This story takes place in 1993. I was just eight years old, and while I don't remember much about growing up until I hit age 10, this one incident remains clear in my mind...
From my bedroom on the far side of the house, I ran urgently to the bathroom. I had to pee, and bad. With my hands down the front of my pants, I gripped firmly onto the anatomy that inhabited my crotch. In the logic that presented itself in my eight-year-old mind, this method would prevent any urine from leaking out. After the last time I had an accident, I promised myself it wouldn't happen again. As I rounded the corner from the living room into the kitchen, I felt my resolve begin to falter.
I skidded to a halt in front of the bathroom door, surprised and horrified to find it closed. I pulled my left hand out of my pants and knocked loudly on the door.
"Just a minute!" my mother called from inside the bathroom. "I'm almost done!"
"Hurry up, Mom! I've gotta pee real bad!" I cried. It seemed that I had to pee even more now that I was standing still. Hopping from one leg to the other seemed to help, so I bounced in place while I waited.
I heard the toilet flush, and soon the water in the sink turned on as my mother washed her hands. Hearing the running water made me have to pee even more still. I put my left hand back down my pants to help with the high stress situation down below.
"Mom! I really, really gotta go!" I yelled, louder this time.
"I'm almost done!" she yelled back again. "Hang on a minute, please!"
"I can't, Mom! My pee sac is all full!" I danced even faster now, tapping out a regular beat with my tube-sock covered feet on the beige linoleum.
"Your what?" she asked, shutting the water off.
"My pee sac. It's full, and I need to pee!" I replied. I tested the door knob to see if she had unlocked it yet. No such luck.
"Your 'pee sac'? Where is that?" she asked.
"In my private area, Mom. Are you done yet?"
"That's not a pee sac, Michael. And yes, I'm done," she said, and opened the door. She stepped out of the bathroom with a smirk on her face. I rushed past her and into the bathroom, closing the door fast behind me.
"Wash your hands really good after you're done!" my mother called out. "And don't put your hands down your pants! It's not polite."
My mother might have been talking, but I wasn't listening. I was focusing on one thing, and that was going pee. As I flushed the toilet when I had finished, I smiled to myself.
Eventually, I learned that my mother was right. The warm, wrinkly pouch between my legs was in fact not a urine reservoir, but instead nature's method of supporting and carrying around my testicles.
In truth, it makes more sense that way.