The Stance, a pissing story

THE STANCE
(I've lost the author's name)

My mother, like many others, was a fanatic about public toilets. As a little girl, she would bring me into the toilet stall and teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the toilet seat. Having assured herself that the toilet seat was dry, she would carefully cover the seat with strips of toilet paper. Finally, she would instruct, "Never, ever sit on a public toilet seat." Then she taught me The Stance," which consisted of balancing over the toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of my flesh make contact with the toilet seat. Of course, by this time, I'd have peed down my leg and we would have to go home. She never explained to me why, if she covered the seat with toilet paper, I still had to avoid sitting on the covered seat. But I never question my mother's wisdom and tried to follow her instructions all of my life.

That was a long time ago. I've had lots of experience with public toilets since then. I'm still not particularly fond of public toilets, especially those with powerful, red-eye sensors. Those toilets know when you want them to flush. They are psychic toilets. But I always confound their psychic ability when following my mother's advice and assuming The Stance.

The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder is full to bursting. This is most likely to occur after watching a full-length feature film. I always drink a two liter cup of Diet Coke during the movie. I sit still through a three-hour saga because, for God's sake, even if I didn't wipe or wash my hands in the bathroom, I'd still miss the pivotal part of the movie or the second scene, in which they flash the leading man's naked derriere. Determined, I cross my legs and hold it---and hold it, until the first film credits roll. Only then do I sprint to the bathroom about ready to explode pee all over my internal organs, trying to reach it ahead of half the women in the audience racing for the same single bathroom.

At the bathroom, I find a line of women that made me wonder if there is a half-price sale on Mel Gibson's underwear in there. I join the end of the line and wait, smiling politely at all the other ladies who are also crossing their legs and smiling politely. As I finally inch closer to the toilet stalls, I begin checking for feet under the doors to confirm every one is occupied. I hoped no one was doing frivolous things behind those doors, like blowing their noses or checking the contents of their wallets. Finally, a stall door opened and I sprinted toward it, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. As I entered I found the door wouldn't latch. Who cares? At this point, it didn't matter.

I hung my handbag on the door hook with one hand and yanked down my pants with the other. Then I assumed The Stance. I know from experience that it's nearly impossible to hold The Stance during a movie pee. Finally, as I begin to feel relief, my thighs begin to shake. I was desperate to sit down, but I hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it. I held The Stance as my thighs experienced a quake that would register an eight on the Richter scale. To take my mind off the trembling, as an eternal optimist, I reached for the toilet paper to be ready when I was done. We all know in our hearts, the toilet paper dispenser is always going to be empty. Just once, I thought, I'm a nice person who deserves finding a stall with toilet paper in the dispenser. My thighs shake some more. I remembered the tiny napkin in my pocket that I had wiped my fingers on after eating buttered popcorn. It will have to do. I crumble it in the puffiest way possible, but it was still smaller than my thumbnail.

Without warning, a desperate woman pushed open the door to my stall with the broken latch. My handbag handing on the door hook swung back and whacked me in the head. "Occupied!" I scream as I reached to close the door. Losing my The Stance balance, I dropped my buttered popcorn napkin in a puddle on the floor and fell backward, directly onto the toilet seat. In horror, I ejected my fanny from the toilet seat like a rocket shot to the moon, but it was too late. My e bottom had made contact with all the germs and life forms on the bare seat. I hadn't taken the time to lay toilet paper on the seat, even if there had been any in the dispenser. My body flushed with shame as I wondered what my mother would think of me if she knew. Her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, "You don't know what kind of diseases you could get."

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet became so confused that it flushed. It's action sent up a stream of water akin to a fountain then, reversing itself, suddenly sucking everything down with such force that I grabbed onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged to China. At that point, I was exhausted and gave up. I finished peeing into the flushing water. I tried to wipe my dripping fanny with a Chicklet wrapper I found in my pocket.

I hauled up my pants, grabbed my handbag from the stall door and walked out, head down in shame, to the sinks. I couldn't figure out how to operate the sink with the automatic sensor, so I wiped my hands with spit and a dry paper towel. I walked past a line of women, still waiting, cross-legged and unable to smile politely at this point. One kind soul at the very end of the line whispered to me that I was trailing a piece of toilet paper on my shoe as long as the Mississippi River. I yanked the paper from my shoe, plunked it in the woman's hand and said with a teeth-clenching smile, "Here. You might need this."

As I exited the restroom, I saw my spouse, who had entered, used, exited the men's restroom that didn't have a long waiting line, and read a copy of War and Peace while waiting for me. "What took you so long?" he asked, annoyed. Recalling that men's restrooms have urinals that don't require them to take The Stance because of their male anatomy, I kicked him sharply in the shin and we went home.

Home is where the only place where I don't have to take The Stance. It's where the only germs and life forms on the toilet seat I have to worry about are when the peeing aim of males in my family, young and old, is faulty. But love forgives all faults---except when I enter a dark bathroom in the middle of the night to sit on the toilet. I learn with a cold wet shock that my spouse didn't lower the toilet seat, creating an unexpected bidet experience. At least I have toilet paper nearby to wipe my dripping fanny---that is if he remembered to replace the empty toilet paper roll.

This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have ever had to deal with a public toilet. And it finally explains to all you men what takes us so long.