When we descended into the subway in Brooklyn, I didn’t have to pee at all. But we’d been drinking black tea all morning with Megan, squinting into the low angled sun, and by the time we were switching trains in midtown, I definitely needed to pee.

No problem: we were only one stop away from where we were going, and I could find a coffee shop or something.

The subway slid out of the station at a snail’s pace. I started rocking in my seat a little. Then, just a couple hundred feet into the tunnel, the train stopped.

My rocking ceased. A few moments passed before an announcement came over the loudspeaker: “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a police invstigation underway at the 59th street stop. We appreciate your patience.”

Police investigation? What the fuck?

The minutes passed. Andreas and Megan signed impatiently and chatted. I sat engulfed by discomfort. My whole world was throbbing with urinary misery. I finally couldn’t keep it to myself any more and turned to Dre and Megan and made my own announcement: “You guys, I’m in hell. No, seriously: I have a pretty extreme situation going on here.” Both Andreas and Megan had a moment of recognition as to the gravity of my mindframe.

We waited. Another announcement came, letting us know that the investigation was still underway — please have patience! I started to lose it. An investigation could take a long time! Are we talking bodies? Bombs? We could be stuck in this train car forever! AND I HAD TO PEE SO BAD! It was like a bad action movie, and I was the innocent bystander. The train of stranded people to be rescued, and I was about to wet myself.

I started freaking out a little. I eyed both ends of the train car for escape routes. Maybe I could pee between the cars? My body throbbed a little bit more. I started feeling swoony from the pressure. Agony, really.

As the minutes ticked by (minute 5, minute 10, minute 15), I hatched a new plan. I would politely ask to use someone’s plastic shopping bag. Then I would shuffle to the end of the train car and apologetically explain that I was going to pee in a bag now, and would they mind changing seats? Then I would piss into a plastic shopping bag, tie it off, and sit there with it. The New Yorkers would be unflapped, but disgusted.

I WAS IN HELL.

The train started moving a little. Everyone sighed in relief, and my bladder tension eased a half notch. Then the train ground to a stop again.

At this point, I tried a different technique. Bladder, I said, you are going to reabsorb that liquid. Pretend you’re very thirsty, or you’ve been drinking a lot. Just reappropriate the liquid. USE THE LIQUID FOR GODSAKE. Every ounce of my attention was focused on not peeing my pants. Muscles quivered. Liquid was reaborbed into my body.

Unbeknownst to me, Andreas was fiddling with his scarf, preparing to offer it as a diaper.

The train started moving again and kept moving. We disembarked, found a coffee shop, and I peed for perhaps 3 minutes non-stop. Well, but first I had to wait in line for 5 minutes or so. I think my reabsorption meditation worked, because I was ok to keep it together. Maybe just being on the train with no end in sight that made me almost have a urinary anxiety attack.

I’m ok now.

A personal note to the many people who have emailed me about this post: I’m not really interested in answering your questions or talking further about my experience on the subway. Nor do I want to hear stories from fake co-eds about that one time they peed their pants. I’m fully aware that this post has been linked by so-called “watersports” enthusiast websites, and while I don’t have a problem with that, I have limited patience for feeding additional information to tittilated readers. Your fetishes are just fine with me, but don’t be greedy: enjoy this story for what it is, and don’t ask for seconds. Thanks.