Post-Coital Destruction
Ok so we’ve just finished having sex and while you performed adequately, I was simply magnificent. Now that I’ve come down from my lofty plateau of manliness, it’s time for the routine bathroom trip. On the way out you might even be lucky enough to catch a half smirk or a wink from me. I’ll politely ask you where the restroom is and probably even thank you. Unfortunately for you, that’s where the pleasantries end.
You see, being a man comes with a few dilemmas; by far the most annoying of which is trying to urinate with an erection. Luckily you women don’t have to deal with a situation of this magnitude (and I don’t want to hear about childbirth or your period because 1.) It’s not my fault you have ovaries and 2.) I don’t care). Besides, in both instances a woman knows what’s happening far ahead of time. For men, the condition I’m describing can be both spontaneous and surprising.
Anyways, I make my way to the bathroom while pointing like a dowsing rod to water. I reach the toilet and grope the wall while struggling to find the light switch. Suddenly it feels like I’m back at summer camp trying to reach second base. I finally manage to click it on only to be taken back by the sheer sparkling brightness of the room. This is because a woman’s bathroom is her sanctuary; it’s where the makeup, tampons, and hairdryer are systematically arranged. Therefore not only does she spend the majority of her time here, she also tends to keep the area as spotless as possible. Every item has its place. Each bottle is strategically located. Well, that’s all about to change.
As expected the seat is down, how thoughtful of her to impede my progress. Unlike this generic picture however, a woman tends to have those fucking lotion baskets somewhere in, on, or around the toilet itself. This complicates matters since it usually prohibits the toilet seat from opening completely. Thus I have to hold it in one hand while trying to aim with the other (which cuts down on accuracy and stability). Not only that, but there’s woman stink on my junk so I’ve got to be extra cautious.
Naturally, because of your poor choice in bathroom accessories I am less inclined to pity you for what is about to happen. Hey, you didn’t see this coming? It’s your fault; don’t put so much useless shit around the toilet. Just for the sake of irony though, why is it women don’t use those furry toilet bathmat things? Not only does it provide extra traction, I also get the sensation of peeing on Carrot Top’s head. As an added bonus they even soak up a lot of urine! On second thought, I guess that’s more of a bonus for me.
Well, now that my feet are firmly planted (sans furry bathmat) and my hands are in place, it’s time to face the music. These precious moments can be extremely nerve-wracking due to the inevitability of the Viper Piss. Ahhh yes, men everywhere are nodding and laughing sheepishly while the women are thoroughly confused. Here’s the Mr. Wizard version for you naïve ladies: after sex there is still some juice left in the bottle, so to speak. Because of this, the urine flow is disrupted and often splits into two streams or more; hence the spitting snake nickname. I know it sounds gross but trust me it can be really funny (especially since it’s usually not two even streams but rather a mishmash of dribbles and squirt gun-like delivery). On second thought, it’s only funny if it’s not your bathroom, so in this instance it’s hilarious.
The main problem with the V.P. is trying to judge distances and depth. Although I haven’t asked around, I’m sure most men would agree that trying to point an erection down towards a toilet is quite uncomfortable. Couple that with trying to direct a human sprinkler head and you begin to see the predicament we face almost daily. This is why we always have the magazines, etc. stacked on top of the toilet as opposed to a basket on the side. Think of it like being at the Shamu Show at Sea World; there’s a good possibility everything in the immediate area will get soaked.
So how do we remedy the situation? With physics my dear! In order to ease the discomfort from pointing down at our typical angle, we simply back up a few paces to bring the trajectory down. Normally this would be a simple procedure if we were in our bathroom. But no, you had to accessorize and put shit all over the wall, which negates this maneuver. Therefore your copy of Cosmo is getting a golden shower (sorry Ms. Lohan).
Well, if we can’t change our manhood’s trajectory, we’ll simply have to adjust our body. And to compensate for your ill-advised sense of spatial arrangement, we’ve added this second tactic to our repertoire. I like to call it the scissor lift drop but some of you cynical bastards might call it “squatting”. Having said that, this does not mean dropping down like a Major League catcher. Simply put, it’s a more like a half-stretch. Honestly though, that’s why we exercise our hamstrings (and no, it’s not an excuse for that “burning sensation”). Ask Lance Armstrong, he didn’t do it for those silly French races. He did it so he could out scissor drop any man in the country; and considering he’s got a lot of adoring groupies, you can see why.
Ok so now that I’ve managed to soak everything in the vicinity, it’s time for damage control. Too bad in the wake of my destruction I happened to drench the entire roll of toilet paper. This calls for some careful strategic planning. Luckily for us, you ladies always have an overabundance of towels on hand. Seriously, women have more bath towels than most Olympic locker rooms do. Given the current state of affairs though, it definitely comes in handy. See we know you’re very proud of these expensive, embroidered towels (which I’ve come to find out are usually just for show). What you fail to comprehend however is that you rarely ever move these items. Therefore as long as the product placement is identical after we’ve used them, we’re in the clear. Just make absolutely sure you only use the back of the towels (because nothing is a bigger giveaway than a bunch of crumpled damp cloths).
All right fellas, making progress here—the bowl, lid, seat, and outlying territories have all been wiped clean…but what to do about that pungent piss aroma? Thankfully, since we’re in a woman’s bathroom, there is a veritable cornucopia of scents and oils at our disposal. Being the classy, eloquent man that I am, I usually opt for a bottle I can’t pronounce, but feel free to choose any perfume you like. Whichever one you grab, make sure to use as much of it as possible because a 50/50 piss mix just won’t cut it. Be wary of the tricky nozzles some of these bottles are equipped with too; one wrong spritz and it’s bye-bye vision for about an hour.
So the toilet smells like a fresh, French cooter but unfortunately so do I and I’ve still got woman stink on my unit. We have reached a crossroads here my friends. This is the “Choose Your Own Adventure” part of the narrative. Do I take a shower knowing full well I’ll only have my own piss-saturated towels to dry off with? Or do I walk out smelling like a woman with the jelly junk? I ponder this about as long as R. Kelly does an invite to a middle school prom. Showertime.
I’ve come to realize the female shower is like Madagascar—everything in there is unique and completely different from anything I’ve ever seen in my life. First of all there are multiple bottles of shampoo that apparently each have their own unique functions. Secondly, they are shaped unlike any containers I’ve ever seen. Third, there are things in there that look like sex toys. In all honesty, my shower has Suave brand shampoo ($1.89), Dove soap ($0.87), and Axe body wash ($2.25). That comes to a grand total of $5.01. I can guarantee you any woman you know has at least one bottle in her shower that costs more than all three of those combined. As you might expect I decided to try every one of hers just so I could 1.) Waste them and laugh at her spending over $5 on each bottle, and 2.) Make her water bill go up.
After I’ve exhausted most of her resources I decide it’s time to get out. Keeping in mind that all of her towels (or at least the backs) are ruined, I’ve got to play this smart and be sneaky about it. By leaving the shower running and turning on the sink, I’m able to create a diversion/cover for myself. This way she won’t be able to hear what’s happening. Going against the grain, use your hands to wipe away as much water as possible (I didn’t bother doing this in the shower but instead opted to do it on the mat, which sent water flying everywhere). I snatched the hairdryer, plugged it in, set it on low and went to work. Within 10 minutes I was drier than a nun’s birth canal. Problem solved, moving on.
Since no one enjoys a watery ear canal all I’ve got to do now is find some Q-Tips. Of course after rummaging under the sink for what seems like an eternity, I find them lodged between the tampons and a Tupperware tub full of makeup. Since I’m not one for patience I just pull everything out onto the floor and take my one Q-Tip. As I’m doing my business I revel in the disaster I’ve wrought on this once pristine lavatory.
Not only are her magazines and toilet paper ruined but she’s got a fantastic surprise waiting on her towel rack too. The floor has tampons, eyeliner, and nail polish bottles scattered about. The shower has empty shampoo canisters strewn everywhere and soap designs on the walls. Everything is wet and it smells like a poodle queefed. I turned off the light and left the door partially cracked as I returned to the room. I proceeded to get dressed, say my goodbyes and leave unceremoniously never to return again. I never heard if she liked my post-coital destruction but all in all I’d give my abstract artwork an A-.
