I do it. I try not to, but I do. I guess all males do it. We miss. Ours chaps are not as straight barrelled as we’d like, and it comes out of us in strange angles, with strange fountain features, the liquid arcing through the air in surprising and unpredictable directions. Pulled out of position his messy hairs, a momentary overconfident lapse of concentration leading to an inaccurate holding position, it is easy to miss the toilet when urinating. And once started, it is more or less impossible to stop. Sometimes you produce an errant stream and the only way to aim it at the correct area is to produce all manner of contortions and twists, trying to get your body into impossible angles, to try to successfully leave your hands/trousers/ toilet roll undrenched and that the majority of the urine gets to the bowl. It is not always a single solid stream either; occasionally there’s a breakaway arc, defying liquid dynamics by branching out into the clean air and falling randomly miles away from the main torrent. And then there’s the spray; what should come out in a single river/trickle sometimes comes out as though delivered through a colander, or creating a mist-like effect,, leaving the whole area covered in droplets apart from the tell-tale dry patches previously coved by your feet. I understand. It happens. However, it’s not what happens that defines you as a toilet-misser, its how to respond to it.
I was very recently trying to have two minutes respite from my day’s normal work avoidance schemes in a comfy and empty cubicle. I was temporarily distracted by a large bearded man in front of me who was seemingly trying to go into the ladies, but veered into the correct room at the last moment. I was chuckling at myself that he would have made an unconvincing woman, and perhaps this was my downfall. I entered an empty cubicle, slipped my trouser and boxers down, revealing my bare arse to the world (there’s something nicely rebellious about mooning (and sunning) at work, even if its where you’re supposed to, and no-one’s going to see anyway), and started to sit on the seat. On my descent, I saw that the last cubicle dweller had hosed down the area like a happy and drunk fireman with a leaky but powerful hose, and the seat was covered in the golden rivulets of another man’s wayward piss. I tried to straighten, but realised to my horror that my knees had passed the point of no return and a splashdown was the only possible result. I had to try to reduce the amount of contact time between my sparkly and impeccably dry bottom and a stranger’s pooling bladder water, so I had to use the wet seat as a trampoline, to bounce in and out as swiftly as possible. This, I did. The contact time, however, was more than enough to soak my poor bottom to the point of having streams of the stuff rolling down my unhappy and no longer squeaky clean backside. I had to wipe that stuff off using the hopelessly inadequate toilet roll provided, the paper quickly saturating and needing to be replaced, eventually creating a pile of piss pulped papier mache floating on the bowl water..
As you can imagine, these events did not fill me with happiness or joy. Nor would they anyone apart from those with the kind of golden kinks that should really be expressed away from the unsuspecting naked bottoms of everyone else. I’m not judging – whatever floats your boat. The problem was what my boat was floating on.
The upshot of all this is: Gentlemen I don’t care if you’re inaccurate. I don’t care if you leave miss the bowl with the whole of your wee-wee, leaving it the driest area in the whole of the toilets. I really don’t. But please, for the love of God, try to dry the bowl up afterwards. I don’t particularly enjoy wiping my own waste produce off my body, but having to wipe up other people’s is pretty fucking nasty.