Its nourishing qualities are allegedly well known to beauticians; supermodels are even rumoured to drink a chilled half-pint of their own perfection twice daily! And drinking others' fresh piss isn't reputed to pose significant extra risks for the transmission of HIV, Hepatitis or other STDs over and above other physical contacts - though you might get a second kick of someone's unwanted, unknown drug dose thereby.

We enter the sweet-smelling blackness. Looking back out towards the light, we view the steamy haze of vapour wafting off the cold stone floor. Together, we move deeper into the darkness. As eyes accustom, a shirtless man sits on a chair in sodden trousers, self-wetted. We ask if he minds if we piss on him. His face lights up in the general gloom and chin and chest jut out towards our loins. Steve hits full flow on cue. Mine's a faltering start but then springs forth: left, then right, then up, then down - coating his face, tits and hair as he gasps and gulps to take it all in. Ah, the humiliating power. W/s: first cousin of SM.

We finish things off and tuck our new found selves away, as the man well nigh rains his thanks upon us. Our deed is done, at which calming point I sense a wet warmth spread across my back and realise some eager streamer has set himself loose without warning. I turn round with looks to kill and gush: "Ask first! That's fucking rude. Piss off!"

"I'm wet!" I loudly spout as startled pissing punters part as I stumble back out into the light. Steve gives me his number and promises to get round and shower me in my bathroom, garden or garage soon. And so I surface like some angel wet behind the ears, as the great hose-down starts and my shirt still clings.

SOP (Streams of Pleasure) Club runs every Tuesday evening (6pm-midnight) and Sunday afternoon (1pm-11pm) at Central Station, 37 Wharfdale Road, King's Cross, London N1. ere is no dress code but bring a towel and change of clothes if you intend to get soaked.

Back