There are two toilets in the building where I work. They are next to one another and each contains just one toilet bowl because I don’t work for a big company. Following the traditions of society one is aimed at being used by the female employees and one – the other one – has been designated for usage by non-females. Without symbols on the door a visitor might wonder which was which out of fear of, for example, stinking the place up and stepping out just before someone of the opposite sex steps in. Also just before that person runs out gagging and crying. For some reason people of the same sex just seem to accept that discomfort more easily.
There are differences inside the two toilets which hint at their sexual orientation, so to speak. One toilet, for example, has a brighter lightbulb. Could this indicate that one sex has a greater need to look at itself? One toilet has a fluffy pink towel on the back of the door while the other has a towel that is a colour one hint of green up from grey and would be rated as 3H for hardness if it was a pencil. Can you accurately associate colours and rigidness of towels left by cleaners with the sexes of the persons using the bathroom, especially in this day and age and especially if you’d ever met our cleaners?
It’s difficult but there is a killer clue though: one toilet – the toilet on the left if you ever visit – is distinguished (if that’s not too fine a word) by possessing an almost-permanent puddle of piss at the base of the toilet bowl. This piece of the enigma leads me to suspect that this toilet may in fact be … the men’s toilet.
I should probably explain my reasoning in case the leap to this conclusion’s logic has escaped you. I’m a man and I know that occasionally – just very, very infrequently – it is possible – despite years of experience and partaking in an activity that is both natural and rather simple when you think about it – to not exactly hit the target – a hole about the size of a gorilla’s head – with the accuracy required. I admit it: as a man I have to say that I have in my time peed on the floor of a bathroom. Just a little. Not entirely peed on the floor completely missing the toilet bowl though. I was really drunk once and almost peed in the corner of the living room but a little voice – my dad’s as it happens as he was watching TV at the time – made me stop. I’ve never entered a bathroom and just wildly slashed around the place or mistaken the waste bin or the cup that holds the toothbrushes for my actual target. Sometimes it’s been my bathroom and sometimes it’s been someone else’s but I have "dribbled" in the past. Chances are fairly good that I’ll also "trickle inaccurately" in the future, possibly with greater regularity too. What appears to set me apart from other men is that – and this may be a little bit of a shock to other men – I. Clean. Up. Afterwards.
I don’t think that makes me gay.
Anyway, I’d like to talk about the penis. I have one somewhere and so consider I am capable of talking about this with some authority. I’m not a penis expert though. I wouldn’t want to be referred to by others as "that’s Mark over there … yes, he knows a lot about dicks … sometimes it’s hard to stop anything but cocks coming out of his mouth." I’d like to talk about the penis and how it relates to the piss puddle phenomenon.
The Penis, Peeing, And Aiming
Break it down and, for men, the act of urinating is essentially turning on the tap to allow high pressure liquid to pass through a flexible nozzle. For the ladies the act of peeing is: squat (unless you like it down your legs you freaking weirdo or are trying some new rocking hips motion to spell out words in snow), line up on target, open the bomb bay doors, release, and then you’re home free, avoiding Messerschmitts all the way back to Dover. Sounds like it’s more complicated for women but it’s not and if you’ve ever seen home videos of a small kid holding a garden hose as someone "accidentally" switches it on and "accidentally" wins £250 then you’ll see why. You see, men are essentially little kids and penises … penisses … penii … dicks are massively long, thick and unwieldy fire truck hoses that sometimes need eight men to hold on and control. It may need that many but you really should learn to do the best on your own if you want to avoid a reputation with the neighbours.
Yes, control is sometimes difficult. Maybe you’re on your third pint and haven’t been to the bathroom because you’re worried that someone is going to score while you’re away but eventually you just have to take that risk. If you’ve ever wondered who first thought that cleaning graffiti or hardened dog shit could be achieved using pressure hoses then I assure you it was the man who first knocked the air freshener off the cistern clean through the window and into the garden four doors down. In the underwear of men there is a powerful beast. Also, it is a cyclops and has trouble with depth perception.
Some men have foreskins and some men don’t. Those who don’t have foreskins tend to be that way for one of these reasons:
- they’re Jewish and the foreskin is evil or holy or, er, I don’t know,
- they live in a region of the world where regular washing is difficult and they wish to reduce the amount of swollen penis tip infections even though their wives or concubines would probably appreciate it, although that isn’t saying much if they don’t mind about the unwashing bit,
- they were taken to the zoo as a child and their idiot parents dipped them in honey and held them up to the bear cage because they thought it might make a good picture,
- they wish to share their special moments with a more attractive friend because they’re shallow.
Medically, in the Western world, there is no reason to remove the foreskin. There are non-medical benefits to keeping it; loose change at nudist colonies has always presented problems for men for example. However, the foreskin can and does occasionally contribute to the whole "spray-painting the bathroom a gentle shade of yellow" scenario. This happens because the skin on the outside of the penis is larger than the penis inside the skin. If it was the other way around it would be called a Tardis. Nerdy girls might be more inclined to ride the Tardis but suicide rates and penile immolation among the vast majority of men might then threaten the future of the species.
The penis, as everyone knows, varies in size depending on external factors: temperature, the suspension on the bus and route taken, a wandering mind while shopping and waiting with the trolley for your other half to come back from the next aisle with an undented can of tomato soup, the time of day, watching a video of a skateboarder not quite making the slide down the railing in the manner he intended, the angle between the Earth and the Sun, etc. The skin, therefore, has to stretch to cover all eventualities; if there was even the slightest possibility that getting excited might be followed by the sound r-r-r-i-i-p-p-p-p-p-p, the faint aroma of copper, and a hot feeling spreading out from the groin and down the thighs then men would spread their seed by secreting through the pores and every woman on the planet would be a Bulgarian weightlifter.
A skin in ‘XXXL’ on a penis in ‘Kids Age 5-8’ (the quotes there are very important) is not something to be proud of but a relaxing, warm bath or, perversely, an intense, cold snap will produce just that situation and the simple act of urination suddenly has the potential of turning into a true miracle of nature: the Multiple Stream, Multi Directional, Multi Risk Of Peeing All Over Your Trousers, Multi Piss. As the urethra discharges its kidney-filtered liquid the many folds of skin turn the single flow into a raging rapids with rivulets crashing and flying everywhere. Look! Some is actually going in the bowl! Look! There’s an offshoot that’s running down the wall! Look! Oh how I wish I wasn’t just wearing my socks! When this happens – and it will – there are three options and none of them are good and, more importantly, none of them work.
1. Concentrate with your mind and command the folds of skin to spread like a petal and you will discover that the triceps are muscles that can be moved and biceps are muscles that can be moved and skin, sadly, isn’t.
2. Calculate into what angle the body needs to contort in order to maximise bowl entry and realise towards the end of the peeing experience that the angle you needed only exists in seven dimensional space.
3. Pull back the skin to remove the obstruction and behold! Your three streams of urine swiftly become four, then nine, then two, then six, and then one mighty, mighty powerful one. Now pointing at the back of the loo seat or the ceiling depending on how much you panicked. Just perfect for a concentrated rebound shot onto your chest.
What I’ve tried to point out here is that floor-dampening is something men have little or no control over. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, the floor is going to suffer a reduction in its dryness index. However, that’s no excuse for leaving it for the next guy to step over or, worse, fail to. Fellow employees and men: you are on notice.