Taking a second look at the large artificial body of water next to him, Jeff decided that the most childish and, in a way, most ironic way to drain his pickle (or Pumpkin? Gourd?) was the most foolproof. All he had to do was get into the pool, find a safe distance from the other swimmers, and when no one was looking, “milk” the urine out. It was far from perfect, but Jeff’s desperation was clouding his judgment considerably.
About to all but jump in, Jeff refrained from this attention-drawing action and instead walked over to, the swollen crotch-breast rippling externally with fat and internally with pee after each step. It was torture, but it was a necessary evil, as Jeff found out when he made his way to the stairs. Taking off his sweatshirt, shoes, shirt, and socks, placing them on a free pool chair, Jeff was ready to start his descent into the water, when he was suddenly stopped by his mother.
“Jeff, what are you doing? I thought you were going to say hello to Tim and the Fergusons? Where’s Jack?”
“GOD DAMN IT”, Jeff screamed mentally.
“Oh, I said hi to them and Jack wanted to go hang out with some people and I wanted to use the pool. It’s all good.”
Jeff tried once more to enter the pool, but was stopped once again by the same hand on his shoulder gripping slightly more tightly.
“It most certainly is not ‘all good’. You’re not swimming in your pants like that. Put on a swimsuit like a civilized person.”
“But, I..... I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“If you didn’t bring one that’s your fault; you knew the pool was going to be open.”
“Mom, please.....”, Jeff whined, on the cusp of pleading. Jeff’s mom looked at him, sighed, and relented. “Fine. But you still have to wear a swimsuit! And you can’t go home for it, leaving is rude. You’ll have to borrow one somehow.....”