The QP Bench

a Short Story by Kellis

Fall, 2005



It’s a fine fall morning as I stroll along the walk, my cane touching the pavement for steadiness.  The sun is shining, the air is cool and only a few people are in the park ahead of me.  The birds chirp and flit between tree branches, feathers already fading for winter.  The hum of traffic gradually hushes as I penetrate the greenery that still lingers before the first frost.  The world is so peaceful at this hour!

No one ever uses my bench, the one facing away from the paths and the people, except me.  With my large handkerchief I flip away the dew and take my seat, hanging my cane on the metal arm.  At my age sitting down is always good.  On this particular bench the seat boards fit tightly together, comfortable even for poorly padded buttocks, even for half a morning’s rest.

Beside me I set out my bag of treats — nuts and seeds for curious pigeons and squirrels, and await their appearance, meanwhile savoring the air charged with a faint tang of natural ozone.  It reminds me of relieving Martha on the porch after a thunder storm.  God, how thunder excited her!  She always wet her pants — and not with urine.  Of course, every nice thing reminds me of her.

This morning the first visitor is not after my treats.  My mouth falls open when a young lady in shorts and halter swings around the opposite end of my bench.  She’s a pretty one, twentyish I guess, with long auburn hair swinging in a pony tail.

Pink lips smile at me.  “Is this seat taken?”

Her voice is sweet and musical, but the question is preposterous.  Unless —  “Do you want me to move?”

No!” she retorts with a little laugh, as if my question were the silly one.  “That means it’s not taken.  Oh, the dew!”

“Not a problem,” I declare, producing my handkerchief and dampening it further.

This evokes a beaming smile.  “Thank you, sir!”  She promptly turns around as if preparing to sit but instead … instead she unsnaps something in front of her shorts, pokes thumbs through the waistband and bends forward, pushing shorts and skimpy purple panties down to her ankles.  She steps out of the garments, slings them over one arm and plops her naked and well-rounded buttocks onto the seat beside me.

She grins, perhaps at my dumbfounded expression, leans back with a sigh and declaims, “Ah, this is so cool!”

I imagine she’s correct, at least in one sense, but find myself speechless.

The second astonishment proceeds immediately.  She parts her legs until one smooth knee touches my britches, slips a hand between them and produces a stream of water.  It rises and arches to a distance that I might have reached when young.  Helplessly I lean forward.  Her auburn pubes are trimmed to a narrow vertical line.  Her fingers are stretching the thick labia upward.  The lips ripple with the force of her water.  A fine spray scatters to either side of the main stream.  Now the air contains more than ozone.

“Three cups of coffee,” she intones, watching me with a slight smile as my eyes finally rise from the spectacle.

I find my voice.  “Doesn’t that much coffee make you nervous?”

The smile widens.  “Oh, I’m not a bit nervous.”

“You were right: ‘cool’ is the word for you.”  I add a non-critical smile.

The flow ceases.  “Ah, that feels so much better.”

I solemnly concur.  “More room out than in.”

“I didn’t fart!”

“No, no, I meant —”  But she is giggling at me.

Wiping herself with the dedicated hand and flinging the result to one side, she pops to her feet, steps into her garments, snatches them up and snaps the waistband closed.  With a parting smile but no further word she marches away.

Of course I turn to watch.  I’m afraid my chin is dragging again.  Her path curves around the trees and she is gone.

“Good god!” I say out loud.  What in the world do they teach girls today?  I shake my head and turn to wait again for the pigeons and squirrels.  The whole bench seat is now dry — but not the grass six feet in front of it!  The mild aroma of female piss lingers in the air.  I savor it as I did the ozone.  How many years have passed since last I smelled it?  I recall the occasion as if it were yesterday.  Martha had drunk too much at the boss’s party, and on the way home —

Another girl rounds the end of the bench.  This one is taller and slim with short, sandy hair.  She wears full length jeans and a short-sleeved shirt.  She smiles at me.  Her face is heart-shaped and pretty.

“Hi!” I say tentatively.

Her only response is to open the jeans, push them down her legs and step out of them.  Laying them across the back of the bench, she pushes down her panties — curiously the same purple color as her predecessor’s — and steps out of them.  Her curvy butt rotates and descends to the bench.  An outflung knee strikes mine.  While one hand retains her panties, the other descends to her groin.

I am astounded further at what she produces.  With prodigious force a thick stream arches away over the six-foot bushes.  I cannot believe how far it ranges before striking the grass — maybe three or four times farther than my youthful capability.  I cannot prevent my exclamation of wonder.

She laughs and the stream peters out.  But one so thick, so forcefully produced, could hardly have long endured.

Still chuckling, she asks, “What did you think of that?”

“I don’t, don’t believe it,” I sputter.  “Not even a cow could do so well!”

Her chuckle chokes off.  “You calling me a cow?”

“I said, ‘Not even!’”

“Hmph!”  She jumps to her feet, steps into panties and jeans and snatches them up.  They fit her like a glove, like she was born into them.

I shake my head.  “You’re amazing, my dear.”

“I’m a girl,” she announces unnecessarily.

“I’m glad of it.”

That restores her smile.  But in the manner of her precursor she spins about and departs without another word, leaving me staring wide-eyed after her.

She no sooner passes from sight than a third girl comes toward me.  This one is again in short-shorts and — I think they call it a “tank top,” a T-shirt without arms: ridiculous name.  She’s a buxom blonde with long hair falling freely down her back and an oval face with large blue eyes.

She smiles as she nears.  I am resolved to say nothing.  She rounds the bench, already stepping out of shorts and panties.  Purple again!  Her buttocks contact the bench with an audible plop.  She doesn’t bother with the tensioning hand.  She leans back enough for her stream to spatter in the grass before us.

But I can’t keep silent.  “What’s going on here?”

“It’s what’s coming out,” she says as if to a child.

“My dear, I know the world has changed a great deal in my life time, but not to the point of young ladies parking naked butts beside a strange man and peeing in the grass.”

Her stream, thinner than the others, continues to run.  She lifts her chin.  “Are you asking me to explain?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“This is the QP bench.”

Kewpie?  I’ve yet to see the first top-knot.”

“Huh?  Top-knot?”

“Is the Kewpie Doll dead and gone?”

She shakes her head.  “I guess it must be.  QP means ‘Quick Pee.’  This is the Quick Pee Bench.”

“‘The Quick Pee Bench,’” I repeat, while considering the implications.

“They put one in every park without a johnny house.”

“A designated bench, you mean, like a designated driver?”  Suddenly I’m amused.

She giggles in concert.  “Yeah, the designated quick pee bench: QP.”

“Will you pardon me for skepticism?”

“You don’t believe your eyes?”  Her stream has ceased.  She gets languidly to her feet, turns to face me with a wide grin and actually thrusts her pubes, trimmed vertically like the previous sets, toward me.  Final droplets fall from her labia and glitter down her thighs.

“I guess I have to do that,” I admit.  “My god!”

She giggles.  “How about the full religious experience?”  A forefinger of either hand pulls the labia apart.  The multiply folded interior gleams pinkly in the bright sunlight.

“Should I say, ‘Holey mother?’”

The giggle becomes a chortle.  “You’re cool, pops.”

“But heating up fast.  How is it I’ve been sitting here all summer without ever meeting you girls of the full bladder?”

She finishes pulling up her shorts and grins widely.  “I guess this is your lucky day.”

I wait.  Sure enough, after a minute here comes a fourth one, another blonde in shorts and tank top.  And what looks like a dozen bead necklaces swinging on her chest.  She smiles, exposes her bottom, takes a seat and cuts loose, hand arching the stream high but not so far out.

“Too much coffee?” I ask conversationally.

“Orange juice,” she confesses.  “I drank a quart.  With a little vodka.”

“For breakfast?”

“I woke up with a headache.”  She smiles.  “Gone now.”

I glance at my wristwatch.  “It’s nine o’clock in the morning.  Where do all you girls come from?”

She gestures with the hand holding shorts and panties.  “Around.  You know.”

“The office buildings?  Wait a minute: the university!”

She only grins.  “Around.”

She finishes, wipes herself with her hand and stands to clothe her bottom.  She’s plumper than the others.

I say, “Did you know you’ve got dimples on your cheeks?”

“Do you like them?”


“The boys do too.  Sometimes they lick them …”  She actually shivers.  “In passing, so to speak.”

“Good god!”

Over her departing shoulder she produces the soprano peal of a giggle.  I have always loved that sound.

This time no one rounds the path toward me after she vanishes.  With a sigh I sit back, thinking about these strange and wonderful modern girls.  Can it be true?  The “designated” QP Bench?  Surely not one in every park!

Four different pissers: two blondes, a near blonde and an auburn head, dressed mostly the same in short summer wear.  Except Sandy Hair in the full jeans.  She was actually barefooted, the others in open-toed sandals.  All had purple panties and vertically trimmed pubes, except maybe the last blonde.  Her hair was so light I didn’t notice.  All with smooth, firm skin, around age twenty, I guess.  The common panties and pubes suggest collusion of some kind.  But why?  Just to titillate an old man?  I can’t believe it!  Yet the idea of a designated QP Bench is preposterous.  Young girls, though brave enough to be soldiers in this weird modern world, are not brave enough to show their vulvas to a stranger.

Except they did.  Suddenly I realize they could be whores.  But where’s the pitch?

I shouldn’t have given up.  A fifth girl rounds my bench.  Full jeans?  Uh-oh.  This is the sandy haired second one with the tremendous hydraulics.

“It can’t be that quick!” I exclaim.

But she drops into the seat beside me without removing her pants.  Studying me, she says, “I go to myself, this isn’t fair to him.”


“All that pussy in your face.”

Stupidly I start to protest that it wasn’t in my face.  I catch myself in time and ask instead, “What’s your idea of fair?”

“How about a quick hook up?  The guys say I’m good.”

A hook up?  Does she mean —  I look around.  Of course no one else is in sight.  “In the bushes?”

Her eyebrows rise.  “What’s wrong with right here?”

Good god!  I imagine her squatting atop me and take a deep breath.  “How much, honey?”

“Huh?”  She blinks then frowns.  “You don’t have to insult me.  I only wanted to help you out.”

“Believe me, my dear, insulting you is the last thing on my mind!  I guess I just don’t understand.”

“Let me show you.”  Her hands dart into my lap.  The zipper sings expertly.  A moment’s fishing brings what I have left out into the open — but I’m not left to consider its coolness.  Her head drops.  My dick finds itself in a human mouth for the first time in too many years to count.

“Good god!” I declare.

She giggles nasally.

I ask, “Is this what you mean by a ‘hook up?’”


She sucks away with squeaks from her lips and grunts from her nose.  I can see her near cheek collapsing.  It’s a performance worthy of her hydraulic power and has an effect, perhaps because of the intensity, that I thought long since lost.

She sucks while I grow.  Her head bobs and tongue swipes with remarkable perseverance.  I am beginning to feel the nearly forgotten thrill when another girl appears and lays a hand on Sandy Hair’s shoulder.

“D-don’t stop her!” I plead.

It’s the blonde who named the QP Bench.  She smiles and says, “Don’t worry.”  In a jiffy Sandy Hair is gone and Blondie’s butt is beside me on the bench.  Her arm snakes around my hips and her full mouth encloses my cock.  Her technique is not so energetic but Sandy Hair has done most of the work.  My balls feel like they’re about to boil.

“I’m c-coming,” I tell her.

It makes no difference.  She bobs on.

“Oh, god!” I groan as my prophecy becomes truth again and again.  I am so amazed.  The thrill is powerful and lasting, reminding me of my youth.  For the first time I truly understand how old men can chase young women so hungrily.

She rises up, smiles at me and spits a white mouthful onto the grass.  “Thank you,” she says feelingly.

“Oh god!”

She giggles.  “Not good?”

I gather my wits and manage, “It was certainly fair!”

“Fair?  Only fair?”

A voice behind me says dryly, “I think he’s referring to justice.”

I turn my head.  It’s Sandy Hair, grinning at me, and the second blonde, not grinning.  She grouses, “It was too quick.”

Blondie with the wet lips laughs.  She looks at me and says, “We’ll have to rename the bench to ‘Quick Pop.’”

Laughing, all three are suddenly gone, marching back down the path.  “Hey!” I call.  Blondie turns long enough to smile and wave but away she goes with the others.  Shortly they turn out of sight, leaving me with fly and mouth gaping.

What a morning!  Memory of it crowds out all others.  The girls’ actions and words puzzle me all day.  The “Quick Pee Bench” indeed!  That night in my lonely bed I manage to stain the sheets again for the first time in countless years.


* * *


The next morning I of course return to the QP Bench, careful to be seated there well before nine o’clock.  Today Pigeons and squirrels appear plentifully but in vain: I have forgotten my bag of treats.  But despite continuing beautiful weather, no pretty pisser shows so much as her face, even less her business end.  By 9:30 I feel so disappointed and put upon that I could go home and crawl back in bed — except how would that help?

I’m sitting, elbows on knees, head in hands, when a pair of black leather slippers appears in the corner of my eye.  I sit back.  It’s the first girl from yesterday, the one with auburn hair.  Today — I can hardly believe it — she’s wearing a skirt and proper blouse.  My eyes move higher.  Her face is made up and her hair in a twist instead of a pony tail.  She looks quite presentable.

I manage, “Good morning.  Nice to see you again.”

She doesn’t smile.  “Have you figured it out yet?”

I take a deep breath.  “You mean yesterday I hit the jackpot?”

That produces a smile.  “Something like that, from your perspective.  We used you, sir, I hope not too terribly.”

“You …  How?”

“You’re not terminally annoyed with us then?”

I sniff.  “Now that you’re here I’m not.”

“That’s good,” she says seriously.  She sits down beside me, legs primly together, and transfers a book-sized package, wrapped in brown paper, to her lap from the purse hanging on her shoulder.

She meets my eye and says, “It’s rush week at my sorority.  How we used you was as the foil for our candidates.  I’m the Junior who chairs the admissions committee.  I sat down here first to see how you would react.”

I think that over.  “And I passed, eh?”

She grins.  “Well, you were the cool one.  When you didn’t call me a slut or whore, as many would have, I decided to proceed with the freshmen.”

“Umm.  And the, ah, ‘hook up?’”

Her eyebrows rise.  “I didn’t think your generation called it that.”

“Oh, we didn’t!  I’m referring to the blowjob.”

“Do you have a complaint?”

I have to sigh.  “Only one.  I wish I’d met girls like Miss Sandy Hair 50 years ago.”

She chuckles but shakes her head.  “You prosecuted such girls then.”

I wouldn’t have.  I’d’ve married her!”

“She’ll be pleased to hear that.  The blowjob was a further test.  It had a winner.”

“Miss Blondie?”


“What did she win?”

“The right to sleep in the room where we entertain boys.”

“Such a motivator!  Then that’s why she thanked me.  I have to tell you that Sandy Hair would’ve won if Blondie had waited 30 seconds to take her place.”

She shrugs, says, “The roulette wheel turned another pocket,” and hands me the package.  “This is for you.  We thought you’d be interested.  It’s the video tape we used to prove the girls’ accomplishments.  No copy exists.”

I take it from her.  “Where was your cameraman?”

“Please, sir: camera-person!”  She points before us to a thick stand of brush.  “She was peering out from that copse with a telephoto lens.  You’ll see she did a good job.”

“I’m looking forward to viewing it.”  Slowly I smile.  “I recall rumors of such initiations even in my day.  Thank you for explaining.  But I’ll confess to a different disappointment.  How sad that the QP Bench was only a one-morning stand!”

She smiles.  “The one you call Blondie told us how she thought that up.”

“Gave you a good giggle, did it?”

“Yes, it did.”  She stands up.  “Thanks for being a good sport, sir.”

“That I am.  How often do you stage rush weeks?”

She laughs politely and turns away.

I call after her, “Do keep me in mind for the next one!”