So. I’m still mired in the nighttime poop habits of a partially-trained dog. Yoda, the bugeyed half Chihuahua/half whateverthefuck, still needs to get up in the middle of the night for bathroom trips. I’ve got him peeing in the sink, but his nighttime routine includes pooping, so I cart my naked and groggy carcass outside with him each time he jumps from the bed and shakes himself silly the way dogs do it.
Since I need to pee almost as many times nightly as the little dog, we just pee together when I take him out. I have a patch of well-tended lawn that sits in the courtyard off my wing of the ranch house. I always have night wood when I’m awakened, so I’m forced to go through the frustrations that are night wood pissing.
OK, let’s back up a bit and discuss night wood for whomever (whoever) reads my silly shit without either direct or indirect night wood knowledge. Sexually matured males of our species get boners when they sleep. Said night wood, also called dream wood, nighty-night boners or Marilyn Monroe midnight hard ons, are typically based on either/and two physiological happenings.
The first is to stem urine flow when a full bladder lacks the ability to awaken the male person. An auto-immune response to wetting the bed, a guy’s body creates a hard on to keep the urethra pinched tightly shut. The second pecker stiffening comes about as part of sexual dreaming. These woodies are prelude to wet dreams, middle-of-the night booty calls and such.
Having said all of that, the informative point is this. When you’ve got a full bladder and a rock-hard stiffie, taking a leak is problematic. You can’t get the first drop to drain by force or rubbing or threatening. The only way is through relaxation. You are required to get your pecker to relax enough to release your pee line for action.
Every adult man has his own methods to get relaxed. Me, I use yoga breathing, humming and mental image techniques. I close my eyes, imagine I’m sitting submerged in a steaming hot tub, take clensing breaths and then hum. The hum needs to be a slow, deep rumbled “Huuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmm”[.]
Other than lost sleep and interrupted dreams, this Yoda pee business hasn’t been especially problematic. As long as I can pee as quickly as he does, we each wet our portion of grass and head back to bed. When I can’t get relaxed in time to match Yoda’s progress, I just walk my naked ass back inside and go stand at the sink and finish my business. Until last night, none of this was a problem.
Have I told you that I was a serial sleep walker from childhood until I was well into my thirties? First discovered when I was four years old, my sleepwalking was a routine occurrence until I graduated from college. Streaker Jones and I lived together during college, and he made me dress for bed in accordance to the weather.
“Ya don’t needta catch a cold at finals time, Mooner,” Streaker Jones explained to me. “Jist dress fer skul and yer ready fer classes when ya take off.”
Good advice from my best friend. I often awoke, groggy and confused, in the strangest places when I was at the University of Texas. But I was always dressed appropriately and missed no classes for inappropriate clothing.
My sleepwalking was discovered when Gram took her favorite ostrich skin dress boots from the hall coat and boot closet to wear to a dance with Granddad. She stuck her foot into the left boot and said, “What tha fuck?”
She pulled her wet foot from the boot and sniffed it. “OK, who’s the smarty mallet done pissed in my good boots? I’mma kill somebody.”
Turns out it was me. I was captured by Gram after her third night staked out near the closet. Seems I was sleepwalking around and taking a piss wherever I managed to land. I was too young to get night wood and I didn’t wet the bed.
Do women get nighttime woodies? Do you guys have muscle tightening responses to control your bladders like we men? I’ve always wondered but never investigated.
Anyway, we had a big crowd to dinner last night because I cooked goat. I cook great goats and cook them well. Half of good goat cooking is choosing the right goat. Prep and actual cooking the other half. I drank copious quantities of Carta Blanca beer starting from when we cranked up the fire pit and until bedtime. I usually spit cook goat, but BJ over to the Dumb Perignon suggested a pit cooking.
When I finally went to bed I was beer saturated, bloated and fully food sated. I took the guys in to brush our teeth, floss and take a final pee in the sink. Until I awoke this morning, the last thing I remember was Squirt saying, “Good night, John Boy.” Yes, it’s stupid as all shit, but my pet’s and I do a Waltons’ goodnight dealie every night.
The previously-mentioned awakening was as I half stood, leaning against the outside kitchen door, naked as a jaybird. I had goose bumps the size of golf balls covering my entire body and I had a big old nighttime woodie clenched in my right hand.
“Mooner, godammit!” my Gram startled me awake. “Iffn you pissed in my good boots I’mma blast yer ass, an’ good.”
“Huh?” It was all I could muster.
It took me forty-five minutes to get the swelling to go down enough to pee, and my back hurts, my feet are swollen and I still can’t feel my pecker.
Now I’m late for my early psycho therapy session. Manana, y’all.
