When it comes to toilets in close vicinity to a pub (especially in randy Bournemouth), there is one thing you are never safe from. Particularly me, who seems to, by some mischievous twist of fate, conjure up those incidents on a regular basis.
Yes. I’m the catnip to toilet sex kitty.
I’m the streetlight to old pervert moths.
It all happened at the end of last week, when my mates Dom and the Adam Squared chugged the obligatory after-work pints at Dylan’s; and eventually and quite expectedly, nature demanded her dues. So I made my way to the downstairs loo.
I entered the cubicle, and that’s when I heard it. In the cubicle next to mine, I heard heavy panting, and rustling sounds. For a second I grinned, thinking some desperate chick who just couldn’t wait to get the rabbit out at home is havin the time of her life by herself. Yeah. I’m such a daft cow. Then the noise and rattling got louder and multi-layered, that I thought the flippin wall was gonna come down, and it was clear that some virile chap was lending her a hand/penis in there.
The question that I could never answer, in spite of my many years of experience in encountering perverts in any shape or form, is: What do you do in moments like that?
Of course, afterwards, you always come up with a few good ideas, but I, as usual, stood petrified. The Adam Squared, of course, smartassed me later, saying I should have sat there and made straining noises to see if it put them off, or cheer them on, or chuck bits of wet toilet paper over the wall, or shout “Excuse me, I am trying to have a shit here, I can’t concentrate!”
Which is of course what you never think of at exactly the moment it happens (people shagging, not you having a shit).
So I just stood there, frozen, clasping my hand over my mouth in horrified amusement. I dunno why in such moments it is always me being worried not to get caught or heard. I mean, I am not the one doing degrading acts in public places, right? But alas, I was more embarrassed than them and thought, if I just stay quiet and wait, they will go away (like all my problems – which, needless to say, never works, and not in this instance, either), and I can break the seal in peace. But the wait got too long. They finished, alright... but only to start to bloody discuss the act and grade each others performances!
For fucks sake, I screamed at them silently, I really gotta pee here!
And then they started doing stuff again, judging from the boy whimpering instructions like a lost puppy.
I had enough, snuck out of the toilet, and went to find another one.
(Later on, when I went again, I actually found footprints on the toilet seat of my previous cubicle... did someone actually climb up there to watch them???)
Back in Dylan’s, I constantly watched the door, to see who was coming back from the loo.
Eventually this couple showed up, arm in arm, looking quite flushed, and having tongue sex, basically – caught, dear Watson! – both a rather pikey-looking lot, which did not surprise me, because toilets seem to be a preferred mating spot for their kind. But it was only half an hour later that Adam 1 mentioned that the guy I showed him couldn’t be the scoundrel, because she was heartily snogging this other guy, and that must hence be her boyfriend. I had to disillusion him by pointing out that “she may be snogging this guy, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t fucking the other guy half an hour ago.” Ah, the innocence of youth.
One should think that I should be used to this stuff by now, but indeed, I just become more and more perturbed. Days like this don’t happen that often, but often enough to leave me wondering, watching from a distance like some alien invader who contemplates whether Earth is worth conquering and decides upon discovering that its strange inhabitants mimick reproductive acts for recreation in the same place they defecate, that it’s proooobably not worth the trouble.
Anyways, we went off to the Hop (which is not a lame 1950’s phrase for going out, but indeed a pub at the end of our high street), and the evening ended with Adam 2 catching his bus home, which, when it pulled up by the stop, was practically filled with young, quite hot chicks. Adam turned to us, lifted his arms, screamed WHOOHOO! and hopped on. Sometimes life is a movie.
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