Pissing politics

I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be a man, specifically, what it’s like to urinate like a man.

What I’m thinking of is this. Suppose you are a guy, meeting for the first time someone for whom you have a great deal of respect, for example, Sting. Things are quite tense and awkward, and you’re really trying hard to impress him – after all you’ve followed his career for years and rate Fields of Gold as one of the best albums of all time. You make chit chat, skilfully avoiding all mention of tantric sex, and complementing him on his quirky choice of outfit. However, you’ve drunk rather a lot of non-alcoholic punch and so excuse yourself politely and head in the direction of the men’s room, accidentally standing on the back of Trudi Styler’s ratskin coat as you do so. But then Sting decides he needs a tinkle too, and starts to follow you into the WC… and THIS is where things start to get foggy for me. I find it hard to understand how one can fail to be embarrassed by the fact that both you and Sting are suddenly standing in close proximity to each other with your cocks hanging out. Only moments ago you were jovially sharing a bread roll, and yet now you inhabit a windowless bathroom together, forced to extract and manipulate your most private of appendages in plain view.

For women, obviously we have the cubicle to protect our dignity, although this does not mean that similar awkward situations do not occur. There is something about the construction of the average toilet cubicle which appears to give it the acoustic properties of a megaphone. There is nothing more disconcerting than meeting your boss in the toilets, and having to go through the ordeal of hearing her noisily pissing in the next door shitter, being forced to visualise with a sinking heart a picture of her in a half-crouch, stockings at half-mast as she grunts and wipes herself frantically with a wad of bog roll. Yeesh. God help you if she’s middle aged. Apparently women of a certain age suddenly lose all inhibition when it comes to toilet etiquette, and won’t hesitate to play a merry symphony on their arse as they lower themselves on to the toilet seat next to yours. Try visiting a swimming bath changing room toilets on ladies’ OAP day. It’s like busy shipping lane during foggy conditions.

I don’t want to give the impression I am a prude, or that there is anything wrong with sharing bodily functions with other members of the public. In fact, I am often silently delighted to hear a stray toot emanating uncontrollably from a nearby toilet stall, provided I am not aware of its originator. It’s the idea of being next to Sting and having to witness him actually holding his cock in front of me (Sting’s cock!), and then continue polite conversation as if nothing has happened between us. It is this which is so utterly problematic for me. In the same way that I find it hard to focus on my boss’ PowerPoint presentation just seconds after listening to her squeeze out a turd, I think I’d have to reconsider ever reaching for ‘Ten Summoner’s Tales’ without having a brief and unpleasant shiver of disgust at the thought of Sting, with legs slightly apart and cock in hand. Staring directly at me.