"Men" only? -or- my continuing discontent with public restrooms

allow me to let you in on a secret that i keep in my left back pocket: i often become uncomfortable going no. 2 in public restrooms when there's a chance that someone i know is in the bathroom with me and is aware of my toil in the stall. it's not all the time, and it's never the case when i'm alone, but if the situation is right, i can get a little hesitant to do my business. such was the setting this morning in the bathroom down the hall from my office.

as i walked into the men's room, i took a quick glance in the mirror out of the corner of my eye. "good," i thought. "all the stalls look empty. true, all the doors are closed, but they're not latched shut. surely they're resting at their natural equilibrium state of being partially closed but partially open. i should have no trouble taking a shit in this public bathroom this morning."

i selected my stall, the wheelchair accessible stall farthest from the door that faced the urinals, stepped inside, closed and latched the door, and began to undo my pants. i was looking forward to reading the etched sayings on the stall walls, musing at "'such and such' is gay" statements, and having a relaxing, personally fulfilling moment before i began my busy day. i was looking forward to "me" time, basically. the momentary tranquility dissipated when i heard another bathroom patron come through the door.

their entrance was an almost reflexory event, the timing was so precise- as if me getting ready to shit prompted their arrival. my belt buckle had barely ceased clanking as it settled on the ground by the time "he" came in. to make things worse, i was in the handicapped stall. "if this is a retard, i'm fucked," i said under my breath. thankfully, the sound of feet shuffling across the tiled floor betrayed his natural walking ability.

my reaction time was too slow to catch a glimpse of his face through the crack of the door frame on his stroll to the urinal. from my vantage point seated on the toilet, i couldn't see anything except for a large mirror and sink near the door. i knew that i couldn't relieve myself just yet because this visitor might have been a friend of mine and might have noticed my shoes under the stall door. "what if he hears weird noises coming out of my butt? he'll know it's me and he'll tell everyone in the department and i'll never get a date again." it was clear that i had to keep the turds in until he had left the bathroom, or until i could be confident that it was a perfect stranger who, tomorrow, wouldn't be able to know that i was defecating ten feet behind him the day prior.

he began to pee and i sat, waiting. for a moment, i was jealous of his freedom. he urinated so carelessly, so effortlessly... all the week's stresses and tension flowed out of him in a golden stream. meanwhile i rested with an arched back doing my best to sound non-existent.

he finished, zipped up, and walked to the sink to wash and dry his hands. it was then that i saw his face. it was matt. matt from down the hall. a matt johnson who could have become matt "jamon makes weird noises in the bathroom" johnson if i hadn't kept my cool and my bowels this morning.

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