Stage Fright

I was at the local watering hole making up for a shitty week in style–two pitchers of your finest draft, to be exact. Knowing I was about to tie one on in the next few hours, I had also tried to take preventative-hungover-measures by swilling large amounts of water and Advil before I left the house. Needless to say, I had to pee like a racehorse.

Knees and thighs squeezed tightly together, I stumbled towards the ladies’ loo. The line was horrific–Oh God, I think my bladder was going into contractions. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “I’m looking for my friend,” I said to no one in particular as I pushed open the bathroom door. “OUCH!” A female voice squealed. It was worse than I thought. It was so jammed in there I had biffed some girl with the door handle. Toilet paper littered the floor. “I think the toilet is clogged,” I heard someone else say. Oh fuck, THE toilet–that means one stall! I briefly contemplated making a bum rush for it, but the girls at the front of the line looked like the first place contestants in the Eastern European Female Wrestling Competition. I slunk back out.

My eyes darted around the bar, viewing anything large and round as a possible receptacle. Hmmm, garbage can, pint glass…then suddenly I saw a boy I knew heading for the men’s room. I ran over and grabbed his arm. “Take me with you!” I hissed. He looked startled, then saw my physical interpretation of a pretzel and laughed. “C’mon,” he said, and brought me inside.

Gleaming floors, 8 stalls and 3 urinals stood before my astonished eyes. There was a man in a suit, holding CLOTH TOWELS in the corner! I thought I glimpsed a “Sauna/Steam Room” sign off to the left. “Go ahead,” he smiled and pushed me towards the empty stall. I kissed him, ran in, and locked the door. I triumphantly pulled down my pants, squatted, and–nothing. Huh? I tried to concentrate: Niagara Falls, running faucets…but all I could hear was two guys at the urinal comparing the boob sizes of Maggie Gyllenhaal and Carrie Mulligan. I strained my kegel muscles, willing the sweet sound of urine hitting the porcelain. But the only sound was guys’ laughter and…farting. Oh Christ, come on! COME ON! Five minutes passed. Not even a drop.

“Um, are you OK in there?” I heard my friend whisper outside the stall.

“No,” I whimpered. Performance anxiety had me by the proverbial balls, and there was nothing I could do. I pulled up my pants, gave a sad wave to my friend and the cloth towel man and crawled back outside to the end of the ladies’ room line, that started somewhere just north of Uranus.

 

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