The Piccadilly line
Hot rain fell from the London sky as Piccadilly dragged their luggage at jogging pace through the rush hour crowds on the sidewalk. Peeing was the last thing on their mind even though the weather couldn't be a more apt metaphor for the fate they would meet in just a few hours. Their feet splashed in puddles as they ran to the Tube subway station. It was only ninety minutes until their flight. Being on time wasn't their strong suit, and, as they'd learned when they'd woken up on their own five minutes ago, ringing wasn't their hotel room alarm clock's strong suit. The disturbing clanging sounds of poorly and hastily packed luggage banging into other poorly and hastily packed luggage inside their suitcase grated on their ears, but took only a fraction of their attention. The weight of the rest of their stuff, crammed into their backpack and now digging into their shoulders, slowed them down a little, but not a lot. And the pee in their bladder, which had been building up all night as they slept and which they hadn't paused to empty before dashing to the front desk to check out, well... it rather resembled the backpack.
Their one saving grace was that they were, at least sometimes, a planner. They knew the route to the airport. Leave the hotel, turn right, turn right again, run down the stairs into the station, get on the Circle line, ride eight stops, transfer to the Piccadilly, and stay on it till you get to terminal 5. And yeah, it was really called that. The Piccadilly. Same as their own name. That had made them crack a smile when they looked at Google Maps last night. A Piccadilly train for a Piccadilly enby. Nice.
But, they sure weren't laughing now. Sitting in one of the seats of the subway car, looking around at the yellow handlebars and decor designed to remind passengers which line they were on, wiping rain off their forehead, and finally having a moment alone with their thoughts, Piccadilly found that peeing was no longer the last thing on their mind. In fact, it was the second thing -- right after catching their flight. They gripped their suitcase tighter, wishing it wouldn't be so impolite to give their crotch the same treatment, and pressed their knees together as they counted the stops. The devil on their shoulder told them they should use the bathroom as soon as they got to the airport. The angel said they should wait until they got through security, or maybe even until they were on the plane. Their bladder said "You need to fucking pee".
It was the longest short subway ride they'd ever taken. Normal minutes may be 60 seconds long, but minutes that pass when your bladder is full are at least 90 seconds apiece, and minutes you spend counting down to an important deadline are easily double that. They arrived at the airport with just over an hour to go before departure. Another few minutes and they wouldn't even have had time to check in. The line to do so, besides moving agonizingly slowly and making them worry they'd get stranded in London, also reminded them of a bathroom queue, and their chest and abs tightened with the stress and strain of holding their pee, which they were well aware by now there was considerably more of than their body was designed to handle at once. Piccadilly shifted their weight back and forth, swinging their hips to the internal frantic music of their lateness and desperation. Finally they were called to the counter.
"Passport?"
"H-here you go."
"One bag?"
"Y-yeah..." They loaded it onto the scale, and then crossed their legs as they stared at the check-in agent, who looked at them a bit suspiciously.
"Where are you headed?"
"Uh... u-um..." they stammered. "Uh. Austin. Sorry. Austin. Going to Austin."
The agent stared at them another moment, then handed their passport back, and took their bag. "Need a boarding pass, hun?" The question carried just a hint of condescension. You know, the sort of hint you give a child when you really want them to succeed. Piccadilly checked their pockets to see if they still had the one they'd printed out the day before. Nope.
"Uh, yes please."
The agent nodded, pressed a button, and handed Piccadilly the ticket after it was printed out.
"There you go, dear. Security is just up the stairs."
"Th... thank you."
Up the stairs they ran, and to security. The line wasn't too long, thank goodness, but with only fifty minutes now until departure (aka, twenty or thirty until boarding) they didn't have any time to spare. They grabbed their laptop out of their bag before they even got to the counter, to save those extra seconds between now and the moment they could board the plane -- and, between now and the moment they would be able to piss.
But, something was tugging at their attention. They'd flown a dozen times before, and although their mind wasn't necessarily at 100% working capacity right now, they knew something was amiss. Shoes? No, no sign to take shoes off. Passport? Still in their pocket? Liquids? Oh... crap.
Piccadilly reached over to the side pocket of their backpack and grabbed their one-liter water bottle. Like their bladder, they hadn't emptied it before leaving the hotel, and like their bladder, it was full. Crap, crap, crap. They looked around. It was almost their turn. There was no time to go back and dump it out. They could just give it up to the security folks, but they didn't want to lose such a nice water bottle. So, a grimace firmly plastered on their face, they looked left, look right, and then tilted their head back, stuck the spout in their mouth, and chugged. A thousand milliliters with only one breathing break -- pretty good, right? The security agent called "Next!" and they stepped up to the conveyor belt and unloaded their things.
"Step through when you're ready," said the agent on the other side of the metal detector.
They stepped through. The lights flashed red. Guilty!
"Any metal?"
Piccadilly didn't know how to answer at first. "I don't... think so? Wait..." They put their hand to their face, and realized their nose ring was still in. Must have forgotten to take it out last night. No time now, the darn thing was so fiddly.
"Want to take it out or just go for the pat-down?"
"Uh... ugh... um, pat-down, please."
A nice bean in a suit walked up to them, and a pair of hands took them first by the shoulders, then the chest, then the ribs, hips, tum (oh god their bladder), ass, and finally, legs. They stifled the pangs of discomfort and urgency that shot through them so as not to look like they had anything to hide. The effort brought tears to their eyes, which thankfully no one seemed to notice.
"You're good."
"Thanks."
They hurried around to the other side of the machine, grabbed their bag out of the tray, put it back together, and dashed off to the gates without even putting the empty tray back in the pile. Tight deadlines make for rude cuties.
"Come on, come on..." they murmured. Their knees were pressed tightly together and their hands were jammed into their pockets as they stared at the information screen listing upcoming flights and giving gate information for each one. Heathrow just had to be the busiest airport in the world, didn't it? And all the money they probably made from those scammy in-flight credit card deals didn't add up to them being able to afford larger screens, did it? Ones that would actually fit all the god damn flights that were taking off soon without having to scroll through endless pages of other people's flights. They scanned their eyes frantically through the list, so unable to concentrate that they missed their own information the first two times it flashed past. Finally they saw it. "FLIGHT DL4718 -- GATE 19 -- NOW BOARDING"
Their steps pounded on the floor of the airport corridors and moving sidewalks between themselves and gate 19, and the pounding force shot through their legs and right into their bladder. Pap pap pap pap pap pap pap pap pap! Each footfall felt like someone slapping their tum, and each slap made them feel like they were about to pee their pants. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen... finally, gate nineteen!
"Hi, you made it! Scan your boarding pass here please."
By now their hand was in their crotch, but they didn't care. The device pinged its green digital approval.
"Restrooms are available on the aircraft once you board," the gate agent volunteered.
Okay, maybe they did care. Their face turned an absolutely burning beet red, and the tears came back to their eyes. They sheepishly pulled their hand out of their crotch, and looked away. "thx..." they murmured, and they brushed past into the tube and onto the plane.
For once, there wasn't a line to wait in. That was one of the advantages to being late, they guessed. They looked right and saw down the aisle, then looked left and saw the sign for the toilets at the front of the plane. The door was blocked by two flight attendants. The enby looked at them.
"Hi," one said. "Welcome aboard the flight."
"Hi," Piccadilly said. "Um... I need to... uh..." They pointed at the bathroom door. "Can I just, um?"
"You can use the toilet once we're in the air and at cruising altitude," the other flight attendant responded.
"Make sure to keep your seatbelt fastened until we're safely in the air," the first one said.
Piccadilly nodded. "Mhm," they said, and shuffled to their seat.
Forty hours later -- well, okay, it was more like 40 minutes, but it felt like 40 hours -- the plane was still on the ground. Our enby was stuck in a window seat, blocked from standing up by two strangers who couldn't possibly not know how badly they needed to go. Their squirming was constant and obvious. Their butt hadn't maintained full contact with the seat for more than five seconds since they'd sat down. They crossed their legs, left over right, squeezed them together, sat on their hands, uncrossed their legs, tried to act natural, gave up and shoved a hand between their thighs, got embarrassed and removed it, recrossed their legs the other way, uncrossed them again, buried their face in their hands, gripped the hem of their shorts desperately, stared out the window, shifted their weight some more, and generally made a pretty noticeable scene out of how painfully full their bladder was, and how desperately they needed to empty it.
"Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking, on behalf of the crew I'd like to apologize for any delays, we are currently number five in line for takeoff and are looking to arrive about 20 minutes late. Once again, we apologize for any delay."
Hhhhhhhh, fuck. Piccadilly clenched their fists and tried to breathe. They needed to piss, badly. That was all there was to it. They needed to piss. It felt like half the water they'd drank at security was already in their bladder, and the other half was surely well on its way. They managed to keep themself under control for another few minutes, but as soon as the plane left the ground, the enby decided they couldn't take it anymore. They tapped their neighbor on the shoulder and, with a sheepish, forced half-smile, asked if they could get up.
Unfortunately, the world had other plans. They got 99% of the way to where they were going, even getting as far as sliding the bathroom door open and beginning to step inside, when one of the same flight attendants from before put a hand on their shoulder and stopped them dead in their tracks.
"Excuse me, I'm sorry, but I really need you to sit down and fasten your seatbelt until the seatbelt sign is off."
"Oh my god, nnnnnnnnggggrrrhhh!" Piccadilly moaned under their breath. Again they squeezed their legs together, crouching halfway to the ground in pain, but ultimately they gave in and began walking back to their seat.
Another hour later, they were still sitting there. The seatbelt sign was still on. The plane was jolting and jerking around in the worst turbulence anyone on board had ever sat through, brought on by a sudden storm in the area. And Piccadilly still needed to piss so badly their back hurt. At this point they had given up on trying to be subtle about it. Both of their hands were jammed firmly in their crotch, and had been for the last 45 minutes; their legs were crossed so tight that they were sitting entirely on just one ass cheek; and their face was burning red and wet with tears. Their bladder was 100% full; their underwear was not 100% dry.
And you might think that that would be where the line was, that once they started losing control and peeing little spurts into their undies, that they would give in and try to go to the bathroom again. But for Piccadilly, the line was just a little further along -- not at the point where their failure was apparent to themself, but at the point where it would become apparent to others. So, it wasn't until yet 30 more minutes later, when the first truly long spurt of pee sprayed out into their clothing and made a clearly visible wet patch, that their will finally broke. They lept up from their seat, pleaded with their neighbors to move again, and, one hand still jammed into their nethers, hobbled down the aisle to the bathroom again.
But no, even with disobeying the sign, they couldn't hold it together, and it was right there in front of the bathroom door that their luck finally ran out. Their free hand grasped the handle...
...and found that it was occupied.
"Fuck!!!" they screamed, and their fist came pounding down on the door to the toilet in a final futile gesture of pain, frustration, and raw, uncontrolled desperation. But futile it was. Their face burned red, and the tears came harder, but the hot London rain broke loose from their crotch and came down from the sky, soaking their shorts, their legs, their shoes, and finally the floor of the aircraft.
"Would you like a towel to sit on, hun?" This was again the voice of the first flight attendant they'd spoken to. "I'm sorry, dear, I didn't realize how urgent it was. Next time you can just go, you don't need to pee your pants."
Piccadilly had already made up their mind that there wouldn't be a next time. It would be a miracle if they ever flew again after this, but if they did, it couldn't be with the same airline. They couldn't risk seeing anyone on this flight ever again, especially not the flight attendant, who was currently staring at them, politely pretending they couldn't smell their pee. No. They'd take the towel, get back to their seat, squeeze their eyes shut, and not open them again until it was time to deboard. Then, they'd collect their luggage, get through customs, take the train home, shower, get in bed, and permanently forget that any of this ever happened. They'd just erase the day from their memory outright. Their official story to themself would be that they didn't remember their flight back from England. It was the only way not to die of shame.
"Dear? Did you want that towel?"
"...yeah."