On a recent road trip across the country, I stayed at a lot of different motels and hotels — mostly the cheaper roadside motels, being budget conscience and all. Every now and then I’d splurge and lodge at one of the more fancy places. It was always nice for my road-weary body to feel a little pampered with thicker towels and linens with a higher thread-count.
But the things that most Inns, whether fancy or not, don’t take into account are toilets. I’ll get to that in a moment.
I was driving across some state, don’t remember which one, doesn’t really matter. The day was long, the sun was setting, and I was tired. I decided to stop at the next place I saw. Just my luck, a few exits up was a prefab town with half a dozen of the most popular name-brand accommodations. I needed a little luxury and choose to stay at one of the more pricey places.
The exterior looked nice, but the interior was starting to show some wear; hallway carpets were a little worn in some places, and the elevator was very slow and had some graffiti scratches. The staff was friendly and helpful though. And as with most hotels of this caliber, the room was spacious, clean, and the pillow-top bed was excellent. The only issue I had with the room were a few pubes in the tub that the cleaning crew had missed. Oh, and yeah, the door to the room did not sit correctly in its frame. Yes, it closed and locked all right, but still sat cock-eyed — letting in a sliver of hallway light. I brought these issues to the night clerk at the front desk. She showed concern and offered me a different room. I declined. It was late, I had already settled in, and all I wanted to do was poop, shower, and hit the sack. The clerk sent somebody up to wipe the pubs, apologized for the inconvenience, and made a note to pass along to maintenance about fixing the door before the next customer booked the room.
I was impressed at her professional demeanor and decided that on the return trip I’d make a point to stay there again.
I went back to my room, took off my clothes, and then sat nude on the toilet for a much needed road-poop. I didn’t have my phone within reach, so as I was trying to relieve myself I started examining everything around me. And since my bowels were in no hurry I began to ponder something that has pretty much bothered me my entire life — the size of toilets. To be more specific, the size of toilet bowls and the consequences of such.
Toilets may look uniform, but believe me, they come in many different sizes and shapes. Some sit so low it makes your knees level with your cheeks, while others sit so high that your toes can barely touch the floor. We all know that there’re many different seat types so I’m not going to discuss that. Then there’s the bowl size, shape, and depth. There’re round ones, egg-shaped, oval, and oblong (I guess that’s the same as oval). But the most important part, especially for us males, is the space down front. Guys, you know what I’m talking about.
Most hotels have these little round toilets that are not roomy enough for a man to sit without having to gauge the distance between “himself” and the inside front of the toilet bowl.
Ick, I know.
But this hotel had a larger oval shaped bowl with plenty of room down front. It was comfortable to sit and do your business without the worry of making porcelain contact — certainly a nice change of pace from the typical road-commode.
Highway rest stops, motels, hotels, gas stations, and restaurants (both fast-food and sit-down) all seem to forget that men have a penis that dangles from in-between their legs. And we need a little room for it to do so. So why do the majority of toilets deny us that space? It’s a rhetorical question, I know. But it’s actually not. I really would like to know why they don’t make toilet bowls just a smidge bigger to accommodate a phallus.
I’m just a typical American male — quite average in size down there. But even so, I normally have to position and sometimes hold my pecker in place so it doesn’t interact with the cool-white, but usually scum-stained, bowls. I can only imagine, or should I say… I would rather not imagine what my well-hung brethren go through and must deal with every time they sit on a too-small toilet. I certainly don’t envy them in that respect.
When using a public restroom you have to remember that literally thousands of people have peed, pooped, vomited, masturbated, and menstruated in the same bowl that you are now doing one of those things in. And a lot of people just don’t care about the next visitor, they will piss and crap all over the seat, bowl, tank, and floor. Those people are just plain sick and I always hope that maintenance has done a good job sanitizing their shenanigans, but you never know.
Paper seat covers make you feel better about protecting your bum. You know the ones with the too-thin tissue that rips to shreds before you can lay it on the seat. Yeah, those covers. I really don’t think they do anything to protect you. It’s more like a placebo effect, giving you a false sense of security. In fact, they do absolutely nothing to keep your winkie from caressing the inside of the rim. Yes, some do have that little flap that drops down in front, but it usually soaks up the toilet-water. So now your ding-a-ling not only touches, but it also gets wet while doing so.
If you’re in a public restroom and your manhood swishes the inner bowl, you can use toilet paper and wipe it off, but unless you normally carry around baby wipes or something similar, then there’s really not much else you can do about it at the moment. I mean, there usually isn’t a gallon of disinfectant or bleach to hose your hose off with. Yes, you can leave the stall and wash your pointer in the sink, but then you’d probably get arrested for indecent exposure. And how would you dry yourself off? Stand on your tippy-toes and try to shake the excess water off your willy below the hand dryer?
And what about travelling with a lover. Brushing against the inner rim of an overly-used and probably quite dirty privy kind of quashes any thoughts of romantic interludes.
Germs? Bacteria? Disease? Infectious fluids? I don’t know. I haven’t looked it up. I really don’t think I want to know. I just know that the thought of my tally-whacker slapping skin on the inside of a toilet is disgustingly gross.
And Gentleman, while you’re sitting there on the throne reading this, holding your phone with one hand and scrolling with the other, I have to ask… Where’s your penis?
Lon Casler Bixby is a professional photographer and published author in various genres: Fiction, Poetry, Humor, Photography, & Comic Books.
You can see his writing here — www.amazon.com/author/loncaslerbixby/.