Societal Satire in Shorts
Shitter's Full
S. G. Lacey
​
Bar:
These new gender-neutral public bathrooms create all sorts of mental confusion. I’m just trying to jump in for a quick piss standing up before driving home from the brewery. I don’t need bladder issues to build on the pressure of navigating home safely after multiple IPAs.
After waiting in line for the three people in front of me to do their business, the first of non-descript sexual orientation, then two girls who use the washroom together, and can’t be old enough to buy their own drinks, I get my chance.
Entering the lavatory, I head right for the standard toilet, the only option in these times of embracing diversity. I’ll be quick enough, and there was no one waiting behind me. Therefore, no reason to turn the deadbolt, which toggles between red and green triangular symbols, corresponding with communication of occupied or open to the outside world.
Approaching the commode, a typical white porcelain item, I encounter a conundrum. The seat is down. I contemplate my options.
The gentlemanly thing to do would be to raise this ring to avoid any overspray issues. With the current demographics at this establishment, there’s probably only a 30 percent chance a lady is the next person to enter the restroom, with potentially higher odds if all seated bathroom activities are taken into account.
Deciding on a strategy, I stick the toe of my sneaker out, and deftly flip the thin seat piece up without falling over. It’s nice to confirm my balance is still functional after a few beers.
Time to take care of the current urge.
Finishing my piss contently, I watch as the last drips settle into the center of the toilet bowl. The white fabric uppers of my shoes still look pristine. Good aim, with no splashing.
However, the shiny ceramic ring below is splattered with yellow spots, and various dark hairs. Definitely not mine, I have been hydrating all day, and blonde, borderline albino, fuzz, covers me from head to toe. Where it grows that is.
Conflicted, I waffle briefly, before grabbing a generous allocation of toilet paper, which I wrap around my hand like a cast, and give the top of the rim a quick, but throughout, swiping loop. Depositing the paper wad in the bowl, I hit the flush handle with my elbow, and leave the seat up.
My logic is that if the next person is a guy, who’s too lazy to put the ring up on his own, and is shooting all over the place, at least the seat won’t get soiled. And if it’s a drunken squatter of any gender, who doesn’t look before they sit down, I’ve at least mitigated some of the potential pleasantness.
I take an extra minute at the sink, soaping my hands three times, content with my moral conscience.
As I exit the bathroom and head back towards the bar to close out, a rail-thin, middle-aged, woman passes by me rapidly, making a bee-line for the facilities, one hand covering her mouth, her face an ashen pallor.
An alternate lavatory usage scenario which never crossed my mind. Which will likely result in substantial collateral spray. So much for my good Samaritan act of the day.
​
Hotel:
This hotel is expensive, but there’s one perk that keeps me coming back. For some women, it would be the papering spa. Others prefer the extensive room service menu. A few even focus on the free child care. But for me, it’s the ensuite bathroom, and even more importantly, the technologically advanced toilet.
This elegant device is placed in the far corner of the lavish lavatory, a space which is about the same size as my entire bedroom at home.
The floor is white marble, precision cut and laid around the base of the apparatus; thin lines of light grey, deftly textured, grout are the only interruption to the shiny white, immaculately clean, surfaces. In another thoughtful touch, the unit is mounted generously off the sidewall to allow plenty of leg room.
My microwave at home has fewer buttons and settings than this toilet. This beauty is a Toto Neorest, the Cadillac of commodes.
Upon sitting down, I crank up the heat coils to their maximum setting, to warm my perpetually cold cheeks, then dial the temperature back down to maintain coziness.
On some of these fancy models, with all the bells and whistles, the seat height becomes too tall for my short, petit, legs, making it feel like I’m perched on my tip toes. Not a comfortable position to do one’s business.
However, this chair has been mounded perfectly, allowing my fuzzy hotel slipper-clad feet to be positioned contentedly flat on the beautiful floor tiles.
I check the time on my phone, which sits next to me on a conveniently placed flat wall shelf, right at arm’s reach when seated. Wow. I’ve been sitting here for almost a half hour reading a fashion magazine. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.
Hitting the appropriate buttons, I initiate one more bidet wash cycle with warm, but not scalding, water, then a gentle air dry, perfect for the sensitive nether regions. The first thing I did upon arrival in my room last week was to program my desired custom settings into the memory of this modern machine.
Feeling fresh and clean, I reluctantly rise off my throne, wrapping the thick terry cloth robe around my naked body.
This smart device, sensing my departure from the post, automatically closes the stylish top lid over the bowl, and executes a water conscious flush cycle. Simultaneously, a spritz of air freshener, releases from a hidden port on the back of the tank. Aromas of jasmine fill the roomy bathroom space.
Time to get dressed, I guess. I doubt I’ll have another 30 minutes of such peace and quiet again today.
​
Stadium:
Why is there a line at the men’s bathroom? Clearly, the balance of power has shifted. Or maybe there’s just too many testosterone-filled young males here at Dodgers Stadium, while their rational wives, girlfriends, and mothers, stay home.
Finally earning entry to the inner sanctum, my nose tells me I’m going to want to spend as little time in here as humanly possible. Navigating through squinty eyes, trying to minimize the acidic burn, reveals a sea of blue and white, but this is a far cry from a Democratic political rally.
The layout is simple, an open room, floor and walls covered in generic one-foot-square, grey linoleum, tiles. It’s likely the ceiling has the same treatment to minimize construction costs, with pieces trimmed around the florescent fixtures which offer harsh light from above. However, I’m not going to risk checking, and expose my nostrils to a different orientation, which would potentially promote absorbing more of this pungent air.
I approach the troth cautiously, like an astronaut upon first discovery of an alien craft on Mars. For me, this sighting is just as rare.
The provided vessel is made from bent stainless steel sheeting, no doubt a sanitary material, with high walls on the inside, and a lower shelf on the outside. PVC tubes hang down from the roof, spluttering a slow trickle of what is hopefully water, through strategically drilled holes.
This foreign structure resembles some convoluted hybrid of a water slide and radio control car track; both childhood memories that are now permanently ruined by what’s happening in front of me.
Around the large oval-shaped trough, no fewer than 30 men, spanning in age from 6 to 76, are simultaneously trying to see how fast they can pee, and consequently how little of the live baseball game they’ll miss. No courtesy shakes, no hand rinsing, no civility whatsoever.
They do pipe the TV broadcast, complete with Vin Scully’s soothing tones, through the speakers, but apparently, it’s not the same as watching the actual event to these heathen hordes.
Intrigued, and disgusted, I move in and take my manly caveman stance in the 18-inch gap allotted to me within the macho ring. Slightly self-conscious, it takes me a few seconds to get a steady flow going, but the 24-ounce tall boy can of domestic beer recently consumed is an excellent facilitator.
The young boy next to me is treating his member like a fire hose, spraying right and left, with no regard for other people’s streams, or shoes. I subtlety slide my brand-new boat shoes, made of tan leather which is easily stained, back a few inches, while still staying within drip range of the metal channel.
It’s every man for themselves in here. Maybe next time, I’ll take a piss when the home team is batting.
Airplane:
Is now a good time?
It seems like there’s never a good time. Between the service carts in the isle, my adjacent travelers dozing off, the rotation of magazines, computers, and food on my flowing tray table, plus, most notably, the permanently-illuminated red stick figure light identifying the airplane restroom is occupied.
Enough is enough, I’m going for it. But first I have to get past the wall. Not sure if my row mate sitting on the aisle played football or basketball as a center in college; either is equally likely based on his bulky build.
Finally extricating myself from the tangle of seatbelts, legs, backpacks, and arm rests, I’m free and heading to the back of the cabin. Just as I think I’ve timed it perfectly; a young girl slips into the isle in front of me. Courteously, I stop, which allows her mother, and grandmother, to file out into the lane as well. My patience, and bowel controls, are waning.
Twelve minutes later, which I know precisely, because I started a podcast for mental and bodily distraction, the trio of females has completed their precession through the lavatory. Turning sideways in the narrow isle to allow the elderly woman, the last of the former restroom occupants, to slide past, I catch a whiff of rose perfume. At least it shouldn’t smell terrible in there.
Reaching the bathroom door at last, I give it a gentle push. No compliance.
Maybe a harder nudge is required. Combining foot and hand motions simultaneously, I put little more weight into the door.
Still no response. My body is telling me it’s nearing the point of no return. Glancing up to double confirm, the stoic green light silhouette stares back at me mockingly.
This prompts me to give this wall the full brunt of my shoulder. Access is still denied.
As my issues reach a crescendo, a stewardess in a tight-fitting skirt ducks her head through the cloth separating the rear galley from the rest of the plane.
Without a word, she pushes on the door delicately, but on the opposite side of the bifold from where I was exerting all my efforts. The formerly impenetrable gate kinks inward smoothly.
Nodding in appreciation, I flex the wall the rest of the way, and slip inside.
Seconds from having a processed airplane food induced accident, I plop down and let loose. Just three minutes later, I’m feeling human again.
I reach over and give the toilet paper holder a spin. It whirls like a slot machine, spinning fast and loose. Because there’s no fabric left on the cardboard tube to provide resistance. That’s problematic.
In this tiny room, I have no idea where they would stash extra rolls. There doesn’t appear to any vanity cabinet or storage closet built into the contoured plastic walls of the space.
Fortunately, I can reach the tissues, better than nothing, but not as sturdy as your average three-ply sanitary paper. I’ll have to make to.
Several wipes and flushes later, I’m feeling marginally clean enough downstairs to proceed back to my seat for another seven hours of stationary containment. Granted, I’m going to have a red ring on my ass checks from that suction; it’s the first time I’ve ever tried flushing while still on the pot in an airline restroom.
Camping:
My bladder is barking. That last wine bag of pinot grigio we passed around the campfire is likely the culprit. But it’s so warm in this sleeping bag.
It’s pitch dark. When you’re 200 miles from the nearest major town during a new moon, there’s not much residual light.
Conceding defeat, I grab my pillow, sweat pants in this case, from under my head. Feeling like a snake wriggling back into its shed skin, I finagle the stretchy fabric onto my long legs, all while remaining in the warm sack.
Clothed enough to brave the high desert evening cold, I reach up over my head from memory, searching for a headlamp stashed in the mesh platform strung across the roof of the tent. My fingers come into contact with a promising rigid plastic shell. However, further deft exploration reveals this object is too rectangular, and too heavy, to be a headlamp. My cellphone, which has been dead for the past two days. That’s not going to do me much good.
Continuing to fish around blindly, my pinky lands on another plastic object. This one is more flexible, and crinkly, than a headlamp. A condom package, not helpful at all right now, but this item will be very useful once the sun rises.
At last I find the desired electronic device, a heavily faceted polymer case that fits neatly in my palm, with comfortably compliant elastic strap connected.
One project complete, but the next is even more daunting. I need to figure out how to open the tent flap, without crushing my partner lying next to me. Geometry has never been my specialty, but I remember crawling into the sleeping bag feet first, so reach my hands up, searching for the tent’s door.
Success, my right thumb and forefinger discover not one, but two, zippers. 50% - 50% chance.
No need to close my eyes to pick randomly, with my headlamp still off, I may as well be blind. Arbitrarily, I slide the top zipper upwards. Six inches later is stops, apparently jammed against the end of its line. Wrong one.
Taking the lower zipper tab confidently, I slide it down slowly, my bladder relaxing with the sequenced release of each entwined metal link. A two-foot gap in this fabric prison is now presented, and I’m nearly free.
Slithering through the opening, my second snakelike motion in the last three minutes, I enter into the fullness of the night time chill. Reaching up to engage the power on my headlamp, I suddenly hesitate.
Orange coals still linger in the loose stone campfire ring, providing a small, but sufficient, amount of ambient light. The blazing brightness of a lamp bulb will only distract, and disorient, me from my urgent task. Seeing a long shadow at the end of the ember glow, I head towards it, hoping this silhouette is a tree, and not another campsite.
Standing up, leaning forward, using a convenient crook in the branches as a head rest, I unleash one of the most satisfying pees of my life. Looking up, now away even from the glowing coals, the sky is dotted with small, twinkling spots.
As I finish, I’m startled by a sharp bite on my leg. Afraid to look, I give my calf a shake to dislodge the insect intruder, then pull up the sweatpants to cover my bare ass. Time to get back to the warmth of my sleeping bag. And my boyfriend. Morning will come soon enough.
School:
We’re squeezed together tightly, four-deep inside a tiny metal prison. Actually, it’s just one of the stalls in the girl’s bathroom at our private Catholic high school.
The spacing is cramped, requiring constant adjustments in position to keep everyone comfortable and occupied. For some reason, my friends feel like this is the best spot to meet up, due to its privacy.
Apparently, they don’t realize the steel walls of each stall only cover from one foot to seven feet off the ground, leaving plenty of air space between each compartment, and the archaic pink tile covering the floor and walls of this space turns the entire large room into an echo chamber.
Currently, I’m sitting on the toilet, a position of comfort and power in this convoluted lavatory hierarchy. Granted, I’m not actually using the facilities, and my right leg is going numb from my girlfriend who’s sitting on it, but at least I’m not jammed up against one of those cold, metal walls.
Conceding to another pal who does actually have to use the porcelain throne, I rise and slide left, inadvertently bumping arms with my seated bestie, who is simultaneously getting up and moving to the opposite side stall divider.
My phone, my prize procession, jostled in the complex transfer, slips from my delicate fingers and falls. I watch it, mesmerized.
My vision is vividly clear, but my reaction time is diminished and slow. If the screen breaks on the hard ground, I’m in big trouble. This would be my third cellphone insurance claim of the year. I keep telling my parents, the bulky protective cases don’t fit in my skirt pockets.
Fortunately, my device lands in the water, quickly sinking to the bottom of the bowl, where only half of the digital rectangle is visible, the rest already having entered the abyss beyond.
Excellent, it’s not cracked.
Reaching in unphased, I extract the dense unit with my left hand, already drawing a generous roll of toilet paper from the holder behind me with my right. This happens about once a month, so I have a refined drying procedure. I must just be clumsy. At least the water is clean this time.
A few minutes later, “private” business complete, we move out into the roomier confines of the sink area in the laboratory. Two bulbous, white ceramic, sinks sit side by side. We always use the rightmost vessel, as the other mirror has some heart initials carved in the middle, limiting its vanity functionality.
As we reenter the semi-public space, conversation switches from sex with boys and period timing, to lipstick colors and assorted hallway gossip. Not that it matters, our chatter is equally obvious in either location.
I look into the mirror, adjusting my appearance via the reflected image. My friend to the right leans in clumsily, she’s a little chubby, yet insists on applying an excessive amount of blush, which accentuates her already pronounced, round cheeks. My other acquaintance stands placidly by, ignoring the glass, even though her stringy black hair hangs down limp and tangled past her shoulders.
They already know I’m perfect, but a little positive reinforcement from them wouldn’t hurt once in a while.
Our last associate is over at the window, burning through her second vape cartridge of the day. These little devices have definitely helped our stealth tobacco intake, but we still try to smoke next to the open portal.
Content with the status of my blonde braid, I move towards the exterior wall to partake in a few puffs.
Restaurant:
Pushing a half century in age, it’s rare that I find myself doing something completely new and unique to my aging body and mind. But now, here I am, staring down at an oval-shaped, clay-lined, hole in the ground.
Unfortunately, I’m not looking at a wishing well, but instead the lavatory facilities at this hot pot restaurant outside Beijing.
Being born and raised in North America, there are many elements of the traditional bathroom setting that are distinctly missing here: no toilet seat, no toilet paper, no toilet at all really. In place of these usual items is a plastic bucket, inside of which sits a brush of coarse yellow plastic bristles with long wooden handle attached. I can at least surmise what these tools are to be used for.
The one commonality between this facility, and public bathrooms in the Western world, is the offensive smell. There is a strong nose of sulfur, not as much fresh farts, but more likely waste fermented for several days, as if I’m standing inside a sewer treatment facility. This is one of the few times on my Asia travels that I appreciate the smell of cigarette smoke, which seems ever-present. For once, it provides a masking element in the ripe air.
I contemplate my options. I’m definitely running hot from the spicy soup broth. The mouth numbing Szechuan peppercorns are one thing, but I’m pretty sure my downfall is the custom sauce mix, where I’ve been going quite aggressive on the red chili oil and grated fresh ginger.
My hotel is only 15 minutes away by taxi, but I have no idea how long we’ll be at dinner. There seems to be a never-ending stream of raw meats, vegetables, and other unidentifiable food items rolling out from the kitchen to be cooked in the boiling, potent broth. Plus, we still have half a crate of warm local beers in green glass bottles to finish up.
Time to take the plunge. Dropping my shorts and boxers down together, I squat low, holding my bottom layer of clothing off the ground, which is moist with some mysterious fluids. Without the traditional seat and back rest, this activity quickly becomes a way more of an athletic endeavor than my usual deuce.
Fortunately, the process is rapid and efficient, aided by the wide concoction of peppers I’ve consumed over the past hour.
Fortuitously, I have a few hand wipes on my short’s pocket; pretty much all types of paper napkins seem to be outlawed in this country. Content with my bodily cleanliness, I suit back up and survey the scene.
There’s no formal flushing mechanism that I can ascertain, but a tank of water mounted high on the wall, connected to an accommodating metal hose with attached spigot, is provided. Time to make use of the bucket and brush.
Finally, convinced the surroundings are about as clean as I found them, which isn’t saying much, I move to the sink.
Relieved, I find a bar of soap here, and opt for the extended double wash cycle. Hands sufficiently clean, I gaze around for a paper towel dispenser, or even better, an air convection hand dryer. No such luck. The only item within reach of the sink is a small, thin, hand towel, which may have started white, but is now decidedly soiled.
Passing on this potential germ-infested rag, I wipe my hands on the back of my golf shirt, and head back to the restaurant for another round of tasty, ass-chafing, food.
Work:
Opening the heavy wooden door via the stainless steel, U-shaped rod, handle, I enter the black tiled space within.
I’ve timed this restroom visit strategically, 10:45 AM is the sweet spot between the morning coffee-induced nudgings, and those making room for an early lunch. The place should be disserted.
I enter to emptiness, from both a visual and olfactory standpoint. Perfect.
There are three urinals in a row along the wall, instinctively I take the one in the corner, which is also furthest from the door. More privacy on both fronts.
I loosen my belt, then undo the large button my khaki dress pants, and finally drop the zipper all the way down. I guess there could be a functional use for a fly if someone is really in a hurry, but I don’t like to get my member anywhere near those sharp metal teeth. The stretchy compression underwear flap gap is softer, but still cumbersome, so I prefer to drop the elastic down from the top.
A full-frontal pants opening. Simpler access all around.
Just as I get all my clothing situated, and am about to proceed with my business, someone enters the bathroom quickly, and walks up to the middle station, right next to me. Who takes the center option when there’s an empty spot at the other end of the row?
The metal divider between the urinals is sufficient to provide midsection coverage. However, these barriers stop around shoulder height, making the head of each individual completely visible.
I stare blankly ahead at the wall six inches in front of me, waffling between ignoring my neighbor, using my peripheral vision to catch a glimpse which may identify them, or going with the obvious full head turn, which would imply obligatory conversation.
As I continue to face forward, complete silence engulfs the space. It must be pretty clear to this person adjacent that I’m not currently relieving myself.
What’s he waiting for? Sometimes hearing another flow of liquid helps with my own operation.
“How’s it going bud?” comes a deep, booming voice, which I recognize instantly. Our company president. I’ve heard him speak at a few of those all-employee meetings, but never connected on a one-on-one basis. Not sure that this interaction counts as such either.
“Good sir,” I manage to stammer back, still not looking to my left.
“Glad to hear it son,” he replies, then apparently returns to focusing on his own needs. Seconds later, the steady stream next to me slows down, then ends with a trickle.
As my superior moves off to the sink, my body finally relaxes again. Hearing the soothing sounds of water at the faucet behind me, my urinary tract control systems finally cooperate, starting with a few small drops, then building into a torrent.
The bathroom door bangs closed as my boss leaves. The automatic water faucet shuts off moments later, and I’m back in the relaxing comforts of silence.
The only noise now is my own strong spray tinkling against the curved inside wall of the black urinal, focused directly on the target logo provided in the bowl to avoid splashing, and my rapidly beating, but now recovering, heart. At least he doesn’t know my name.
Concert:
Opening the flimsy swinging door towards me, I lean in and catch a potent whiff of chlorine tablets mixed with fecal matter. Recoiling slightly, I cover my nose with one hand, and execute my mandatory preemptive stall inspection by the neon blue and orange light from my glow-in-the-dark necklace rings.
Toilet paper, empty. Hand sanitizer, missing. Tank level, full. Flies, prevalent. I move onto to the next option.
Three units down the line, I find one that seems passable. At least until I sit down.
Why is the toilet seat so angled? Am I that drunk?
These are the thoughts going through my mind as my ass cheeks, along with my entire torso, topple over into the right side, wall-mounted, urinal tub for the third time. Was there no patch of flat land on this entire fairground to put the porta-potties?
At least they’ve provided a sufficient quantity of temporary shitters this year. At past festivals, I’ve spent 20 minutes waiting in line. Determining my pick of the litter wasn’t an option in that case; you just get the next door in the line that opens, and hope for the best.
Sure, after dark, guys can just sneak off to the fence line and piss wherever they want. For us ladies, it’s a bit tougher.
Speaking of peeing, this was supposed to be a quick in-and-out stop, but now it’s taking longer than planned. Hopefully, this isn’t a psychedelic mushroom reaction issue.
At least I can still hear the band playing somewhat. It’s hard to pick out the exact song, with the weird echo in this dark grey plastic tub, and the person wrenching in the unit next to me. Could be worst, I guess.
The sand underneath, and now on top, of my flip flops has mixed with some unknown liquids on the plastic floor of this stall to create a gritty, abrasive paste. I haven’t worn socks, shoes, or showered in three days. Any cuts or blisters I have are likely already infected, so no worries there.
Finally, I convince myself the fiery stream is done, and grab a liberal amount of toilet paper. Smoke’em if you’ve got’em, right. I wipe, and am happy when the deposited wad hits the water level well below splash-up distance.
Speaking of smoking, maybe some weed can get this stench out of my nostrils. Pulling up my now-sandy, cut-off, jean shorts, I undo the oversized door latch with my grimy foot, extra a generous glob of hand sanitizer from the conveniently provided dispenser, and head back towards the stage.
Home:
Ah, the comforts of home. My bare feet wriggle into the thick, beige carpet. Granted, it’s a terrible covering for a bathroom, but very comfortable for an early morning piss.
The sun is just peaking up over the horizon, judging from the limited illumination passing through the frosted glass skylight, this room’s only visual connection to the outside world. It seems like as I get older, my facilities routine becomes more regimented. I’m awake and require relief about this time every morning, regardless of when I go to bed, or how much liquid I intake the previous evening.
As my bladder depletes itself, I gaze around my surroundings aimlessly. I know this toilet bowl, and its potential splash points, like the back of my hand.
On the shelf in front of me, sit a menagerie of soaps, scrubs, and creams that a professional beautician would be impressed by. I have no idea what any of these products are used for.
On top of the toilet tank is a mix pack of tampons, a crossword book, and a can of air freshener. More relevant bathroom items at least.
On the floor, in the narrow nook to the side of the toilet, sits a plunger and toilet brush. Now there’s some functional laboratory that I have more familiarity with.
Finishing up, I give the little guy an extra couple shakes, then inspect my work. Not bad for a Sunday morning. I probably could have used another pint of water, or one less glass of wine, last night, but as long as the bowl doesn’t look like green ooze from the sewers in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I’ll be alright.
Now for the most important part of the operation. I flip the toilet seat, and cover, adorned with the same beige carpet, down, then flush. God forbid I ever forget this step; I’ll be sleeping on the couch. Or worse. If the wifey ever wanders into the bathroom groggily, and sits down on the bare toilet bowl rim, there will be hell to pay.
As I move over to the sink, with my right thumb I flip the toggle to turn off my electronic toothbrush; ending the pulsing vibration in my mouth. I’ve always been efficient, and this peeing while brushing technique has turned into a nice little life hack. It turns out dental hygiene, and taking a leak, require about the same about of time. Spitting out a mouthful of foam, the toothbrush is deposited back into its holding cup on the side of the sink.
Rinsing my left hand, the only one involved in the toilet proceedings, with a spritz of soap and splash of warm water, I groggily wander back to bed naked. That necessary liberation should allow for a few more hours of shut eye.