How to Avoid Sex (2 page)

Any navigational issues I may have experienced were absent in the birdman. It moved with purpose – a deep affinity with its surrounds. The journey it led me on eschewed obvious walkways and cut through dense bamboo coppice. On occasion, my forward journey was hampered by the density, causing me to chop at the thickets in a facsimile of the martial arts. The birdman kindly waited for me whenever this occurred.

Geographical logic would suggest that our journey couldn’t have been a long one, but it didn’t feel this way. In the otherworldly seclusion of the bamboo forest, time was rendered immaterial. When finally we reached a clearing, I couldn’t have told you whether minutes or years had passed. The creature ceased its travel and with a point of the head, implored me to continue. A quaint structure with cobblestone walls and a thatched roof sat in the centre of the clearing. It was the kind of place you might expect your grandparents to live were they not dead.

As I drew closer to the structure, a sign attached near the doorway, which bore the unmistakable pictograph of a man, attracted my attention. This was an internationally recognised indicator of toilet facilities. I pressed my face against the pictograph and laughed. In the heart of isolation, where it appeared humanity refused to tread, I found the toilet of my dreams.

CHAPTER 2

Throughout life we become accustomed to certain patterns, and until something jolts us out of such patterns, we accept it with dogmatic ignorance. A prime example concerns public toilet blocks. Even when blessed by the care of a vigilant cleaner, one would never venture to suggest public toilets are sanitary environments. An ever-changing roster of visitors, plucked from myriad social classes, visit such facilities, each subjecting it to their own standards. All it takes is for one bad apple to mislay their excreta and the entire environment is compromised. One does not expect public toilets to embody cleanliness. Of course, I’d venture to say that one hasn’t experienced the toilet block I had just found. In an instant, my notion of public toilets altered immeasurably. This toilet block, hidden away by the dense bamboo forest, was the cleanest structure I had ever encountered. Its surfaces were decked in pristine Yule marble, as white as a fear-filled face. A toilet cubicle with rich mahogany doors sat at either corner of the far wall. The dulcet scent of cured pomegranate filled the air and polite muzak crept from speakers hidden within the floor. I hope it doesn’t strike one as exaggeration to suggest that this toilet block was akin to a heaven on earth.

Spending so much of my life bereft of adequate facilities, my body had become accustomed to withholding its desire to evacuate waste. But as I stood amidst the grandeur of this luxury lavatory, my body, clearly smitten, gave itself permission to let go. Using the toilet had, within the space of a few seconds, become a matter of urgency. I glanced about, making absolutely sure that I was alone, and made haste for one of the cubicles.

With lowered underthings, I sat down on the seat and felt an immediate sun-kissed warmth penetrate the flesh of my buttocks. In a manner unbefitting civility, I sighed deeply, garnering genuine pleasure from my discovery. I glanced around the cubicle, enjoying the detail as it danced across my retinas.

As I surveyed the cubicle, my eyes fell upon something that, at first, I found alarming. Not even this public restroom, secluded in the bamboo forest, could avoid the blight of vandalism. Immediately to my right, above the toilet roll dispenser, was the horrid scrawl of graffiti. Restroom graffiti is of a curious breed. In some unconscionable circles, it has become de rigueur to use restroom
walls to solicit sexual liaison. I will admit, despite the disgust this practice arouses within me, I have always looked upon it with fascination. In a practical sense, it seems as though this method is doomed to failure. Perhaps I’m too reserved for my own good, but the thought of such a thing resulting in a successfully executed sexual event had impossibility painted all over it.

There was something different about the particular solicitation written on the walls in this cubicle, however. For one, the penmanship was divine. Its cursive hypnotised me into following the path of each loop. The weight of each stroke appeared to breath in and out like a sleeping child. I was in the presence of something great. The graffiti read as follows:

Dear sir,

If you are reading this note, I must at once apologise for my spurious choice of medium. I admit that it comes across as crass. With that in mind, I won’t be surprised if you ignore this request.

I find myself in a situation where sexual gratification remains elusive. Despite what you may expect, I am not what one would call a sexual pervert. Nor does my sexuality cast its gaze upon any one gender. There are certain peculiarities about my situation, but I am quite positive that my sexuality is healthy. I was advised that communicating via a lavatory wall might attract a certain type of person willing to overlook my physical impediments. Should you be interested in a tryst, I would do my best to make it worth your while.

Written below the note were a series of dates and times, each crossed out except for the most recent. There were at least fifty proffered dates and times that had assumedly passed without success, the earliest just over a year old, while the most recent was a mere three days away. I hadn’t made up my mind whether or not I envied or pitied this man’s persistence. In a sense, I admired him and I wasn’t sure why. The concept of a clandestine, completely anonymous sexual meeting was enough to inspire nausea within me. But written as it was, upon the wall of the most delectable toilet I had ever seen, infused with mannered sincerity and restraint, I was willing to betray my own morality by admitting a
certain fondness for the unknown gentleman. On a basic level I still didn’t condone his actions, but within its own context, he had acted in the best possible way.

I had spent so long lost in my own confusing thoughts that I failed to notice the conclusion of my waste evacuation. To tell you that such a thing is rare would be a gross understatement. Even when I have total privacy, I make it a priority to vacate the lavatory at my earliest convenience. You never know what may happen, and one must never be caught with their pants down. And there I was in a public toilet of all places! Sure, it enjoyed unparalleled seclusion, but the existence of the written note suggested that it wasn’t completely unfrequented. And the pristine state of the facilities would surely require the expertise of a cleaner. It’s shameful to admit, but I had become side-tracked by thoughts of the sexual solicitation on the cubicle wall. It was completely out of character. When my cognisance had regained its usual reason, I quickly cleaned myself up and made a hasty exit.

The birdman had maintained a patient vigil while I was indisposed, busying itself with a caterpillar it had excavated from a bamboo shoot. Given the reason for my indisposition, I couldn’t control the hot flush of shame and embarrassment that spasmed throughout me. The birdman showed no signs of caring, choosing instead to lead me back out of the forest. I dutifully followed it, all the while imaging what, if any, situation may eventuate for the gentlemen who penned that cubicle wall request.

My passage out of the forest took mere minutes. The kind birdman waited at the forest threshold, assumedly to ensure I was safe. In light of the courtesy and respect afforded to me by my guide, I became horrified at my choice of headwear. Pith helmets are perfectly suitable for exploring new terrain, but they don’t lend themselves to social graces.

“I must at once apologise,” I said. “You are in need of a solid tip of the hat as a thank you for your assistance, but this pith helmet isn’t appropriate. I don’t know if I can bring myself to tip it, but if it would please you, I’ll certainly give it a try.”

The birdman picked its nose with his claw and hopped back into the forest. He was either terribly offended or unconcerned with such ritual. Finding it impossible to believe the latter, I felt a horrible rush of etiquette inadequacy.

CHAPTER 3

Having found such a perfect restroom so close to work should have filled me with ease and lightness. And while it’s true that a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, a new one had been placed. Following my experience in the bamboo forest toilet block, I was unable to tear my mind away from the cubicle message. It had planted a seed in me that I was watering with obsessive thoughts, and as I couldn’t halt the thoughts, the seed was blooming.

I’m not sure what my motivation was, but I wanted to meet this man – I was quite sure of it. It certainly wasn’t sexual in nature (as I shall explain a little later, I am devoid of sexuality in even its most rudimentary forms). He embodied a certain passion that I found beguiling. Were I to follow my strange new drive, I would likely disappoint him. Under no circumstances would I offer my sexual services, which would make my presence akin to an attainable cracker dangling before a starving man’s maw. It would have been an act of cruelty, so decided it would be wise to forget the whole mess.

My newly discovered toilet facilities excited me. When I returned to work, it was with a spring in my step and modest smile on my face. I was willing my lunch hour to arrive, which as you can imagine, only made the time drag intolerably. My co-workers didn’t help matters. Having been absent for several days, they felt it necessary to bore me with their interminable chitchat. I’ve never enjoyed the act of conversation with those I deem inferior. I find myself compromising my integrity by providing commentary on the weather or recent sporting events. I’m not forthright enough to withdraw from such conversation and being innately polite, I over-engage, ensuring my interlocutor is inspired to extend the inanity. Beyond elegant headwear and inscrutable etiquette, there is very little I am personally at want to discuss.

I spent the hours leading up to my lunchbreak consuming copious amounts of water and trying not to think about the enigmatic cubicle man. The former ensured I had just cause to appreciate my newfound facilities fully and the latter was for my own psychological benefit. It wasn’t natural to consume oneself with the carnal desires of another. I found myself mentally sketching what I imagined this man looked like. Given the delicacy of his penmanship, it seemed sensible to assume he
was a proper-looking gentleman. One reveals much about themselves via their handwriting. It is a window into the soul. One who takes cares when writing will often take pride in their appearance and demeanour. Sloppy handwriting suggests a sloppy personality – a personality to be avoided at all costs.

I was clearly consumed with the exact thoughts I wished to avoid, and as the consumption grew, I became less concerned, which has the dichotomous effect of concerning me further. I had projected many admirable traits upon this gentleman, and save for his propensity toward soliciting depravity in public restrooms, I had come to view him as the sort of person I wished to know. Caught within the vortex of my consumption, I failed to notice the gradual swelling of my bladder until it had become a sharp, intolerable pain within me. My immediate situation had become quite urgent and even if it hadn’t been a suitable time to take my lunchbreak, I daresay I most likely would have. I shuffled past my co-workers, trying to maintain a visage of civility, holding my breath and clenching my urethra.

…

Making your way through the city when it’s choked with lunchtime bustle is always a difficult proposition. In my state, it was difficult to remain mannered and patient. It’s shameful to admit, but on more than one occasion, gentle shoving was involved. The traffic jam of human bodies going about their business was a frustration. Each person had an air of urgency about them, but I was sure that my urgency usurped each and every one of theirs.

In sheer distance, the bamboo forest wasn’t far away, but that was of little consolation. I felt as though I may explode in a shower of my own insides at any moment. I clenched my pocket-handkerchief, convincing myself this token act may be of assistance. During my journey, I was set upon by all manner of individuals trying to sell me food I had no desire to eat. I came close to raising my voice when a particularly pushy vendor waved a fistful of gravy-soaked meat in my face. I arched backward, as if engaged in a limbo tournament, and shuffled beneath his greasy arm.

I arrived at the merciful threshold of the bamboo forest to find my kind birdman in wait, looking as dignified as ever. I reached for my hat to give it a gentle tip to discover, with a sense of horror, that I wasn’t wearing one. To be seen in public without a hat is unthinkable. I silently cursed my bladder for attacking my sense of dignity. The birdman didn’t appear concerned, but that wasn’t the point. I had already come close to dishonouring my gentle guide with one hat-related discourtesy, and now I had gone that one unthinkable step further.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” I said. “This cranial nudity is most unlike me.”

I couldn’t allow myself, no matter how desperate my situation, to inflict such discourtesy. I implored the darling birdman to wait, making stop signs with my hands. It obeyed and I made a dash for the nearest hat vendor of repute. The alleyways that surround my work are bulging with hat vendors of every conceivable sort. In matters of civility and manners, I tend toward bell crown toppers as I believe these convey an appropriate level of respect. Few vendors see fit to stock such headgear, but over the years, I’ve certainly done my research. A gentleman by the name of Hooster Bean has had a small stall for many years and in this instance, I knew he was my man. I fought my way through the crush of hat vendors, seeking Hooster out, hoping that my slithering tour guide remained in wait. On a couple of occasions I had to be rather forceful with particularly pushy vendors who insisted that I sample their wares.