Paperjam

Toilet Story

Literature // Jim // 2nd October 2003

We were in the Lion on a Friday night, had been for four or five rounds and I felt like I needed a piss. After putting it off for a couple of minutes to hear the rest of Smithy’s amusing sweetcorn story, the urge got stronger and I made my unsteady way towards the toilets at the back of the pub. I walked in (opening the door with my elbow to avoid the dubious looking hand marks around the metal rectangle engraved with the legend “push”) and manoeuvred myself to the urinal furthest away from the colossal bloke who was groaning loudly as he relieved himself.

I leaned forward resting my left forearm against the tiled wall above the porcelain bowl. After unzipping I groped inside my trousers and pulled myself out. I closed my eyes and rocked my head back in inebriated relief as the urine welled up inside of me.

My drunken bliss was short-lived though as I suddenly felt a warm feeling run down my left thigh. This, accompanied by a total lack of any splashing sounds whatsoever, led me to believe that I had not only failed to pull my dick completely out of my trousers, but that I had also managed to piss all the way down my left leg.

Moving with the panic you would associate with a thirty year old man who has just wet himself, I managed to extricate myself from my treacherous fly and continued my piss into the bowl. As I finished I was able to look down and survey the damage.

It wasn’t good.

I wasn’t going to be able to get away with claiming that an over-excitable tap had splashed a bit of water out of the sink and onto my leg. My left trouser leg was saturated with smelly, lager-enhanced piss which was now starting to seep into my trainers. In addition my crotch was dripping wet and starting to go cold.
Outside waiting for me were twelve of my work colleagues plus a temp from the office I had been flirting with for weeks, things had been going well, I fancied my chances this evening. I’d heard she was a bit dirty, but piss stained trousers probably wasn’t going to do the trick.

The colossal bloke finished up and stumbled out back towards the bar, this allowed me to turn away from the urinal and look for some clue as to what I should do.
The hot air dryer was one option, I squelched towards it only to find the wires hanging from the side. Bollocks.

Then I heard someone walking down the corridor towards the gents, I didn’t want anyone from work finding out about this, I’d never hear the end of it, especially from that twat, Smithy. Thinking fast I ducked into one of the stalls to buy some time. There was no lock on the door so I flipped down the toilet lid, sat on it and wedged my feet against the door.

I heard the swing door of the toilet open followed by a couple of footsteps on the shiny ceramic tiles. There was a squeaking noise and a voice saying ,”FU..”, which was abruptly cut off by a dull yet resonant thump.

Peeling my sticky-soled Adidas off the cubicle door I peered outside to see a young man, of about 16, in a cheap shirt and tie lying unconscious on the tiled floor.
I ventured out of the cubicle to have a closer look, standing over the young lad, I noticed that on his breast pocket was a gold-coloured badge informing the world that this was Phillip and that he was happy to help. It appeared Phillip had slipped in the trail of my piss which led from the urinals to the cubicle. So now I was not only in the unfortunate position of having wet myself, I had also concussed a glass collector using nothing but my own urine.

I steeled myself and quickly considered my options:
One. Find some covert way out of the toilet.
Two. Wait in one of the cubicles until it was safe to venture out.
Three. Try to sneak out of the pub without anyone seeing me.

Option one was the most sensible, I was sure that I could come up with some reason to explain my disappearance before Monday morning. However the only way out apart from the door was a tiny window set up in the far wall with a broken electric vent embedded in it.

There was no way I was going to get out of there.

Option two seemed the safest, but it was nine o’clock now and I didn’t fancy sitting in one of the Lion’s rancid cubicles for several hours in a puddle of my own piss. Also it seemed fairly likely that I would be discovered at some point of the evening, which would probably be even more embarrassing than being found now.

Option three was risky, although I knew there was a route to the door of the pub that didn’t go straight past the table that my friends were occupying, I didn’t fancy my chances of making it entirely undetected. The pub wasn’t exactly busy and if anyone I knew was at the bar I was fucked.

Just as I was starting to panic at the realisation that I was in an impossible situation, I happened to look down at Phillip’s prone form and noticed he was wearing a very similar pair of jeans to the ones clinging damply to me.

I was just pissed enough to think that it might work.

I squelched to the door and looked down the corridor to check that the coast was clear, there was no-one about. Returning to Phillip I tried to drag him towards one of the cubicles, but immediately realised that dragging unconscious bodies around is not as easy as you would think.

Resigned to the fact that the operation would have to take place in the open, I quickly kicked off my trainers and sat down on the filthy tiles and dragged my socks off. The wet one was extremely reluctant and had the honour of being the first item of clothing I ever called a bastard out loud.

Unshod, I went to the door and checked the corridor again - still quiet. Now I had to get the jeans off, which made the sock look like child's play. I managed to get them off by getting out of the dry leg first and then standing on it. Once I was in this position it was possible to lever the damp leg out a few inches at a time by lifting it up repeatedly.

After what seemed like about three hours but was probably about a minute I was free of the jeans, I threw them to one side and peeled off my soaking boxer shorts.
With a new found determination I reached down and yanked off one of Phillip’s slip-on shoes, the smell of his feet hit me like a bucket full of puke. Evidently Phillip was not big on personal hygiene, the virulent acne all over his face should have served as a warning.

Gagging wildly but undeterred, I removed the other shoe and then knelt down between the smelly teenager’s legs and undid his belt and fly. Pausing for a moment to gather strength I tugged as hard as I could on the waist of the jeans. Several things happened at this stage:

Firstly: Phillip’s jeans came down halfway to his knees.
Secondly: I realised that Phillip a) wasn’t wearing any underwear and b) took even less pride in his genital hygiene than he did in that of his feet.
Thirdly: The momentum of the tug caused my knees to lose their grip on the floor, pitching me headfirst towards Phillips groin.

Amazingly, the only thing that crossed my mind during the next half a second as I lost a spirited battle against momentum and gravity was a bizarre sense of male pride in the fact that Phillip had a smaller dick than me. Such happy thoughts were short-lived though as my forehead smashed into his stomach. The force of which elicited a strangled wheezing noise from deep within the glass collector’s bowels.

Suddenly remembering that I had arms, I pushed myself up and continued to pull at Phillip’s jeans, after about thirty seconds I’d got them off. I stood up triumphant and prepared to pull the jeans the right way out by thrusting one arm down a leg while gripping the waist.

Then someone coughed just outside the toilet door.

I stood frozen with absolute fear, in all honesty I think I nearly shat myself, which you must admit would have been a touch ironic.

I heard the door swinging open, but it didn’t move, then the muffled sound of stiletto heels on tiles. The realisation that the owner of the cough was someone visiting the ladies reached my brain just in time to allow my heart to start beating again before cardiac arrest occurred.

Spurred on by this reprieve, I quickly swapped the contents of my jean pockets with Phillip’s and finished pulling them the right way out. I really wasn’t relishing the prospect of going commando under the dirty jeans of a teenage glass collector but what choice did I have?

Two minutes later I was striding out of the gents with Phillip lying in the recovery position (I’m not a complete bastard) and my balls starting to itch. My lack of socks and one damp trainer the only evidence of my dalliance on the brink of social apocalypse.

Thinking strategically I knew that I had to come up with some reason to explain why I had been in the toilet for nearly ten minutes. I decided to swing round by the bar as then I could claim I had been waiting for a beer for a bit and everyone would just assume I had been taking a crafty dump followed by a quick stop at the bar.

I felt a little guilty about Phillip and what would happen to him, but bollocks to it, what goes around comes around. I’ve had plenty of shitty luck in my life. Sometimes things work out well for you and sometimes they don’t, that's like karma isn’t it? The important thing is to take advantage of good luck when you get it. That’s what I had done.

As I got to the bar there was a bit of aggro going on; the lad behind bar was enlisting the assistance of the Lion’s only bouncer, an immense bald bloke called Nev, to get rid of a couple of shell-suited types.

Once Nev had escorted the unwanted clientele outside the barman returned to his normal duties.
“Fucking pikeys,” he stated by way of explanation.
“In here all the fucking time trying to sell coke, that's why we had to have the CCTV installed in the toilets.”