I enter the sanctified domain of the Penis God. Immediately, the first dilemma presents itself: Urinal or cubicle? Which to choose? Who’s about?
I sidle up to the trough with faux swagger. Do I stand on the metal grill or off it? Fuck, there’s piss all over the grill! My shoes will never be the same again. That guys’s standing on it, if I don’t, I’ll just be adding my piss to the problem.
Decision made, I step up to the plate. I look edgeways at the dude next to me. An unspoken agreement between us not to look. Or pretend not to.
Out it comes like a separate being. Not constricted and potentially subject to ridicule, but loose and ready to spring into action. Phew! A reflection of percevied normality.
A conduit of waste this time. Not of connection, pleasure and seed.
An unbroken stream emerges, a tad too yellow by half. Damn, how’s this guy gonna know I took a slow release multi vitamin this morning?
A deep inhalation, almost done. As the steaming residue flows into the stinking drain I shake, but not too much. Just enough to prevent drip off. Pop it back in, zip up and oh fuck! Still wet………….Will I smell like Urea for the rest of the day now?
All over in less than sixty seconds. I turn, step down, wash, dry, no eye contact and out the door. Like a new man I enter the temple of the shopping god where I will faithfully begin the next ritual…and consume.
I’ve always been fascinated by the ritualistic nature of public male urniation, in particular when there are urinals or troughs involved. So much contextual richness in such a small public and temporal space. So many thoughts provoked.
Finally got around to writing about it. Yay!