I was at a movie theater on Wednesday night. (Actually, I’ve been at a movie theater every night for the last three weeks, because of the Seattle film festival, but that’s only tangentially related to dipping my junk in another man’s pee.)
I secure my seat in the auditorium, and head upstairs to take a dump. I go into the bathroom, find an unoccupied stall, and shut the door. I notice that the bowl is lemon colored though pretty far from lemon fresh; the previous user has neglected to press the handle and flush away his business. I am not excessively fastidious in these matters, though; I have no problem with shitting into urine-fouled water. I mean, I’ll be shitting in it, after all.
So I go through the routine: check the toilet paper dispenser to make sure I’m not going to find myself without necessary supplies, slip my festival pass into my breast pocket, unbutton my jeans, push them down along with my underwear, turn around, lower myself onto the toilet seat, settle in, and realize that I have dunked my junk.
I will spare you the complex mathematics and geometry, but the basic deal is this: The toilet seat is wide, the opening is wide, the bowl is flat and shallow, the water level is high, and my dangling bits are now submerged. In, as I believe I have already mentioned, water that is fouled with urine. From somebody else, not that it matters.
As I recall, what I said was this: “Hngurgh!” And then I stood up.
Actually, I stood only partway up, because I had the presence of mind to realize that if I stood all the way up, my dripping-wet junk would drip into the clothing around my ankles. So I shot to a sort of leaning-back crouch, one hand on the back of the toilet.
Thinking: Okay, now what do I do?
What could I do? It’s not like I could take a shower. And it’s not like it was really all that big a deal, in the final analysis. It’s just pee.
But still: hngurgh.
So I grabbed a wad of toilet paper (good thing I checked, remember), sopped myself as dry as I could, squatted down gingerly, and finished what I had gone in to do. Then I returned to the auditorium, resumed my place, and watched my movie.
I cannot honestly now remember what I watched, because I couldn’t get the repeating thought out of my head: “Dipping my junk? Or dunking my junk? Dipping my junk? Or dunking my junk?”
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.