Whoever You Are, There's No Reason For That

Since they locked the students out, it’s rare for the toilets at work to have anyone in them.
I’m working in administration, which means an office full of women and one fat gay bloke. While this means I do have to put up with the monstrous Brenda, it does give me free reign to express myself in the shitter. When I notice too late that there’s no toilet roll on the spindle, no worries! I can do a greasy waddle to the next cubicle, and wipe as much as I like with the door open. I have made unworried attempts to piss in all three urinals and all three cubicles with one bladderload. I could even use the sinks as a bidet, and swing my little legs cheerfully as I do so. It’s my playground. Even my toilet at home doesn’t feel so uniquely mine.
So this morning, when two of the three cubicle doors were locked, I felt a touch deflated. There would be no singing, no laughing at my own hungover sputtering, and certainly no rinsing my armpits in the sink because I’d forgotten to shower again.
I sat down and sulkily started to shit, and was vaguely pleased when one of the other people left. The third gentleman, upon hearing the door slam to, seemed even more pleased. From the noises that started to come from his cubicle, he also seemed to think that he was alone. The large toilet roll spindle rumbled far too fast and loud, and far too regularly. He even started to make little whimpers. You’ll understand that my every fibre was begging me to make an early crimp and lie on the floor, to see what was happening.
The only possible sense of the noises I heard were;

  1. He was wrapping the paper around his fist and speedily rubbing his anus with a vigourous to-and-fro motion, whilst preparing the other hand with more paper. I’d never considered a double-handed club-fist attack, so if this is what he was doing, kudos.
  2. He was simply pulling ten sheets off, screwing it up, and wiping at high speeds with a paper rose. The time between rumbles didn’t allow him time to inspect the muddy flower; he simply kept wiping regardless. Truly, this is a wiping madness.

By this time, I’d found the sound recorder on my phone, and can share the experience. Although I missed the best of the whimpers and rumbling, I’m certain you will enjoy the moment when he gasps “OH, SHIT”.

So, I had to check the toilet, and I’m pleased to report that my phone has a camera function, too.


Note that the man was so panicked that he didn’t even use the last pull on the toilet roll, or flush; so keen was he to escape what had just visited him. There’s only one solution – I’m going to have to use the chinese student’s computer to send an everyone email, asking who it was.
The only thing that haunts me about this story is… that could have been me. He didn’t do anything worse that what I do when I think I’m alone. I wonder if someone’s got video footage of me cleaning out last night’s wank in the sink?

10 thoughts on “Whoever You Are, There's No Reason For That”

  1. I wish I had a private toilet with three urinals and three cubicles to share with my heady morning piss. We have six cubicles, but as I work in a predominantly ladytype environment, three are LADIES ONLY and the others are strictly unisexual. So you’re almost guaranteed to have to shit next to a posh lady with a wheat intolerance and organic, GM-free bum fruits. It makes the whole act rather stressful. One can become quite egg-bound.
    Once though, when an upmarket men’s magazine moved in to the office across the corridor, we suffered a spate of half-hearted dirty protests – smears of shit in unexpected places, and once – thrillingly – a tiny, lone turd on the seat.
    Also, to add to the misery, the cleaners have annexed the luxurious, spacious disabled toilet, and are using it as a store room. And sometimes they stand in there shouting at each other, while you are trying to loose your bowels. 🙁

  2. So are we to understand that you wank into a sink? That’s disgraceful. People wash their hands in there man. And, apparently, their armpits.
    I just do it at my desk, slumped forward slightly so no-one can tell. This has the dual advantage of the erotic excitement of staring at a room of dead-eyed workers with the ball-tingling knowledge that one of them could look up and spot you shaking hands with the devil, and of creating a pleasing and gradually developing stalactite-like formation on the underside of your desk which, on hot days, is moist enough to store stationery in.

  3. So are we to understand that you wank into a sink?
    No! I’m not a monster! I wash last night’s wank out into the sink. The egg-ferrets are long dead, and it’s much flakier process that you’re imagining.
    But it’s not a bad idea. Tomorrow, I am going to have a sit-n-shit wank, and fling it into the sinks.

  4. Also, yesterday evening – no, I tell a lie, Monday evening – there was a WOMAN in there BANDAGING UP a man’s JAW in the classic over-the-head, under-the-chin Jacob Marley style. I have no idea why. There were no outward signs of injury or fancy dress.

  5. It’s like playing Russian Roulette, is going poo where I work. There are 3 traps, each with doors you’d have to crawl on the floor to see under, and a shared cistern so you don’t know which toilet has been recently flushed.
    By the time my morning coffee has kicked in and made my poo ready to come out, the chances of finding a un-skidmarked trap that doesn’t stink of someone else’s emptied bowels gets even more remote.
    Do I choose the one nearest the entrance, which logic dictates would be the most frequented, and therefore the one most likely to greet me with a waft of foetid bumstink when I tentatively push its door open?
    Or do I choose the middle trap, knowing that there’s the potential for someone to be sat on either side of me, listening to each fizz, pop, plop and splash as my tortured digestive tract splutters out last night’s dinner?
    Maybe I choose the trap nearest the urinals though, furthest from the entrance, and therefore less likely to have been dumped in – but likely to have been visited by someone half way through doing wee and realising if they keep pushing, that trump that just came out might turn into poo, so they rush to the nearest toilet, spraying poo and drips of wee onto the floor.
    Inevitably, the trap I choose is always the wrong one, with shit on the seat, no toilet paper and a fug of arsegas to clog up my lungs. Damn you, Sod’s Law.

  6. This reminds me of a story,
    I walked into the Gents ak loo’s,bog,toilets etc, and there where these police officers, one had an Alsation, I mean this thing rabid it was foaming at the mouth I swear it was going to escape and bite my nads off, anyway by now the police officers had stopped their conversation and where busy giving me the eye to see what I would do next, I kept cool and and headed for the nearest empty cubicle, did I mention it stand like someone had died in there.
    How is it people manage to get number 2 that far up the wall, I mean c,mon no chilli could be that powerful
    Mr Purple


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