Bathroom humor abounds, but nothing touches the reality of the men’s public restroom.
Come on, admit it, ladies, you’ve wondered what we do in there, if the stories are true.
They are, and then some.
Picture eight men lined up facing a wall, apparently fascinated with some spot that always seems to appear above a urinal. We’re talking those four foot tall porcelain jobs – manly piss pots - not those dainty little bowl contraptions bolted to the wall. There has to be such a spot because every penis carrying member of the male genus to ever step foot up to a urinal darn sure stares at it. I’ve looked for the elusive blemish myself, and nearly peed on my foot.
Which reminds me…. If your male other half ever walks out of a restroom with freshly shined shoes, now you know what happened.
Owners of restrooms really ought to do men a favor and stencil some dot to dot artwork without the lines drawn in above the urinals. Nothing targeting the primal instincts though. The last thing I want to hear is the guy next to me shout “Tits!” The entire line would have to violate man-code and look. Nothing too elaborate either. “Excuse me, does anyone know if this is a Picasso, or could it be a Jackson Pollack?” would send shoulders hunching as the line slipped into a traditional synchronized turtle pantomime.
I’d suggest a car, but someone would inevitably scratch a NASCAR number where the door should be and ruin the surprise for the rest of us.
Then again, I’m not accounting for the ambidextrous few capable of controlling their stream with one hand and negotiating a BIC with the other. There’s always at least one showoff in the crowd. Eh. I guess we’ll just have to continue studying the paint swirls.
Flea markets at county fairgrounds are the worst as the restrooms are the largest. Lots of space to avoid looking at each other in. Equate the scene to a crowded elevator. Every pair of eyes is glued to anything not breathing. Fairgrounds’ restrooms are also where you’ll find the greatest diversity of men and their urinal habits, including – you knew I’d get to it – the one member of the species who toes the big round aromatic disk in the bottom of the urinal. Hang around just short of a cop wondering what you're doing, and I promise he will show up.
What the fascination is with that disk, I honestly do not know. For some reason, that round object has the ability to chime the hunter’s bell. Men take careful aim and pee on the thing like it’s some animal in the wild, scuff it, and take pride if the disk has worn to penny size and their weapon’s final burst sends it down the drain. I’m surprised there aren’t “Urinal Target Champ” pins handed out we can stick on ball caps. Belt buckles would sell well I suppose.
Our time is short. Let’s move to the sink. Well… a few men will. The majority simply walk out the door, content their mission was a success and a few drops didn’t leak through their clothing once they stuffed Henry back in his hiding place. And yes, they were careful not to shake too many times for fear of being noticed. Another man rule. There is a fine line between shaking and playing.
Next comes drying. These days, men usually have a choice between paper or hot air. In colder weather, hot air wins every time. Given the choice however, men will usually go for paper. I suspect it’s a control issue and some gratification in adding their tangible contribution to the overflowing trash container – leaving their mark so to speak since peeing on the door jamb is frowned upon. Either way, these sanitary minded gentlemen have fulfilled their societal expectations and can return to the masses, hands proudly cleansed. Right up until they open the door six men who didn’t wash their hands opened ahead of them.
And what’s the first thing he’ll grab? Why, your hand, of course.