The problem with visiting people and developing a need to dispell excreta is that, a battle ensues on your mind as you stand at the door and eye the closed toilet seat at the house you are visiting. You are pressed, but the stray thought of lifting that obviously contaminated lid with your hand, is one that cannot be shoved down your throat even with a revolver pointed at you.
Your legs begin to dance in the warm up moves of a sprinter, and you contract your penile muscles to hold the urine back.
It is an abortive attempt. You feel the torrent, and dash your hand into your pants to clasp shut your phallus with a thumb and forefinger.
Your moves have now advanced to the legendary Bruce Lee legwork.
The first rush of urine slams against your blockade, and the pain sends a shudder up your spine and down your legs. It makes your teeth grit, anus clench.
In a last frantic search, your eyes make an assessment of the room. Thankfully, you spot a tissue paper tucked behind the curtain. As you close the door, inch to the window, stretch and reach for the roll with your free hand, you are making a silent prayer that it doesn’t trip over the metal bar, and have to make you lean over to pick it off the floor.
Because if you do, the spurts of urine will be merciless. With the dexterity of a master artist, it will paint maps of nonexistent continents on your trouser front.
And you will return to your host, with a ready sermon of how Supreme plumbing materials are substandard, especially their tap heads.
Turn it on to wash your hands, and it will have water splashing in all directions.
Now look at my pants, gotta get home and fix myself before my next engagement.