Hi. My name is James. I pee in mason jars for fun and pleasure and more than once I've spilled one on the kitchen floor.

I blame my mother. She potty trained me at a rest stop with a Dixie cup and ever since then hanging my cock out into the chasm between me and the toilet waters below has left me feeling vulnerable. Exposed. I much prefer the closeness of a hand-held receptacle.

Like milk jugs. They hold a whole gallon you can get right up there against the opening. So I fill ‘em up and keep ‘em in the kitchen closet just in case someone comes over.

My sons call that closet Papa’s “secret bathroom.” But I’m not so sure what’s exactly secretive about whipping my schlong out in the kitchen with everybody home. Especially when the boys insist on putting their faces about eight inches from the business end of said cock while I drain the lizard. But that’s kids for ya.

And it’s not just for fun you know. Piss is an excellent source of nitrogen. And it’s wet. And nitrogen and water are necessary ingredients for the rapid breakdown of organic refuse. And I won’t get into it here but waste management is kind of a big deal.

So I keep the jugs of piss there in the closet by the backdoor for easy adding to the compost pile. Well, at least I used to--before there came this woman and she told me the backyard always smelled like urine.

So I quit composting my pee and found other ways to save the world. And that’s cool, because relationships are all about compromise. Sacrifice. Taking the things you love and ritualistically bleeding them out like the virgin we staked to our bonfire last year for the summer solstice.

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