Toilet Aerobics.

Right after I posted this morning, I headed to the shitter here at work. We share the 6th floor with another company, so you can never really tell who is in the stall next to you. This turns out to be a good thing as I sincerely hope I don’t work with the assmonkey that was in the stall next to me.

I get in there, sit down, pop open the Sports page and am about 10 minutes into the articles on Broncos’ training camp when I look under the divider into the next stall. I normally don’t do this because, well, shit, think about it, why would I care what kind of shoes the other dude is wearing. Something caught my eye though, and I bent over to see what it was. I can see a pair of cross-trainers and these tan, drawstring pants (I think they’re called Gramicci) down around the ankles, but that’s not what caught my eye. The shoes are at about a 45 degree angle from the floor and are moving sporadically. I don’t mean a steady wiggle-wiggle-wiggle like he’s just fidgeting, I mean, his legs are spread and he’s acting like something furry with 187 legs is crawling out of his butt.

At first I feel bad for him thinking, “must’ve had wings last night.” As I go back to my paper, I catch his reflection in the little chrome hooyah that holds up the dividing wall between us. It’s an odd-shaped piece of metal so the image reflected usually resembles an amoeba or inkblot of some sort, but the general reflection is usually that of someone sitting upright on the toilet. This guys reflection is going in and out of focus, again, sporadically, not steady. If it was steady, again, I’d feel bad for him (“C’mon ice cream? C’mon ice cream?”).

Instead, I start to figure it out. That motherfucker’s in there rubbin’ one out.

Now, I rarely miss an opportunity to pleasure myself as only I can, but HOLY SHIT, not in a public fucking bathroom and especially not with another dude in the next stall.

I’m making all sorts of throat-clearing noises now, hoping that he’ll deduce that the guy in the next stall knows something’s up with his convulsing and odd movements. Nope. He’s full-on into it.

Now I’m pissed. But I’m undecided as to what to do. My sleep-deprived state has made me question my judgement today and I’ve decided my first instinct is completely wrong until I can sleep again. So, I ignore it. In this case, my first instinct was to get some toilet paper, soak it under the faucet and chuck it into his stall. That, or reach under the door and yank on his shoelaces until he stopped. Instead, I’m hoping to wait him out so I can peek through the door space and see who he is while he’s (hopefully) washing his hands so I can fuck with him, anonymously, later.

I’m definitely hoping he washes his hands too. I know I had that whole entry about how I don’t wash my hands in the bathroom but I definitely would if there was cock juice on ’em.

So, I read for another 5 minutes or so. That fucker is still going and his movements haven’t picked up or slowed down at all.

Now, I’m theorizing. Maybe he’s epileptic. Maybe he’s doing some sort of excercises. Maybe he’s retarded.

Nope. All theories go the way of the Dodo when I hear him grunt softly and his frantic movements cease altogether.

Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I just heard the money shot. I had no idea how incredibly fucking nasty it would be to hear that and know exactly what it was. This ain’t like no porn audio I’ve ever heard. Ick, bleah, YUUUUHHHGGUUUGGGHH.

When he gets out, I almost can’t look, but I do. Crap, can’t see his face, but his body mechanics are not of someone who is physically challenged enough to shit with those kind of kinetics going on. I get a good look at the clothing though, so I wait, finish up, and take a quick tour around the floor, poking my head into everyone’s office asking really inane questions and checking out their pants and shoes. I don’t know what I’ll say when I find that shitwad, but, depending on who it is, I’m giving them a look that would make a Catholic School Nun proud, then I’m fucking with him later.

I can’t find him though. Must work for the other company. They don’t let visitors past the front desk either, so that’s out. Shit, oh well. I go back to my cubicle in frustration.

Later this afternoon, I go to take a piss and?

No shit. That fucker is in there again.

Same shoes? Yep. Same pants? Yep. Same God-that-new-receptionist-is-so-fucking-hot movements? Double Yep. The guy’s a fucking machine.

Chrissakes.

Sure, I’m a horny-nasty bastard, and there are times that I’m so good to myself, I cry out my own name. But, not twice in 4 hours? in a goddam shared, public restroom? at work? with other dudes going in and out all the time. No way.

Trusting my instincts or no, something needs to be done.

I walk out normally, go back to my cube, take off my shoes and roll up my pantlegs. My cube is about 12 feet from the back door which is about 6 feet from the bathroom door, so I don’t have to sneak shoelessly very far. I know I have time to because Spanky McFloggington has to be on at least round two and round one took long enough. Double ick, bleah, YUUUUHHHGGUUUGGGHH.

Why did I take off my shoes? So, he won’t know who I am, of course. I’m so damn clever sometimes.

I sneak out the back door, check the hallway ninja-style, and then creep into the bathroom. Spanky had to have heard the door, so I figure to make my move quick-like-a-panther. First I check the shoes and make sure it’s him? I’m not making THAT mistake. Yep, jerkin’ away carelessly.

I jump out from behind the other stall, grab the door handle to Spanky’s stall and start jerking it fervently, in much the same manner as Spanky himself. RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE.

Then I yell, “WHADDYADOININTHERE!?!?!”

“AUH!? WHA!? NUUHH-THING!!!” is Spanky’s reply.

I jump back around the other stall and look under his stall again in time to see him yanking his pants up in a furious rush. Then I run out the door, check the hallway, and scoot back to my cube, giggling fiendishly.

I wanted to poke my head out the door and wait for him to come out, but, for some reason, I didn’t want the guy to see me. I don’t know why, hell, what’s he going to say?

“Hey asshole, what’s the big idea banging on the door like that while I’m oinkin’ my doink?”

Still, if he’s psychotic enough to jerk it twice a day in our common restroom, he may be twisted enough to come after me. I guess that would only scare me if he didn’t pull up his pants first.

Testament to how deeply involved folks here get involved in their work, the dude in the cube across from me doesn’t say a thing as I am futilely attempting to suppress my giggling while putting my shoes back on and rolling my pantlegs back down.

When my co-worker buddy hears me giggling from two cubes over, he comes around and asks conspiratorially, “What the fuck are you doing?”

After I told him and he finally wiped the tears from his eyes, he says to me, “You are so gonna get fired for shit like that.”

I might, but I’d appeal the decision until the higher-ups could hear the whole story.