If only women knew what their husbands and boyfriends do with each other in public restrooms.
Any man from Atlanta knows the code well: the toilet flushing when you walk in the door, tapping feet, heavy breathing.
One time in the Midtown Publix, I was standing at the urinal while two guys were grunting and moaning in the stall next to me, apparently too distracted to detect my presence — or maybe they knew and liked it.
Another time in the Buckhead Target, I watched two guys stumble out of a stall when I walked in the door — both had embarrassed looks on their faces and were pulling up their pants. You can’t get less subtle than that.
Then there was the time I stopped at a rest area in the suburbs at 5 a.m. — I drank a lot of coffee before I left the city. The first thing I saw when I pushed open the door was a bare ass ducking into a stall. “Nooope”, I said out loud and beelined to the adjacent restroom.
I make no judgment on the acts — only the lies and secrecy. And for the men who hook up with other guys but elect to strip the rights of those who aren’t downlow hypocrites like themselves, I have nothing but disdain.
Suck and fuck all you want, bros, and when you have to deal with the inevitable disease and the fallout of your women discovering your deeds, well, you have my sympathies — but only to a point.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to piss.