I don't particularly like bathrooms. Maybe this stems from my childhood. My mother says I once narrowly avoided a would-be molestation in the men's bathroom when I was eight. But I just thought that man standing behind me was waiting his turn when she busted into the bathroom and began screaming.
I'm also somewhat germaphobic an the men's bathroom may be the pinnacle of all that is unclean. Often I find myself standing in a puddle of urine while urinating at the urinal. After I see that my loose shoelace dangles in such misfires, (though not all are misfires-- I explained to my friend Matt Levin that I pissed on his shower curtain at a party he threw), I will go days without tying it, further perpetuating the problem by allowing it to be pulled through other piss pools.
However, possibly the worst bathroom predicament has to be Performance Anxiety. This failure to produce a free flowing stream when under the duress of prying eyes may come from: a byproduct sexual behaviors, an evolutionary adaptation, or a crippling neurosis.
Yesterday, during a class break a number of classmates and I went in to the bathroom of College of Arts and Sciences to respectively relieve ourselves.
At the second to last urinal stood a colleague from Trinidad, an extended education student. Likely his penis is larger than mine any maybe that's why he smiled as I stepped up to the pisser. Another classmate, of hazy ancestral origins who dresses too well followed us in. I surveyed the situation as I readied, thinking for a brief moment about aborting the pisser and using a stall to take my leak, as I saw the mulattu did, smart queer mulattu that he is.
I thought fuck it, Max, I'll be able to handle it and stood one urinal apart from the grinning Trinidadian and unzipped. Then in came another classmate, in his fifties, with a paunch and graying hair. He then began loudly conversing with the Islander as he stepped one urinal down from me and unzipped. The Trinidadian gave me another smilish look and I knew I was fucked.
I strained, I pushed my prostate. I clenched my ass cheeks. I set my teeth on edge. I glanced at that Wynton Marsalis enjoying the privacy of his stall. I tried to work, but nothing would come out! I visualized urination. I cursed my prostate. I could hear no streams from the other gentlemen, and considered the prostates plight of these extended ed. students. Maybe their woes came from anal play too.
I tried for one more second and realized the point was moot. Is it easily conceivable that a Bathroom Buddy could piss inaudibly? I hope for the sake of rectitude it is.
For I now had to take a fake piss.
I shook off my dry apparatus, making a real show of it, really thrashing the theremin, sending off every last nonexistent driblet. I cleared my throat, then went to wash my hands. Normally, I do not wash my hands, but whenever I fake piss I do, as though I am really going through the motions, as if I pissed a little on my fingers. I looked back in the mirror as I lathered and saw them enjoying unfettered pisses.
And they too must have thought of me: Max, the pervert. The creep who comes into the bathroom, takes his dick out, does not piss, looks around at all of them, and then shakes it around for a prolonged period, and follows it with washing his hands. A total nutcase. I bet they thought that I had an erection.
I'm not a nutcase, maybe a tad neurotic, but I'm no Ted Bundy or Buffalo Bill. I must have evolved this adaptive trait. When I could be any more vulnerable than when I am unloading? How could I run from a sabertooth tiger when I'm in the process of pissing? Or a lascivious chemistry teacher, hungry for any young flesh, regardless of gender? Or, have you ever pushed a man who is pissing? He'll nearly fall over, or if he's a cruel bastard, he'll flip it on you and try to piss on your leg like my alleged best friend tried to do to me a few years ago.
I left the bathroom, sighed, and sauntered down to the end wing of CAS. I found a single urinal pisser. A man in the stall next to me sounded as if he was battling Caprito Burrito or the three entree Panda Express platter, this was no two entree special. No matter. I took 'er out, pissed one, and then amid the sounds of gastrointestinal gurgling beat off.
What a picture.
2 comments:
And what's the deal with people coming up to the urinal directly next to you when there are at least ten in the row of urinals. Performance anxiety always kicks in the most if I'm standing directly next to someone.
When I was in my late teens, I was lured by a few friends to a local gay bar (yeah I know, "lured", but honestly, I had no interest in going). The men's room there didn't have a door and had only a urinal and a toilet and men would go in and freely whip out their dick for everyone to see. I remember that night, I had to pee like a pregnant woman, but every time I attempted in that bathroom I froze up. On one attempt people were actually cheering me on, which made it worse. I had to go to the ladies room, which had a door that locked to actually accomplish my goal (which I did fine in the privacy of the empty bathroom).
Moral of our experiences: people need to back the fuck off in public restrooms.
I feel you brother. When I was in India I had dysentery and the men's restrooms all had exposed squat toilets, while the women's had 'western' toilets. I frequently was locking myself in the women's bathroom.
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