Spit and Whistle

I have to spit when I pee.  It's completely unavoidable.   I can't pee unless I spit.  It's never happened once.  I always spit when I pee.  

I've tried not to spit.  I've done it like an experiment.  Indoors, outdoors, cold weather, hot weather. I've checked when I have little urge to pee -- thought it might sort of desensitize the situation -- take out some of the urgency, relax me a little.   I've pushed the envelope a couple of times trying not to spit when I really had to pee badly.  It hurts a lot, but I still can't pee. 

I just stand there with my dick in my hand feeling increasingly more uncomfortable and . . .  and salivating.  Yes.  My mouth gets full of saliva and I can't swallow it.  I'd like to give you a good reason for that.  I just can't.  And then I have to spit.  Otherwise, I'd begin to drool and drooling is generally considered odd restroom behavior, even though spitting, which is little more than projectile drooling, is common, acceptable, and even encouraged in restrooms. 

Luckily, anywhere you can pee, you can spit.  I can't imagine standing in a restroom, spitting into the urinal, and having the guy next to me say something like, "Oh, man.  Did you spit?  That's disgusting!"

But imagine if I were afflicted conversely:  if I had to pee before I could spit.  It's a nice summer evening.   You're on the patio, having a beer with the boss and his lovely, if a bit anorexic, wife, and you've just stood up to deliver some kind of hypocritical tribute to your guests  and a moth flies into your mouth. 

Here's the kicker:  I really can't spit.  I mean, I do spit; but I can't. 

It's horrible.  I can fill my mouth with saliva and I can project it from my mouth, but not cleanly.  I almost always end up with some kind of residual hanging from my lip down to my shirt.  This has been the case since I was a child. 

When I was twelve years old, every guy I knew could spit.  There were spitting competitions.  My coolest friends could "hock a loogie" -- I'm not sure about the spelling on loogie.  I'm not even sure there is one -- twenty feet with a muffled snapping sound at take-off and a good, honest splat upon landing.  I couldn't hock a loogie for my life.  I'd make a sound like a baby giving someone the raspberries and scatter saliva in about a three inch radius on the front of my shirt.  I have never once felt the pleasure of hocking up and hanging a loogie on somebody's car door handle from ten feet. 

As best I could tell, the technique involves sucking a . . . well, hunk of . . . something with a little heavier texture out of the back of your nose, forming it up and wrapping it in your tongue and flingin it.   And therein lies my problem.  Anything with a "little heavier texture"  that's on its way from the back of my nose to anywhere does not need to be in my mouth with my tongue wrapped around it.

And speaking of things I can't do . . . I can't do that two-finger (or alternatively a finger and a thumb) whistle that guys do at ball games and coaches like to do in really short, hard blasts to get people's attention; the same technique is used with the intention of attracting the notice of a really hot woman, only the sound is different for that -- more tweet-T-WEEEEEEEEEEEET-oo . (At least that's the way  it is in the cartoons.  The guys' lips always get real big and they lean forward way off balance.  and let 'er rip.)  I always feel inadequate in situations where I want to objectify a woman without using real words.  And even my non-fingered whistle is so weak I think a woman would feel more confused than offended.

Anyway, I can't do it.  I've talked to people about it.  I've gotten all sorts of instruction.  I remember my metal shop teacher, Mr. Rinaldi, actually spending a lot of time trying to get me to make that whistle.  I remember him looking intently into my mouth when I tried, trying to figure out what was wrong.  He seemed really perplexed and a little frightened, as though it might be a sign of something much more troubling (a learning disability? late onset retardation?  cancer of the palate?  latent homosexuality?)  He really wanted me to learn to do it, as though learning might cure whatever it was that ailed me.

It's a good thing I don't have to whistle like that every time I pee.