Taken from Craigslist.
Our encounter was purely happenstance but certainly unforgettable. Not unforgettable in the way a guy never forgets unclasping a bra for the first time and inhaling the sweet aroma of exposed breasts...but unforgettable in the sense that our encounter continues to haunt me weeks later and I am only now able to gather the strength to anonymously discuss this incident in the amalgamous vacuum of CL.I'm thinking we should have Craigslist Friday specials. You can't make this stuff up. :)
On my incoming flight from New York to Chicago, my body managed to consume, process, and contain two delicious, refreshing, and complimentary cans of cran-apple during the 2.5 hour flight on top of the 16 ounces of Aquafina I guzzled prior to boarding. As the captain turned on the fasten seat-belt sign indicating our final descent I ignored the polite reminders from my bladder that it was time to pee. As the captain taxied from Arlington Heights to gate K5, I battled through the pee-pee dance as I sat wedged in 26B. As I stood waiting for the herd of cattle seated in front of me to shuffle out of the plane, I fought the juvenile urge to cross my legs and shove both hands over my crotch. As I exited the plane, I politely thanked the attractive young flight attendant whose cran-apple generosity had gotten me into this mess and trampled the small group of octogenarians that dared to slow my ascent up the jetbridge and into the concourse.
Located at the end of O'Hare's concourse K, I spotted my target and ignited the afterburners. Turning the doorless privacy corner inherent to all airport bathrooms, my rollerboard skidded and pitched to one side. In a flash of bag-control skills that would bring a smile to the Dukes of Hazard, I deftly returned the rollerboard to its natural and stable two-wheeled position and forged into the fog of post-flight feces. Eyeing the urinals, I went through the subconscious urinal selection process that every male initiates when using a public restroom. [Although I'm sure females must go through a somewhat similar process in selecting a stall, the nature of urinals dictates that males not only select based on general geographical position, but also on a flash physical and social read of the other restroom patrons. The last thing most guys want to deal with while peeing is making friends with the person at the urinal next to you, but every guy knows that those 'urinpals' are out there and should be avoided at the expense of selecting geographically undesirable urinals. Worse yet are the guys that pull up to the urinal and experience stage fright, exposing the two of you to an awkward moment of silence where both of you want nothing more then for him to start peeing.] But I digress...
Although the decision may have appeared instantaneous to onlookers, my mind raced through the customary checklist before deciding on the second urinal from the left (or fourth urinal from the door, depending on how you look at it). Due to heavy traffic, my only other option was the midget urinal located closest to the door and within mere inches of the first sink. My decision to pass on the midget urinal had less to do with the fear that a vertically challenged powerlifter would kick my ass for using the little people's toilet, and more to do with the fear that the tremendous backpressure created by my swollen bladder combined with the additional stream-travel-distance would certainly leave splatter marks on the knee caps of my light colored pants.
It was this innocent decision that opened the proverbial door to our first, and hopefully final, encounter. There you were, peeing into the third urinal from the left (or third urinal from the door, depending on how you look at it). "An interesting choice, selecting the middle urinal in a pack of 5 tightly packed urinals without privacy dividers," I thought to myself. Based on the overflowing traffic in and out of the bathroom, I assumed that you did not have a choice in the matter. Unphased, I quickly unzipped my pants and took aim as my angry bladder indicated that I no longer had a choice as to when these Aquafina-diluted cran-apples were exiting.
Had there been a shelf or a handle two feet above the toilet, I certainly would have ripped it out of the tiles. This was the type of penis release that is best done with one hand gripping the wall...urine had somehow permeated throughout my body and into my fingertips and could only be expunged via gravity. The porcelain's drowning screams for mercy were partially muted by my kidney's grunts of relief as my basketball sized bladder retreated to its normal confines within my inner cavity. As the minutes passed and my blackout feeling of utter liberation slowly subsided, I regained my peripheral vision and noticed that every piss jockey at this particular trough had been replaced (some a couple times over) except for me at urinal #2 and you at urinal #3.
Through the rushing sounds of my ammonia laden stream splashing the 3" diameter aqua target at the center of my urinal, I ran some numbers and estimated that I had been flowing for 2 minutes and 28 seconds. "This is incredible," I thought, "here I am about to set the all-time record for world's longest piss; and this goober next to me is trying to outlast me and claim what is rightfully mine." Jogging my mental notes, I also realized that since he had arrived at his urinal prior to my Evil Kinevil bathroom entrance, I was totally unaware aware of how many seconds (or minutes, for that matter) I had to last beyond his final drip.
In an effort to catch a glimpse of the nameless man who was about to top my gold medal golden shower, I strained my peripheral vision. My years of playing competitive sports and surfing the internet at work had given me an almost superhuman vision field which allowed me to take a mental picture of you as you laughed in the face of my best efforts. It was through this peripheral strain that I noticed your hand was involved in some extracurricular motions which indicated to me that you were shaking out the last few drops. "Victory!!" I cried as my pee flowed without signs of hesitation.
Whether it was my victory cry, subdued fist pumping or superhuman urinary tract that set you off kilter, I'll never know. But it was precisely at this point, amidst my record-breaking celebration and final sprint through the home stretch, that I noticed you twisting your head in my direction and fidgeting uncontrollably. While I anticipated that my urinary performance would draw some attention, I didn't anticipate that it would draw so much attention from you that you would break all urinal etiquette and drop your eyes below shoulder level. Besides, how many times did you really have to shake your penis? Every grown man knows that you could shake it once, or shake it 20 times, and you're still going to get that one drop that plans its untimely exit as your little king returns to his boxer kingdom.
Suddenly, as I approached the record-setting 3 minute mark, I began to piece your filthy little puzzle together. You planted yourself at the middle urinal in a heavy traffic restroom without privacy barriers between the urinals, you had been in the restroom longer than I had, and here I was setting an untouchable record, you had been shaking the final drips out of your wang for God know how long, you keep looking at me and at my thing. "WAIT! YOU LEWD PIECE OF SHIT; YOU'RE MASTURBATING!!" my mind screamed.
If I wasn't frozen with utter disgust, fear, anger, and nauseousness I would have kicked your ass! I'm sure you remember the death look that I gave you, because I distinctly remember looking into your beady little eyes and seeing the fear of death staring back at me. Had we not been in a public place and had I not been afraid you would try to swing your boner at me, I would have dropped you. Had I not been completely caught off guard, I would have yelled a warning cry to all airport patrons within 200 yards that you were an absolute sicko. I would have catalyzed a mob that would have certainly ripped your little prick off to prevent you from ever reproducing miniature perverts.
Lucky for you I was too paralyzed to do anything but retreat in utter mortification. Some three weeks later, I am still healing my emotional wounds. I have difficulties urinating in public. I can only pee alone behind closed doors or in empty bathrooms. I no longer look down on fellow restroomers suffering from urinary stage fright'for they may have stage fright for good reason after being exposed to a sick piece of shit like you.
My therapist said that writing this down will help me cope with the tragedy, but unbeknownst to my therapist, this message also serves two other purposes. This message serves as a warning to other patrons of the O'Hare International Airport's mens rooms, as well as public restrooms throughout the world, that there are some sick fucks walking amongst us. And, this message is my fair warning that next time I see you, your beady little eyes, or your shriveled old dick I'm going to make one smartass remark, just to remind you of who I am, like you know, if you shake it more than once it's called playing with yourself.
Then I'm going to kick your face in.
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