Public Toilets

I hate public toilets. No matter how recently it has been cleaned there’s always a wee piddly puddle on the floor in front of the toilet or urinal. Fuck, I say, spreading my feet so I’m not standing in it. Sometimes, after I’m done, I notice more piddles than when I started. Fuck, I say again, then zip back up and go.

Or when I enter what I know to be a perfectly functioning toilet to find someone’s crap floating there, or worse – the seat all covered in splatter. Why can’t people sit down when they’re doing that? Sometimes it’s vomit, of course – not unusual in Glasgow toilets, no matter what time it is.

But this isn’t as bad as the urinals, especially in this country. They are often just a stainless steel trough, wide enough for four men to relieve themselves together in a jolly line. Here the piddle pools are everywhere. It stinks. It’s gross. There’s a stupid vandal-proof ad affixed just so on the mildewed wall. I hate ads. You can, if you like, look down at the goings on below, but there’s something off with that. When I see other guys do it I wonder what they think of it, their relationship with it. I prefer to stand ramrod straight, staring dead ahead, cringing if my peripheral vision catches a milker. I hate these guys. They make a big show of how difficult an operation it is to pull our their equipment, then take its length in their hand and start to pull. (Now, for you girls out there, you must remember that we’re not looking, oh no, that would be the worst imaginable breach of etiquette. We don’t look, but sometimes we just can’t help noticing, as we’re staring dead ahead, that the next guy is really getting into it.) At this point I know what’s coming so I’m hoping I can finish up first – but no, too late. He starts milking it, getting right into his disgusting ritual: milk, squirt, milk squirt – and he’s not even halfway though. Man. I just hate it. Why can’t you just let it flow? It’s not gonna come out any quicker doing it like that. Is it some kind of autoerotic thing? Is he getting off on this?

The thing with these guys is that if I’m still going (those last few pints can really build up) I’ve also got to witness the ending. I want to look the other way but there’s a new piddler just joined the festivities. I’m not going to look down like he is – this is a fucking public toilet man! – so I stare at the perfect Budweiser girl in her red and white bikini, this vacuous look on her face that reminds me of the women in South Carolina. My memories distract me for a moment, and now I’m just finishing up – but, fuck, so is he. Getting his shoulders right into it as he waggles it for all it’s worth. He’s gonna give himself whiplash at that rate, soil his clothes. Dude – what’s the deal? My imagination paints a picture for me, of what kind of man he is, with this friends, with his women. What kind of paper he reads, what he talks about. The picture doesn’t turn out pretty.

And then he tucks it back in – an even more elaborate a performance than when he brought it out. What is all that about, Sigmund?

I studiously avoid any form of interaction in a public bathroom. Eye contact is bad, but talking is even worse. There’s one particular type of offender which makes me shudder. “Hey! How’s it going?” the dude says, as he ensconces himself in a cubicle. I mutter something, trying hard to convey my discomfort at his verboten social faux pas. But he carries on, louder now, “Hey, that’s some bike you got there!”. Before I can respond he’s noisily started his proceedings. A disgusting squelching sound is echoed and amplified by the toilet bowl. He keeps talking, punctuating with groans and unmentionable awfulness. Oh, the horror.

A pubic toilet should be a quiet, calming environment where a man can enjoy some solitary down-time. A place to relax, read the paper, perhaps even mutter to one’s self quietly. Some people just don’t get it. Jovial frivolity and exhibitionism ahead of quiet contemplation.

Workplace toilets come with their own set of problems. For instance, there’s the washing of the hands dilemma. Me, a pee is just a pee and I’m fine just getting on out of there. But there’s an unwritten decorum in professional toilets: wash your hands, no matter what. Skip this frivolous ceremony and you’ll be the topic of office gossip forever more. Believe me, I know.

And can’t I just have a private moment? Please? I’m pissing here – or worse. And buddy there is asking for my thoughts on yesterday’s company meeting. Come on. I sit right next to you, why don’t you wait till we’re back at our desks? I can’t tell you how much this bugs me. It’s so intrusive.

I hate public toilets, but I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that they’re not all like the one in Train Spotting. Then we’d be in real trouble.