It’s hard to piss after you fuck. Most orgasmic women know this.

When you cum, the pituitary gland releases oxytocin, the hormone associated with empathy, trust, and relationship-building—the one that makes you make googly eyes at the one who just made you cum—and vasopressin, which is an antidiuretic. The latter reduces water in the urine, raises the blood pressure, and constricts the blood vessels, making it hard to piss after you fuck.

But it’s important to piss after you fuck.

According to a study of female perineal anatomy, the urethra sits approximately 4.8 centimeters from the anus. When you fuck, pathogenic microbes that live in the large intestine, such as E. coli or K. pneumoniae, may enter the slurry of saliva, sweat, vaginal secretions, and miscellaneous fluids. On occasion, these gram-positive bacteria find their way into the urethra.

This is why, ever since you were a little girl, you’ve been told to wipe front to back.

The best way to avoid cystitis, colloquially known as a urinary tract infection, or UTI, is by pissing after you fuck. But it’s hard to do. The body doesn’t want to allow it. The body would you make googly eyes at the one who just made you cum and fall asleep in his arms.

That’s how the infection starts.

Every 20 minutes, a bacterium divides itself. In seven sleeping hours, a bacterium might thus produce a number of segments amounting to millions. The best way to avoid this is by pissing after you fuck; as the fluid rushes out of your urinary tract, into the toilet bowl, harmful bacteria are flushed out.

It is within your power, to allow urine to pass. You ought to feel empowered knowing this.

You should always piss after you fuck, though your animal chemicals might tell you not to bother. Your instinct to sleep might trick you into thinking you’re too fatigued to get up and walk to the toilet, and the big woozy eyes of your beloved might beckon you into his arms, where you’ll softly close your lids, and the next thing you know—it’s dawn, and bacteria have propagated entire colonies of microbial progeny inside you.

When you take your morning piss, you’ll feel an unrelenting, imperiously literal fire in your loins, especially toward the stream’s finality, and the waves of pulsating pain that persist, sometimes for hours, thereafter. You’ll feel punished by your own pleasure and may even regret the ecstatic events leading up to this moment.

You can avoid this by betraying your hormone-induced trance, your delusions of lethargy stoked by the sex dance, and the flayed arms and saucer eyes of your beloved and, if you can still walk properly, crawling if necessary, heading straight to the toilet.

Sit on it.

Despite how things feel, you do, in fact, have voluntary control over your external urethral sphincter. If you sit on the toilet long enough, the stretch receptors in your bladder walls will activate and send signals from your pelvic nerves to your spinal cord, which will send a signal back to your bladder, causing the detrusor muscle in its walls to contract, at which point, you may relax your external sphincter and instigate the bodily function that allows urine to pass.

You have the power.

It’s hard to piss after you fuck, but you’ll manage. You’ll know the true meaning of release. Like when you have to piss so bad, you get emotional; as soon as the showers gush forth, you exhale audibly, with force, and tears trickle down your cheeks. Like when you have to piss so bad, and you finally do, it almost feels like cumming.

Oh, what streams may come!

They’ll make their tinkling sounds. You’ll hear those deep sounds comin’ down, twinkle them out to their last drop. You’ll pinch them off and wipe front to back, as all your life you’ve been instructed.

You’ll flush and watch the effluent swirl right ‘round, proud of what you’ve accomplished. You’ll flush and watch with gleeful respite that which you’ve evacuated, for the good of your health, going down—proud of your waste, thinking about its final destination, feeling connected, more intimately than ever, to the meaning of waste. You’ll know, acutely, that everything one need know about another human being is in their waste.

Plumbers must see so many souls in a day!

If you want your beloved to see your soul, turn him into a toilet. After you fuck, take the saddle, giddy-up on his gaping, yawning mouth. You do, in fact, have voluntary control. The choice is yours as to whether you relax your external urethral sphincter and allow urine to pass. You are in a consensual relationship with this part of your anatomy. Your nerve signals will do their dance in time. The uneventful meantime might even excite your beloved, and you.

When the spirit moves you so, relax, and allow urine to pass directly into his oral socket, bacteria and all. May the infection you preclude by way of evacuation be his nourishment. Watch as he gargles it, swishes it around, before taking a robust, revivifying gulp of the communicably-diseased liquid.

He has been a plumber for a heart of gold.

He will know your soul, and you—part of you, no longer you—will be his.