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I'm already standing in the shower with my jeans completely peed. The warm stain has spread from my crotch down both legs. My panties are soaked through. But I'm not done yet. I reach for the handle and turn on the water. Cold at first — then warm. It hits my chest, runs down my stomach, soaks into the already-wet denim. The jeans get heavier. Darker. They cling to my thighs like a second skin. I turn around and let the water hit my ass, running down the back of my legs. Every inch of denim is drenched now — a mix of pee and shower water, warm and heavy, plastered to my body. I squeeze the fabric. Watch the water pour out. Rub myself through the soaked jeans. Four minutes. From peed to completely soaked. No reason. Just because I can.