiting. You gonna piss or just hold it all night?”
In an uncharacteristic moment of honesty, I replied, “Cripes. How my gonna take a leak with a hard-on like this?”
As it turned out, they both viewed an erection as visible proof of a compliment.
Joanne laughed and called over, “Oh goodie. Billy’s got a bo-ner.
We’re gonna have a good time tonight.”
And that was the start of an intense and wonderfully erotic summer that ended only when Pauline married some dude even bigger than her father.