A Young Man’s Strange Erotic Journey Around the Globe

America's Finest Ambassador Chapter 40 – Sometimes Other People are My Toilet

Chapter 40 – Sometimes Other People are My Toilet

“Dude,” O’Shaughnessy said, “where’d Schmit go?”

“I have no fuckin’ idea. I grabbed some random chick’s ass and had to take off running ‘cuz her massive boyfriend and all his bros were after me.”

“What? You grabbed some random chick’s ass?”

“Yeah, but don’t judge me. It was a really nice ass. I couldn’t help myself. How’d you find the dock?”

“Some guy pointed me over here.”


“Yeah, well, do you think we should go back and look for him?”

“Dude, I can’t. I gotta catch this flight. And I’m terrified of getting my ass beat. Someone might recognize me. You can wait for him if you want.”

“Eh, I’m not too worried about it. He’ll find his way back. You ready to go?”

“Yeah. Let’s do this shit.”

Thanks to all the drunk-asses pushing and shoving each other in line for the ferry back to Koh Samui, O’Shaughnessy and I had once again gotten separated. All the wasted A-holes on and near the dock pushed him forward while I got pushed backwards and he ended up getting on the boat that left immediately prior to the one I’d boarded.

By the time I’d gotten back to Koh Samui it’d been about four in the morning. With a couple from Hong Kong, I shared a taxi to Penzy Guesthouse where Tim had been sitting on the stoop next to a sleeping dog, awaiting my return. No more than two minutes after I’d hopped out of the taxi, another one pulled up and out of it emerged a relatively sobered-up Schmit.

“When’d you guys get back?” he asked while slamming the back door of the cab.

“Two minutes ago,” I replied.

“I got back like twenty minutes ago,” Tim added. “How’d you find your way back so fast? You were super fucked-up an hour ago.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said as he joined us on the stoop. “Crazy story…”

As Schmit launched into his side of what happened after I’d perved out on that chick, I casually removed my dong and started urinating on the face of the dog that’d been sleeping there near the entrance of Penzy Guesthouse. The mutt lazily opened one eye just to see what was going on before letting out a slight whimper, accepting the golden shower and drifting back to sleep. A bit confused, Schmit stopped mid-story.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.

“Aw man, I’ve had to piss for at least an hour.”

“On the face of a dog, you had to piss?”

“Oh no, it’s okay. He doesn’t mind. Just keep going, tell your story. I wanna hear it real quick before I go catch my flight.”

He shrugged and continued to tell his tale.

That time on Koh Samui had been the first and only time I’d ever pissed on a dog but, as unlikely as it seems, I have quite the track record when it comes to pissing on other people or tricking other people into drinking my piss. Of course, it must be noted that I’d never do these things while sober. It’s just another hobby my drunken alter ego enjoys that lucid moral-minded me thinks is funny in a hypothetical sense but doesn’t approve of carrying out.

Although several times in drunken stupors I don’t recall I’d mistaken my brother as he slept in his bed for a toilet, the first time I’d consciously made the decision to piss on someone had been at my house during my junior year of college. Towards the end of a long day and night of partying at Marquette University, I walked into my living room where about ten people had still been drinking. On the couch was some dude that I’d never seen before passed out in the upright position.

“Yo, who is this guy?” I asked a couple of my roommates and our buddies whom we’d had over.

“I dunno,” they all shrugged. “No idea.”

“Hey, hey buddy,” I shook the guy’s shoulder. “Anybody there? Wake up!”

The dude just kept snoring away.

“This motherfucker is out cold,” I said. “I could probably piss on him and he wouldn’t even notice.”

“Do it bro,” someone said without looking away from the television.

“Well, I was only joking, but…”

I unzipped my fly, cranked out my noodle and began spraying drunken piss directly onto the crotch of the dude who’d been sleeping. Throughout the whole evacuation, I was quite nervous he was gonna wake up, catch me mid-piss and try to fight me over it. But he never did and by the time I’d shaken out all the remnants and dripped dry, the guy looked like he’d just had himself a pretty bad accident. I started shaking his arm again to wake him up and inform him that he just pissed our couch, but he didn’t budge. I said goodnight to all my buddies and went to bed.

The next rotten thing I’d done to somebody involving piss had been during a daytime backyard party at a house on 16th and State near the outer edges of Marquette University’s campus. When stepping away from the merrymaking crowd who’d all been dancing and playing games to go and expel some urine in the house’s bathroom, I took notice of an empty Pinot Grigio bottle that’d been sitting on the counter in the kitchen. I always felt that drunken piss and Pinot Grigio look extremely alike so I took it into the bathroom, aligned the hole of my pee-pee with the neck of the bottle and filled it up a little more than halfway. After giving the bubbles a few moments to settle down, I brought it outside, set it on a table in the sun so people would assume its warmth had been the result of solar exposure, informed my buddies of the move and began playing the waiting game.

Oh man, did that piss look exactly like white wine. There was no doubt in my mind that somebody was gonna pick it up and guzzle it – it was only a matter of when. About ten minutes later, as Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” had been blasting from the speaker system, one of the dudes who lived in the house we were at was grinding his dick on some chick’s ass, singing along to JBJ and pumping his fist very near the table on which the faux wine had sat. Since he hadn’t a drink of his own in his hand, he ended up reaching over and picking up the piss bottle.

“Oh my god,” one of my roommates grabbed everybody’s attention, “he’s gonna do it! He’s gonna drink the piss!”

Just then, as he was about to take a swig, the chorus came on and the booze took a backseat.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, we’re halfway there!” he shouted as he pumped one fist in the air while clenching the bottle of wine in the other, at his side. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh-oh, livin’ on a prayer!”

As soon as the chorus ended, he put the piss back to his face, took a massive gulp and then spit it out the way people spit out drinks in the movies when being informed of seemingly unbelievable news. While he glanced at and read the label on the bottle in confusion, my buddies and I had been having a field day from afar.

Since the first time I’d tried it had worked out so well, I’d once again go on to try and make some other chump drink my piss at a later date. We were at my grade school buddy Howe’s apartment in Chicago. He lived with a random roommate who’d gone out for the night and Howe told us specifically right from the start that no one was to touch the other guy’s bottle of wine in the fridge, as he’s an artsy musician type of guy who’s very particular about his Pinot Grigio. By virtue of nothing more than having been told to do the opposite, I simply couldn’t resist a repeat performance.

At some point in this drunken night during which the neighbors below had called the cops on us and my buddy Barrett took a big fat shit in Howe’s roommate’s kitty litter box, I took that bottle of wine out the fridge, screwed out the cork, stepped into the backyard and chugged the whole thing. When I finished, I pissed in it as much as I could but didn’t have enough to fill it to the top. So, I left the bottle, went back in the house and cracked open another beer. About ten minutes later when I felt I could go again, I went back into the yard and finished the job. After jamming the cork back into the neck so it looked more or less as it had before it’d been tampered with, I replaced the bottle of wine in the fridge. It was right around this time that the po-po showed up at the door and broke up the gathering. I didn’t get to witness the drinking of the piss and I never asked Howe if it’d actually happened, but judging by the way he was evicted from the apartment the following day, I like to assume that a nightcap of the Pee-not Grigio had been consumed by the roommate after coming home from his night on the town.

The final story I wanna tell today involving piss had been when my buddy Sweeney and I were staggering around the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago in search of a party at another friend’s apartment we were too drunk to find sometime after the 2am bars had all closed. As we walked up and down streets, making random turns and pretending we knew where we were going, Sweeney and I started tackling each other and wrestling on some random front lawn. At some point I managed to get on top of my friend and was about to pin his arms down when he reached back over his head, uprooted a handful of grass and threw it in my face. When the grass hit me, my mouth had been open and a few of the blades flew straight to the back of my throat where they got stuck to that dangly thing back there that’s always used in cartoons as a punching bag. This caused me to gag and almost immediately, I started throwing up. Although I probably should’ve vengefully puked in Sweeney’s face, I didn’t. I crawled off him, stayed on all fours and yakked on the lawn.

Once I’d gotten it all out of me and regained my composure, I noticed that some random-ass drunken bro had been passed out on the lawn next to the one on which I’d just purged. Without even mentioning my intentions to Sweeney, I got up, walked over to this guy, stood above him, pulled out my dick and took aim for his crotch. As I did my dirty deed, Sweeney laughed while other people that had been walking by acted as if they’d never seen someone getting peed on before.

When I was done, I put away my piece, crouched down and started shaking the guy’s shoulder.

“Hey bro. Wake up bro.”

The guy opened his eyes and appeared to have no idea where he was.


“Get up bro. You’re on someone’s front lawn.”

“I am?”

“Yeah bro. And you pissed yourself.”

“I did?” he started rubbing his forehead.

“Yeah bro. Ya did. Here,” I stuck out my hand to help him off the ground. He grabbed on and I pulled him up. “You know where you’re going bro?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah. I got it,” he said then started stumbling away in what appeared to be an arbitrary direction.

“Be safe bro,” I imparted as he drifted into the night with my piss stain on his pants, “there’s all sorts of weirdos out there you gotta watch out for.”