On the Dunny Side
ADULT: Graffiti in public toilets provided a young Barry Lowe with plenty of amusement and, in one case, total satisfaction.
It was gay writer, Bob Hay, I think, who declared that (some) public toilets should be declared gay male ‘scared sites’. Perhaps he was thinking of those in which John Gielgud, Jimmy Somerville and George Michael were arrested. Or the pissoir in Paris where Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns supposedly soaked his baguettes for extra flavour.
Of course, it’s not just the rich and famous who have been caught playing penis tag in public dunnies, many a randy gay man or unfussy straight has been caught and prosecuted for having his pants down and his prick where it ‘shouldn’t’ be. As well as being an easy target for the morality police, public toilets have long-served as meeting places for the dispossessed and the priapic, as well as a public gallery for frustrated authors and artists. You only have to look at the backs of stall doors and the walls to note the incredible amount of artistic endeavour that goes into the decoration.
I often marvel at the intricate penmanship that goes into such literary masterpieces as, “Every Tuesday. 1pm. Will suck. Will swallow.” Succinct, yet full of so many possibilities. They say you tell a lot about a man by the way he writes. As a result, I’ve spent many a happy hour in public dunnies reading the literary outpourings of unappreciated wordsmiths, my dick in my hand, while I wait for 1pm to come around.
No one ever showed up at the allotted time. I suggest a ‘Use By’ date be adhered to all such messages in future to save me wasting my precious time. I could be at home pickling bat’s balls or crocheting merkins instead of salivating over cocks that never eventuate.
While the words are seldom treated with the same regard as great literature, the drawings are dismissed with the superior smirk that ‘I can draw better than that’. Of course, had these same drawings appeared on a cave wall in nearby bushland, the U.N. would have slapped a preservation order on them and university publishing houses would issue ponderous tomes of scholarship on their meaning and importance.
Public lavatories were my institutions of higher learning as a teenager. In the 1960s I stumbled into the colourful life of a ‘pervert’ through inadvertently neglecting my ablutions while I read of one man’s sexual adventures which took up almost the entirety of the back of the wooden cubicle door. I didn’t know you could do such things with that insistent mound of flesh between my legs but, god, was it exciting. As was the visual aids of rampant, shooting penii accompanying other literary efforts on the walls. I showed considerably less interest in those rough renderings of the female anatomy which did nothing to arouse my curiosity or my sexual itch.
So engrossed was I one day with my favourite story – I must pause here to give thanks to Enid Blyton and the backs of public toilet doors for my lifelong abiding interest in reading – that I neglected to lock the stall door, or else, I hadn’t slid the bolt across far enough to engage. I ignored the sounds of shoes on cement as the urinal was always busy, knowing I was safe in my hideaway.
However, someone pushed the door and it opened to reveal me seated majestically on the throne playing with my now not-so-private parts. Oops. It wasn’t the police, it wasn’t some outraged local busybody, it was a man of middle age who smiled nicely, and came into the cubicle to help me out of my dilemma and, in doing so, added immeasurably to my education.
Had I spent less time in the classroom and more in public toilets, I might be better educated than I am today.