This happened when I was in my senior year of college. Darrin was a tall, golden-skinned, hunk. He was the brother of my best friend's fiancé. I had met him several times, and by the time he asked me out on a date, we had already struck up a pretty good friendship. For the date I wore a beautiful, hot-pink miniskirt and black, patent-leather high heels. We went to a restaurant and drank several glasses of wine. Why, oh why, didn't I use the rest room before I left the restaurant? Darrin didn't' drive, so we walked the six blocks to my house. Ordinarily, I would have been enjoying the lovely spring night and Darrin's charming company. Instead, I was walking with my legs squeezed tightly together and praying that I would make it home in time. I was also a bit tipsy from the wine and not as fully in control as I would have liked to have been. As we stopped at a corner to wait for a red light, the unthinkable happened. My full-to-bursting bladder emptied itself all over my shoes, down my legs, splattered over the sidewalk and onto Darrin's shoes. He never asked me out again.
— Melissa, 28