Gold down the drain

Every morning, around the globe, a tragedy takes place.

From the apartments of Paris to mansions in California, from Budapest to Bangladesh, woman after woman open her eyes and wakens, and on softly padding feet, she slips into a certain little room.

And then she carries out a routine that she has followed since she was a tiny girl barely able to walk. She lowers the panties that veil her lovely hips and she sits – or in the Eastern world, she squats – and a glistening, gleaming golden stream shoots forth from deep within her body and hisses into the cool water of her toilet.

Relief sweeps through her as her swollen bladder empties. And when she is finished, she engages a flush lever and away her urine goes, out of sight, out of mind, into some municipal plumbing system.

The semi-scientific term for it is waste, and it is indeed a waste – a waste to simply discard it.
I was just a teen when I first scribbled in my journal in a moment of infatuation with some high school girl, of the indescribable taste of her urine.

Of course, it was schoolboy fantasy, wishful thinking. I had never had such a pleasure. I had no real idea what the taste would be like. I do know, without a doubt, that if by some miracle, she had passed a cup beneath her lovely loins and handed it to me, I would have drained every last drop without hesitation, no matter what it tasted like.

Years passed before such a privilege was mine. My Lady finally acquiesced, quite reluctantly, so reluctantly that I have not repeated the request. Her nectar was indeed indescribable, a little metallic, a lot salty – a flavor unlike any other beverage I have ever sampled. Without doubt, I would sample it again if she was less reluctant.

Why is it so bizarre to so many that in the thrall of love to a woman, a man would long to drink from her nether fountain? Why is it so weird that, having thrilled to the pleasure of probing her hot, wet mouth and sampling the sweet warmth of her skin and exploring her every female nook and cranny, he would desire to imbibe the waters that, heated almost to burning in her internal furnace, extracted from her every precious cell, so intimately a part of her, launch forth from the very fountain of her womanhood?

Unless your lady is afflicted with some contagious disease – something you should know before you engage in any deep intimacy – sipping occasionally from her loving cup will do you no harm at all, though you might balance your salt levels with fresh water when you have finished drinking her golden gift.

So I return to my original statement. That hundreds, thousands of gallons of precious womanly elixir swirl unappreciated each day into the dark, cold depths of drainpipes, is a tragedy. That so many boyfriends and husbands have never ever given such a thing a thought, or that their ladies recoil from the notion of providing it, is a tragedy.

In a better world than this, a coed might pay her way through college, if, certified with a clean bill of health and with her micturation miracle duly pasteurized to appease the FDA, she could actually plaster a picture of her pretty face on a bottle and sell the elixir. A fresh-faced teen might collect cash to indulge her mall cravings; a woman robust and mature might find a customer base that preferred her more seasoned product. Niche markets might spring up for Texas cowgirls, Latinas, Asian beauties or sun-kissed California surfer girls.

But alas, our world is no such place.