I honestly thought it would be apple juice. This is not apple juice. But I already told everyone I made the cheerleading team. My friends even threw a party. What is it going to look like if I back out now?
“Come on, you piss-sluts. If you don’t keep your toilet hole open, you can forget about taking a shower after this,” the head cheerleader announces, aiming her Super Soaker full of her cold pee at the row of naked girls on their knees in the locker showers. The colorful guns let the seniors stay far away from the splash zone, for a single droplet would tarnish their impeccable red and gold uniforms.
It’s just three of us rookies left. Two walked out when they were told what a first-year cheerleader’s job entailed. I stayed because I thought it was a joke. Two more had an epiphany in the last hour that maybe swallowing the football players’ piss so they didn’t have to leave the field during a game was not the glamorous cheerleading life they dreamt of. I stayed because I take a series of buses home, and doing it with my hair soaked and stinking of piss was less enticing than continuing to swallow. The promise of a shower was an effective carrot on a stick.
I don’t know how many liters I’ve drunk, enough to get a sloshing piss belly. The streams from the water guns hurt the back of my throat when they hit at full pressure. I gag whenever my tongue gets submerged in the bitter, acidic brew, gag when a jet punches my uvula like a speedbag, gag whenever I force myself to swallow a mouthful. But I haven’t thrown up yet. The truth is, I don’t trust the bucket our cheering overlords provided for this purpose. Why would they give us a receptacle when the shower drain between our legs would swirl it all away?
My neighbors are more trusting or more stupid. They threw up so much that their buckets look as full as my stomach feels.
“Little Tits and Medium Tits, your buckets are getting full. Drink up!” the head cheerleader says. I guess that makes me ‘Big Tits’?
Horrific realization etched in their faces, my fellow rookies struggle to lift their sloshing buckets of discarded kidney juice. Medium Tits brings the rim to her lips, the repulsive content kissing her closed lips repeatedly like the tide, but she cannot convince her mouth to open. The bucket lowers, and she gets up, head low, leaving wet footprints behind her walk of shame.
Little Tits has more motivation; she’s guzzling her bucket of piss like a party girl downs a beer. But from my side angle, I see her pretty face distorted by wrinkles of revulsion. I would root for her if I knew her name. You can do it, Little Tits doesn’t sound encouraging. She finishes the whole thing, but instead of smiling triumphantly, the gaze of her pale face stays locked on the bottom of the empty bucket. I look away at the first sign of throat movement; watching her refill the entire bucket would have made me fill mine. Just the guttural sounds of LT’s reset trigger a series of gags I can hardly keep under control.
The ewwws of the uniformed cheerleaders echo in the showers. “Pathetic,” one of them says, and I dare to look again. LT is dry-heaving over her refilled bucket, teardrops and pee drip from her mouth rippling on the foamy surface.
“Do I have to repeat myself, Little Tits? Your bucket is full. Drink up!”
Little Tits is broken. All she can do is stare into the yellow abyss.
“Alright, you’re done. Get out. Big Tits, it’s your time to shine. Drink what’s left, and your trial is over.”
“And I get a shower?” I ask, every word almost a liquid cry.