The Urinal Chronicles: Part 1

The Urinal Chronicles: Part 1

Steve had an odd habit of grabbing the metal stem that rose out of the top of the urinal when he was taking a leak — as if he needed to brace himself against the jet force of his piss, lest it hurl him across the men’s room. By some freak and recurring coincidence, Steve and I wound up in the bathroom at the same time at least once a day, standing together at the urinals. We’d struck up a sort of friendship, if you can call a relationship founded on two, maybe three minutes of converation with a person on the other side of a plastic divider friendship. Still, it added up. We’d been working at the same company for a year, now. That’s over three hundred minutes of quality talk.

“You know what I like best about pissing?” said Steve one day, as we stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the same blank wall, the same featureless, slightly reflective brown tile.

“No, Steve,” I said. “What do you like best about pissing?”

“Watching other people piss.”

“Uh-huh.” I twisted my body about three degrees to the left. There was a divider between us, of course, but suddenly it didn’t seem like quite enough protection.

“Not you, asshole. You’re boring.”

“Oh. Good.” I was a little relieved to hear this, and a little sad too. “How would I go about not being boring when I’m taking a leak?”

“Well, you could hunch over the urinal, like Jackson does.” At this, Steve rounded his back and pressed himself forward, looking over his shoulder with wide, frightened eyes, in a perfect imitation of Frank Jackson. Frank peed like Brad Pitt would if he were in jail, always on the lookout for amorous advances from fellow inmates.

I chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Or you could do a Paul Robards.” Steve straighted and stared fixedly down at his dick, his mouth open. “Like you’re always surprised to see it. Like, What the fuck is that thing?, every time. Or you could try a Jacob Sterner.” He took a step away from the urinal and bent his knees and leaned back a little. “Rainbow man. It’s like target practice with him. You can see him calculating arc.”

I nodded. We were well beyond the three minute limit, and I was dry, and someone was standing behind us, waiting. But we’d struck a rich vein of conversation, here, and I wasn’t about to pull out yet. “And how about Keith?”

“Keith! The pump action pisser!” Steve started bending and straightening his knees, his head bobbing up and down beside me. “He’s one of my personal favorites. And let’s not forget Valkyrie Bob.” That would be Bob Stephenson, who hummed Ride of The Valkyries while he was pissing, his voice getting louder and louder as the flow of urine rose to its cresendo, and then falling slowly, by stages, as it slackened to a trickle.

“And then there’s Tremor boy Tom.” Tom took the standard post-piss tap tap to an extreme, shaking his member like it was a rattlesnake he needed to kill. I mimicked the motion, my entire body trembling with the effort.

Steve laughed, and I laughed. I don’t think I’d every really laughed at work before. Eventually, Steve zipped up and nudged a tear from his eye. “Ah me. Yeah, pissing’s the best part of the day. See you tomorrow.” He stepped away from the urinal.

“Seeya.” I was putting everything back in its place when the guy behind me moved into Steve’s slot. I didn’t recognize him, at least not out of the corner of my eye. Must be new. He unzipped, then tilted forward, slowly, like the leaning tower of Pisa in the act of leaning, until his forehead came to rest against the tile. He closed his eyes, and opened his mouth, and his face slackened into an expression of pure, orgasmic joy.

Ooo, I thought. That’s a good one.