On a slightly more emotional note, my public toilet ‘experiences’ counter balances this.
Public toilets, no matter where, are never ideal. Actually ideal is not the word. The word is hygienic. Firstly, I refuse to use the public urinals or bowls or whatever they are called. These are like an open competition of manhood - a competition I'd probably finish as a ‘competitor’ in, rather on the podium. Most guys chose to stand half a mile from the bowl in order to display their 'asset'. Coupled with seeing how straight they can piss from long distance - it’s like watching the British team Javelin in the Olympic. Hit or miss. Bronze medals all around. No Gold – but well played anyway. No pun intended. This game is not for me. My masculinity is normally set at semi-automatic (in gear 2). My testosterone levels are low. My doctor told me that my mother probably drank too much white wine when I was feasting on her internals. All of this means that I HAVE to use the cubicles. It’s like your own personal toilet space. Minus the comfort and hygiene. When using other people’s home toilets at social gatherings I turn on the tap to drown out the sound of my own waste being dispensed. This again is comfort.
In this instance, on my way to get this journal back from my agent in my new suit – much like the weird gentleman’s from a few days previous – I feel the sudden urge to...release. After much deliberation, I use the public toilet on the ground floor of my agents building. 1pm. Lunch break. Prime time for toilet usage. All cubicles are full. I push each door gently – maybe one is actually free...!?
They’re not.
2 bowls are free. 2 are not. One is occupied by what’s looks like the worlds fittest man...and the other by a dude so cocky his manhood must have been nominated for an Pulitzer prize. I squeeze in between them both desperate to let go off the pent up discharge...surrounded by these two self-appointed Adonis’ I feel pressured to perform – everything seems smaller. The bowl. The room. EVERYTHING. Everything apart from them.
1 minute later – I have still not released.
They don’t seem to move – I’ve been there 3mins. They been there before me and they won’t stop pissing. One guy, the fittest man in the world, is doing loops with his piss. Impressive, I think. I watch for a brief second. He gives me an acknowledging smile...and does more. This guy is my hero.
I look slowly to the other guy to see what tricks he’s performing...none. But he does, however, take exception at my brief glance. He gives me the look of a man about to damage my outer shell. I zip up and leave in a hurry.
Still desperate for both the release and privacy I enter the women’s toilets....but slowly...looking to see if it’s empty. Which after an intensive inspection, I find it is.
Women’s toilets are so refreshing. They smell good. Why don’t men get treated to automated air fresheners that dispense a dose of candy scented goodness every 60 seconds?
The sanitary towel bags in the cubicles made me yearn for a womb. I wished I could have periods just so that I could make use of these fancy sanitary towel bags.
Women’s toilets have condom machines. Men’s don’t. Doesn’t that make sense?
Also the tap water is softer in women’s toilets. It’s like little plush raindrops of joy hitting your hands. I wish I had a womb.
On my way out of the toilet I bump into an attractive lady about to walk in. I think fast to avoid any embarrassment...
“Is this the women’s toilets?” I ask innocently.
“You see that sign on the door...?” She replies with a cheeky smile on her face.
I look up and point at the WC sign with the stick lady placed on it, “That one?”
“Yes, the one with the woman on it...” she replies, still smiling. Her smile gives me Goosebumps. It’s special like turning on the radio and hearing an old Al Green song.
“Is that a woman? I always thought it was a man dressed a woman. It’s hard to tell nowadays. Political correctness has gone crazy.”
She laughs. Seems like I’m charming her without trying.
Note to self: awkward situations are wonderful for attracting the opposite sex.
“You’re the type of guy who wears frilly pink underwear and pees sitting down right?”
“That’s a scurrilous remark and I take offence.” I reply.
“Ah, the word scurrilous...I don’t hear that word anymore.”
“You don’t hear the word scurrilous anymore? What are you? 150 years old? No one uses that word anymore. I was merely being nostalgic”
She laughs, “Nostalgic?” and continues, “You’re full of divine words aren’t you? Like a walking thesaurus. When you masturbate do you say ‘oh deity, oh deity’ instead of ‘Oh god’?”
“Firstly, who said I masturbate...?” She laughs, I continue, “Secondly, if I was to masturbate I would do it in silence. The sound of my own voice would be a turn-off. I mean it is making love to someone you really love. But that’s taking it too far.”
“Why are we talking about masturbation?” She asks comically.
“You brought it up. You tell me.”
“This is proper ‘LOL’ moment isn’t it?”
“A ‘LOL moment’?” I laugh, “Let me ask you something do you write ‘LOL’ or ‘HA’?”
A cheeky smile hits her face, “I generally don’t take a tally on my wordplay when interacting via computers.”
“You’re very well spoken...you’re very scurrilous.”
“That does even make sense? Let me guess you’re a writer huh?”
“How’d you guess?”
“There’s a literary agency upstairs and you’re full of...”
“Myself?”
“That as well – I was going to say long words.”
“Oh. That’s disappointing.”
We laugh. She continues, “I’ve always wanted to write a book.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Boring old accountant, huh?”
“Boring old accountant.”
“Well ‘boring old accountant’ I happen to need someone to help count the money in my wallet when I buy you a meal – do you think maybe you could help out with that?”
“Original line...” she says whilst shaking her head in amusing disgust, “Not good, but original.”
“I know I’m a writer – we plagiarise everything. All creative ideas are stolen from someplace. Nothing is original.”
“Did you plagiarise that line from a 14 year old boy?”
I laugh. She’s pretty swift.
She continues, “Listen I gotta go and use the loo before I flood this hallway. However I work in the office down the hall come in and get my number before you leave and I might do some ad-hoc accountancy for you.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing you flood the hallway actually. I could write about it.”
She playfully pushes her way past me to the women’s toilet. I smile to myself thinking that I must use women’s toilets more often.
And oh yeah, I need a womb.
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