by HL Borden

Created on: August 22, 2008   Last Updated: March 18, 2010

It's late morning on a beautiful sunny day. My plan is to find a secluded bench overlooking the water, then knock off a chapter or two of my book before returning to work. Once I reach the shore, however, a familiar grumbling begins to grow low in my stomach. "Oh no. Not again," I think, as I frantically scan the area for the nearest restroom.

I spot one not too far from where I have made myself "comfortable" on a concrete bench. I rush over. A hard shove on the door to the women's room seals my fate. Locked. Chained and padlocked. I circle to the other side where the men's room entrance is located, not holding out much hope. Miraculously, the door is wide open.

I hesitate for a brief moment before my churning insides make a snap decision for me. Shoulders back and head held high, I march in. To my relief, it is unoccupied at this early hour. I hope and pray that this will remain the case. Of the two stalls offered me, I choose the one farthest from the entrance. You know, just to be safe.

It is difficult for me to really call them "stalls" since that word conjures an image of a private enclosure with a door. But this is a public restroom at the beach. They are not built for modesty; there are no doors. And with their steel toilets without seats, they are not built for comfort either.

I begin my elimination process doing "the hover"; a trick where women straddle the toilet with their butts mere centimeters away from touching the seat. After realizing this is not going to be a quick execution, I reluctantly lower myself onto the cold steel. Luckily, I still have my book to help pass the time.

Whilst leisurely reading my chapters, I hear a man enter the restroom. I give a little jingle-jangle of my belt buckle to warn him that the last of the two "stalls" was occupied. Thinking that would suffice in keeping him away, I return to my book. Guys are strange creatures, though, and he ventures to the back to get a little look-see anyway. Pants around my ankles, book open on my lap, I look up and give a cat-ate-the-canary shrug and smile. He turns and enters the stall one over.

In my mind, I'm basically trapped in the bathroom until he leaves. If I were to try to exit now, it would mean crossing directly in front of his doorless stall and witnessing him in action. I check my watch and see that I still have some time before I have to be back at work. I'm okay on time. I figure the prudent thing to do is to go back to my book and wait.

A few minutes go by before I realize I haven't heard anything from the stall next door. I can still see his feet there, so I know he hasn't left. That's when I hear him stand and buckle his belt. "Guess he couldn't go while a woman was in the bathroom," I figure.

I hear him make his way to the small sink, then the sound of the soap dispenser being pushed. His footsteps warn me that he is returning. Back in his "stall," his pants fall back to his ankles. My curiosity is piqued by what is unfolding around me, but again I am presented with nothing but silence. I quickly lose interest and reimmerse myself in my book.

After a while, a low, sporadic, guttural noise breaks me from the book's spell. It starts so quiet that at first I figure it must be coming from outside; a far-away lawn mower or something. As it grows louder, I realize it is NOT coming outside but is, rather, emanating from the stall next door. I begin to fear that the man next to me is having a heart attack. But then the panting is joined by the not-so-subtle sound of moaning and becomes quicker and much more rhythmic.

Eureka.

I have just met George Michael's doppelganger.

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