Soon after my divorce, when I had moved to Surrey I joined various evening classes to make new friends and one of these arranged a coach trip to Norfolk to look at a selection of churches and stately homes.
The coach started from outside the school where our evening classes were held, a 15 minute walk from my flat. Since I am always wary of coach outings, I intended to use the schools loos for a last minute wee, but the place was locked for the weekend. The coach was almost ready to leave, and there were no other loos near, so I didn't have any choice but to take my chance and hope they stopped somewhere on the way. After all, I had been only 15 minutes ago and I had only had one cup of coffee for breakfast, so I thought I would be OK.
There must be something about coaches that triggers a response in my bladder, because it was not much more that half an hour later when I felt the first twinges of wanting a loo.
Immediately I crossed my legs and tried hard to think of anything except my bladder, but it was all in vain, and it wasn't long before I was bursting. Well, that's not unusual for me on a coach and there was only one thing to do, get my foot tucked underneath me and press my heel into my crutch. After that, it was a matter of trying to make the time pass as quickly as possible, so I was talking to everyone near me in the hope that this would take my mind off my bladder problem. By half past nine I was desperate and I kept looking out for signs for service areas, praying that we would soon stop. No such luck, the organisers must have thought we were all superwomen, because we didn't stop until we got to our first building, a Norman church. By then I was seriously considering asking the driver to stop and let me wee behind the hedge. The last three quarters of an hour I was so desperate that I could no longer talk to anyone; it was taking all my strength and concentration to avoid wetting myself in the coach.
It was a typical small country village, no loos in sight and the pub was shut, so I had to follow the group to the church, gritting my teeth with the effort of holding out. I was wearing jeans, as we had been warned that we would be climbing ladders and steep stairs, which meant that I dare not let a single drop of wee leak out. We looked round the outside first, noting the carving over the side door, the restored windows and the fact that there wasn't a loo. I was knotting my legs and twisting about in desperation, both hands in my trouser pockets and pulling up my panties; I was frantic, and knew I could not last very long now I was off my foot.
When we went to look inside I hung back at the door, then, hoping nobody would notice, hurried back behind the church, holding between my legs I was so desperate. Trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, I squatted behind the first buttress and let my wee go. I felt very exposed, but I simply had to go and my little bladder did not take long to empty. If anyone knew what I had done, nothing was said and at the next village there were some public loos and I joined the group that hurried into them, hoping to give the impression that I had waited like everyone else and anyway, on coach outings I rarely miss the chance of a wee.
The rest of the day was pleasant, but uneventful as far as my bladder was concerned, with enough loos to avoid any more desperation. On the way back we stopped in a pub for a snack and drink. I drank rather more beer than I had meant to, because David, a widower who I rather liked, was plying me with drinks. I wasn't sure quite where we were, but David assured me we were quite near home and stupidly I took him at his word, without asking exactly how far. Also, I had not had much to drink in the day and I didn't seem to be going to the loo very often.
I had not been long on the coach before I wanted the loo. Despite what David said about it not being far to get home, we seemed to keep on travelling for ages. Why, I was asking myself, had I been so stupid as to risk drinking beer before a coach ride? Would I never learn that my bladder just cannot be trusted when beer or cider is involved? Why hadn't I drunk orange juice, or white wine, anything with less volume than bottles of lager?
I could have kicked myself, except that I was already sitting firmly on my foot. If things were not going badly enough already, we then got stuck in a traffic jam. We just crawled along for about ten minutes, then came to a complete stop. By then I was really desperate, but somehow still surviving, but it was becoming quite a struggle.
After more of the same stop-start driving, we came to the road-works that had been the cause of the hold-up. There the coach kept hitting bumps and holes in the road. With my bladder stretched to its limit, every jolt was agony for me. I tried to clench myself shut, but I could feel my bladder losing control. As an absolute last resort, I grabbed between my legs, pushing my fingers between my heel and my crutch, and pressing with all my might.
I had to do this, I was on the brink of breaking down totally then, but at last of the rough road finished, so I was able to get control again. The coach lights were on, so I could not really hide what I was doing, only hope that nobody, particularly David, sitting next to me, was looking. I pulled my hands away as soon as I dared, not wanting David to see what a state I was in. Every so often I thought I could feel my bladder was about to give way and leak, so I had to hold between my legs again. I was literally screaming for a loo, and I was right on the brink of total breakdown, but somehow I held out until we stopped outside the school.
Unfortunately, this wasn't the end of my troubles. I was so desperate that I could not bear to wait any longer, I just had to wee, the question was, where? The school was locked, there were no public loos or pubs near and as there was no way I could possibly manage to walk home, I was going to have to find some secluded, dark spot to go and pretty quickly, because I was too desperate to walk far. With a bladder like mine, it's not possible to have many reservations about weeing in the open, so I was prepared to squat down in the shadow between parked cars, or in someone's front garden if I thought no-one would see. I had done it before and would certainly do it again. The main thing was to get away from the rest of the coach party as quickly as possible, so at least I could hold myself while looking for some shelter.
Before I could even start to make my getaway, David was insisting that he give me a lift home. The thought of having to wait another five or ten minutes while he drove me home was unbearable, but short of simply running away there was no way of refusing this lift. Walking to his car I had both hands in my pockets, pulling my panties tight round my crutch, which was just enough to help me wait. While David was unlocking the car, I was holding myself from behind, with my legs tightly crossed. I continued to hold between my legs like this until I was sitting in the car with my foot up and applying extra pressure to my fingers. I had survived the first part of the journey, maybe if he drove quickly I would still be able to hold out until I was home?
From the way David was talking, I realised he was likely to ask me out before letting me out of the car and that he would probably take some time to build up to this. I could not bear the thought of having to sit outside my flat, knowing how close a loo was, while he made polite conversation, nor did I want to ask him in, because I was going to have to hold myself when I made an undignified run across the garden and up three flights of stairs. With inspiration born out of absolute desperation, I suggested we stop at a local pub, which we were just passing, for a quick drink, which David was more than happy to do. Luckily we parked near the back entrance and the ladies loo was just inside the door. I gasped, "Excuse me" and I was through the door and almost running for a cubicle, holding between my legs again to prevent a last second accident. I was in such a panic that I could hardly manage to undo my jeans and pull my panties down. The second my bum hit the loo seat, I just let my wee go and it was pouring out with even more pressure than the morning's wee. It was such a wonderful feeling of relief that it was almost worth all the misery of holding on so long. By some miracle I had made it to a loo without wetting my pants and with nothing worse than an aching bladder, which no one except me knew about. I let David buy me two drinks, which deadened the ache and agreed to meet him during the week.
Our relationship never developed into anything and I felt that he was often embarrassed by the frequency that I had to use the loo, though he was too much of a gentleman to say so.
Nicola.