My_Bed_Wetting_Jock_Hero
MY BED WETTING JOCK HERO
My Bed Wetting Jock Hero
My high school hero was "Matt" (not his real name). He and I became fast friends shortly after he moved into my neighborhood at the beginning of the summer before high school graduation year. He was 18 going into the school year, a year older than I was because he'd failed a grade in senior elementary school after his family had moved three times in one year.
From the very beginning, though, he was popular. He was a great athlete, reasonably tall for his age, broad shoulders and chest, huge muscular thighs, green- blue eyes, a wide smile and a full crop of sandy blond hair. We met in the early summer playing touch football at the high school playing field (which we all jumped the fence to use) and we hung around a lot when both of us were not working at our respective summer jobs.
Within days of meeting, I was over at his place almost daily and he was at mine just as often. As school approached, I convinced Matt to join the track team, even though he had already decided on football and had every intention of joining that team - on which he quickly became a star. We did track practice and a lot of weights training together, although the results he attained were more spectacular that I could hope for.
Throughout the summer, I feared he would find out about my bedwetting problem. I made sure never to have him over to the house at a time when it might be apparent. I was somewhat heartened when he told me after school started that his 13 year old brother was a bedwetter, a revelation he made after I ran into his backyard one day to talk to his mother on the way to school, noticing a wet urine-stained sheet and soaked pajama bottoms hanging on the line to dry.
When I caught up with him at school he said that his brother was a chronic bedwetter who was forced as a form of punishment to sleep in his unwashed, but dried, bedding and pajamas if he wet more than three nights in a row. I was encourage by his matter-of-fact view of this, given that my sibling would have presented such an issue in a far more derogatory manner.
About three weeks into the school year, I headed over to Matt's one Saturday morning to meet up with him to go to a voluntary track practice. It was about 8 o'clock on that hot morning when I went up to the front door of the rambling house in which Matt and his family lived. I knocked on the screened door. "Anybody home," I called, but nobody responded. I could hear a radio blaring upstairs so I entered the front door and ran up to Matt's room, which was the big room overlooking the front yard.
I'd been in his room a few times during in the almost four months we'd known one another. It was lined with football trophies and pictures, car pictures and magazines and a couple girly pictures (which his mom didn't like). I heard the shower running but it had stopped when I got to the top of the stairs, so I entered his room anyway. The door was already half-way opened. I was astonished at what I saw. In the corner of the room was Matt's dorm-style single bed, unmade, a large wet urine spot almost completely covering the centre and upper centre of the exposed white flannel bedsheet.
On the corner of the bed was draped a pair of soaked cotton pajama bottoms which looked to be the same ones I had seen drying on the line a couple weeks earlier. Matt was very upset when he returned to his room, wrapped at the waist in a towel, when he saw me there. "I didn't mean to..." I started to stammer. I could see tears welling in his eyes. "I didn't want anybody to know," he groaned, almost starting to cry. "Don't worry," I said, I understand." "No you f----n don't," he said half angrily as he regained his composure. "Don't you go and f----n tell anybody either."
On the way out the door, we ran into his younger brother, who'd left the house door open to go grab his bike at a neighbor's house. "You peed the bed again Mattie ... you're in trouble this time," the brother said half-sarcastically as he ran past us back to the kitchen. Matt said almost nothing for the rest of the morning, and I didn't hear from him for four days. He even avoided me at school until I ran into him after class on the Thursday afternoon.
Why don't you come over to my place early tomorrow?," I said, we can head to the weights room at the gym." He hadn't been at the gym all week, but he grudgingly agreed. The next morning when he arrived, I made sure not to have cleaned up my mess. Because of the compromise worked out by my counselor between me and my parents, my parents didn't punish me for my bedwetting anymore and I did my own wet laundry.
When Matt arrived that morning, I said, "come on up, I've got a couple chores to do before we head out." As he walked into my room ahead of me, I saw the startled look on his face. "You too," he asked? "Very often?" "Most nights," I responded. "What do you're folks do," he queried? "Not much, we used to argue over it but then we went to counseling."
"I wish I could get my old man to hear that," he said. As we talked about our respective situations, I went about my almost daily business, peeling the soaked sheet and undersheet off the bed, washing down the rubber sheet which protected the mattress and gathering all my bedding and my wet underwear (as I refused to wear pajamas to bed anymore) and putting them in a plastic hamper to take to the basement.
"I have to run down to the laundry with this stuff before we go," I said. Matt and I were best friends throughout the rest of the year and stayed in touch until I finished college. I learned of his experience, including his harsh father, who rather than practice corporal punishment tried to humiliate him out of his bedwetting. He was sent to a private "discipline- oriented" school one year in an unsuccessful effort to break his habit. Then, his dad sent him to a military-style summer camp when he was 15, again in an effort to prod him through peer pressure into dry nights, and again without success.
Sports was what he was good at, and it was the only thing that boosted his self-esteem. It was also the only thing that created a bond between him and his dad. He went to a trade school and stayed in town for a couple more years after finishing high school, getting his own place when he started to make enough money to pay rent. When he got engaged at 26, I got an invitation to the wedding through my mom, but I was leaving on an overseas business trip and couldn't make it.
Although my parents moved out of the neighborhood shortly afterwards, I contacted him one day when I was visiting the city to which he had moved. He'd been married about six years then. I drove out to a bar to meet him, not knowing how well we'd pick things up. We joked about high school days and our mutual problem. He had stopped wetting in his early 20s, three years after leaving his parents' home, he said, although he sometimes missed it.
I told him that I had never stopped. He and his wife had two little sons, and I asked him what he would do if his kids were problem bedwetters? "Let them wet, I guess," he said. Before parting, I told him that I'd always wanted to say something to him but never had the guts. "What's that," he asked. "You were always my hero - a kind of bedwetting adonis," I said. "Ha!" he laughed: "You know what, you were always my hero. You were around when I needed you to be. Stay wet and I'll be proud of you!"
-Writtin By: bwf
Rate This Story:
Excellent
Very Good
Good
Fair
Poor