I shall call you that because, well, how else could I sufficiently describe you when I know nothing about you beyond what you did inside that cramped McDonald’s restroom in the corner of Quirino and Taft avenues?
Granted–decent, flannel-wearing, book-loving young professionals like me don’t usually stay in public restrooms for more than five minutes, but I was on a very important call. Or rather, a call that my boss insisted was still important when we had already spent the whole afternoon discussing the same thing. She didn’t want hearing all those schoolgirls chirping about their crushes in the background, so I had to move to a less noisy place.
The restroom proved to be suitable for the occasion. And it was almost okay, really, finishing my float on that alcove behind the restroom door and letting my boss drone on the other line, even though I might have startled quite a few men as they rushed by to relieve themselves.
Until you came in and went to the urinal farthest from me, which meant that, unlike the urinal just opposite me, I could see you better and the monkey business you were just about to do.
I didn’t notice you at first. I didn’t notice that you were wearing black, didn’t notice that you probably took more time than necessary unzipping your pants and coaxing your member into releasing urine.
After several more minutes on the phone with my boss, you were still there. And this time you were looking over your shoulders, to me, as you began to accompany what’s supposed to be an almost hands-free affair with lots of, erm, hand actions. And soon there was no longer the trickling sound of your filthy urine, but that strange, whispery sound as you fumbled with your crotch.
I knew just how excited you were, and maybe expectant as well. I could see it, you made sure I did, and I could see you straining hard, really hard, for, well, I don’t really know, since my bedtime reading hardly covers aberrant sexual behaviors.
Boy, did you beat that middle-aged guy who once sat beside me on the bus and started whipping out his…phone and browsing through photos of naked men in-my-face. He had nothing on you, even though with his bald head and shades he looked insanely like Hugo Weaving.
I wanted to tell you then to save yourself from trouble, because I myself have that same tool of a perfectly adequate size and shape, and that if I wanted to see one other than my own it would be my own business.
You left first, and when I came out you were sitting just outside the restroom, seemingly waiting for me and starting to become a totally scary freak.
I’m letting you know that before I went to sleep that night, I prayed for you, and your, well, release.