My bladder caught with his pants down

I gotta go.

The night bus rolls on and I make a pact with my bladder: The next stop, I’ll let him go.

I’m in the twilight that comes with sleeping, not so much because you need to but because you don’t want to see what rules of the road and physics the bus driver is trying to break, and don’t notice the bus has stopped. Finally, I awake and step off the bus. A shanty town bus station. I ask a lonely ticket saleslady where the toilet is. She points around to the back of the buildings.

“Hey boss. You need toilet? I show you.” Says the bus attendant.

I’m led around the corner of the building.

“It’s in there?” I point to dark opening.

“No boss. Here.” He motions to everywhere.

The toilet is open-air community-urination at its finest. Unfortunately, for me, the community is done. I’m giving them a good show already, having asked about the location of the toilet when I was standing in it, and now they are hoping for more.

I find a secluded corner where my feet are on concrete and my target is dirt.

I feel the need to pee, but my bladder feels the eyes of the crowd increasing with every second that passes. He hears the bets being taken: “I bet you 20 taka that he won’t go at all. That he’ll just do some fake shakes to play it like he did.”

There is no splash down. My bladder succumbs to performance pressure and can only manage to squeeze out three mini-piddle sessions before I call it quits.

Now, I only gotta go a little bit.