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One of my most traumatic experiences occurred when I was fourteen years old. I was at a Motley Crue concert (it was their "Dr. Feelgood" tour) and during the middle of the show, I had to take a wicked piss. I high-tailed it to the Men's Room.
Being a regular concert-goer at a young age, I learned three things about Civic Center bathrooms: 1) never try to use one before or after the show, because the line wraps down the hall, and when you finally get inside, you'll be forced to piss under cramped conditions awkwardly similar to a circle-jerk; 2) the people inside are an outstanding shade of creepy; and 3) the bathrooms are among the filthiest in the known universe. Each of these previously mentioned points led to an experience that has scarred me so horribly that I can no longer use a urinal.
I ran to the can during "Shout At The Devil" and found myself in a large, empty, cavernous Men's Room. I mention the size (as well as the number of urinals) to illustrate how horrified I was that I couldn't find a single clean urinal, and by "clean" I mean "something I felt comfortable pissing into." Someone had shit in one of them. I remember wondering how he did that with other people around, and then felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck when I realized that he probably chose to do it with other people around.
I found one--one--urinal that was at least 9% clean and had whipped out my fourteen year-old Mick Mars, prepared to make water happen, when suddenly there was a crashing sound at the far end of the room. Stumbling in (and smashing into the overflowing trash can) was a drunken, beer-swilling trailer park refugee (who, between his habit of repeatedly bouncing off the walls trying to navigate his way through the doorway, as well as his unkempt spikey hair, looked not unlike Sonic the Hedgehog in a dirty, puke-stained Jimmy Buffet t-shirt). He made little circles around the cavernous expanse much the way I had (though while I was searching for a clean urinal, he, in his drunken haze, was probably just searching for a urinal, period) until he suddenly stopped, seeing me for the first time. His face lit up in all its pock-marked glory and he prodeeded to swagger toward me with all the grace of a blind, epileptic amputee using stilts in a particularly muddy swamp.
I prayed a little prayer under my breath, trying to will the pee to expell itself, but nothing would come. I had fallen victim to The Clench.
Sonic decided that of all the available pots, he wanted the one next to me. Right next to me. Perhaps now would be the time to mention that these were floor urinals, meaning that there was neither divider nor hope of privacy, particularly when the tall, smelly character next to you begins bumping his elbow against yours as he saddles up and begins the lengthy task of undoing his large cowboy buckle.
I could feel his unfocused eyes focus upon me. His attempts to look down at my progressively shrinking cock had all the subtlety of a shark sizing up a tuna. And then he said those words that haunt me even to this day:
"Hey. Buddy. Mine's bigger. See?"
I didn't see. Nor did I pee. Little me chose to flee.
And to this day, I piss in bathroom stalls with the door closed. |
Having both started and then filled this thread with nurmerous annecdotes has made me realize I've either witnessed, experienced, or thought about this shit (pun intended)
way too much. However, after posting the above annecdote (about the Motley Crue concert), I think I may have jinxed myself.
I wrote the previously mentioned story at work yesterday, and then, upon leaving, decided to stop and grab a bite to eat (I had to go straight to a production meeting for my first feature film, and I'd already been at work since 6AM, so I was starving). The only thing on the way was McDonalds, so when I got there, I parked and went in, and was then suddenly overwhelmed with the need to pee. Too much coffee, it seems. Never one to pack more into an already stuffed suitcase, I headed into the Men's Room.
Now, we all know McDonalds bathrooms (indeed, bathrooms at any fast food joint) are disgusting, so I won't mention the graffitti, the urine-soaked floor or any other such redundancies. However, as anyone who read my Motley Crue story knows, I only urinate in stalls, and this particular bathroom had only one. So I headed into it and closed the door behind me, only to discover that the latch didn't work, and that the door was going to remain in a half-open, half-closed position. However, the bathroom was empty, so I figured I'd be able to make water unscathed.
I was wrong. I had just begun to issue forth a steady stream of cappucino-scented piss when I heard the main door open behind me, and footsteps enter. Again, no biggie -- anyone with a decent set of working ears would avoid the stall, based on the healthy flow echoing from within. Right...?
Wrong. The footsteps approached the stall. Then stopped.
My blood suddenly turned to ice as I heard a low, pirate-y growl behind me, saying: "I'm gonna rape you with my shitty AIDS cock."
The door behind me began to slowly open, pushed by an intruding hand. Irrationally, I thought of Sonic, having just recounted that story an hour or so earlier, and the ghost of that hopefully long-dead redneck decended upon me in full force.
My pissing stopped and I turned, ready to swing -- and came face-to-face with a pimply fifteen year old kid, who upon seeing his iminent death at the hands of a thirty-one year-old with his weiner hanging out, suddenly froze in his place, his eyes the size of dinner plates. "I'm sorry!" he squealed. "I thought you were someone else!" He tore out of that bathroom in terror.
The moral of this story? If you post a traumatic story on a message board, expect it to revisit you shortly after. Also, the other moral is that certain teenage boys like to pretend to rape their friends in public bathrooms with their "shitty AIDS cock."
