I pissed my pants. I can’t believe I pissed my fuckin’ pants.
He tried not to think about it, but the embarrassing warmth was quickly turning to a cold clamminess at his crotch, serving as an uncomfortable reminder that he had lost control of his bladder. And it sure as hell beat the alternative. He didn’t want to think about how he was trapped beneath the motor home, face down in the mud, especially since it hadn’t rained in weeks. As long as he kept his eyes shut and his thoughts focused on the chafing between his legs, he didn’t have to think about what exactly it was that had dampened the earth enough to have it oozing between his fingers. But there was no denying that smell. The thick coppery tang mixed with the mineral-rich scent of the dirt was like a wad of cotton plugging his nostrils, but as long as he didn’t open his eyes, he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the source. He had a feeling he knew what it was, but he was too afraid to look.