Memory of a Christmas past

The other day I read a blogger's story of peeing at a public urinal and discovering that his scarf had gotten in the way, causing a splashing affect that wet the front of his pants. This reminded me of a tender Christmas story I feel compelled to share with you readers, so here goes.

It was Dec 1993 and I had just come out that summer, met the man of my dreams (or so I'd thought), and was looking forward to our 1st Christmas together. My man (we'll call him Bob) had introduced me to a some of his friends over that summer and now we were going to a Christmas party at Gerry & Mike's house.

Bob, Gerry & Mike were all several years older than me, had solid educations and established careers, and made lots more money than me. They were always gracious so I had no real reason to feel nervous or intimidated around them, but I did. Still I wanted to go with Bob to Gerry & Mike's party so we did.

They had a large, lovely, ornament-laden tree in the living room that would put most department stores to shame. The food was catered by Dean & DeLuca's, a fancy and expensive DC gourmet food store, and there was a full bar with a bartender. Yes, a bartender. In 1993. Now, I know its been all the rage in recent years to have a hired bartender at Christmas parties hosted by gay couples, but this was 1993! I felt intimidated already.

So everything is going nicely, Bob & I are chatting with people we've met before, etc when I realize that I need to use the bathroom. Unfortunately it wasn't just #1. I try to avoid going #2 at other people's houses, especially people's houses who intimidate me, but this just wasn't to be ignored, so I excused myself under the guise of getting another drink and found my way to the bathroom.

Once inside I lowered my pants and underwear, sat, and began doing my business. I noticed that these fancy men even had small, tasteful Christmas decorations in their bathroom! Next thing I knew, I felt something warm and wet against my ankle. I looked down and saw that the back of my khaki pants was all wet, and the wetness from the fabric had spread over to my ankle. What the fuck??? Is the toilet leaking?

No, unfortunately, the toilet was not leaking. That explanation would have been preferable to the truth, which I had to tell Bob in order to gain his assistance when I finally returned to the party.

No, the truth was far more humiliating. As I was relieving myself my penis was not pointing down into the toilet enough, so my pee was coming out in that space under the toilet seat but above the toilet rim. It had run down the base of the toilet and soaked into the back of my khaki pants, turning them about 14 shades darker.

Oh. My. God. What the hell am I gonna do? I'm here in these fancy people's bathroom, peeing all over my pants. After the realization of what had actually happened came the truly horrifying questions. How am I going to be able to leave this bathroom? How can I return to the party with the back of my pants all wet? What will all these fancy people think of me? Will this be the thing that finally reveals to Bob, once and for all, that I am not in the same league?

After several minutes of concentrated thought I cleaned myself, the base of the toilet, and then patted my wet pants with tissue to absorb as much moisture as possible. Understanding I couldn't leave the bathroom without wearing my pants, I pulled them up, tucked in my shirt and fastened my belt. Then I looked into the mirror and tried to make an honest assessment of the damage.

"Hmmm... From the front there's no indication of anything unusual." I thought to myself. Then I turned around and looked over my shoulder into the mirror at the back of my pants. Not so lucky there. My mind continued racing as I considered my options, of which there was really only one. I had to walk out of that bathroom.

I turned back around to face the mirror and repeated my 1st assessment: "From the front there's no indication of anything unusual." That was the answer! Only let people see me from the front!

To bolster my confidence I began justifying my decision. "These khakis are 100% cotton. They'll dry in no time. And until they do, I'll just stand against the wall." Really, it was the only thing I could come up with.

You might be thinking 'Why didn't he pull out his cell phone, call Bob, and tell him to grab both their coats and meet him at the car?' Yeah, I'd have probably thought of that too, only it was 1993 and no one had a portable cell phone back then. The closest thing was a 'car phone' that had to be plugged into a cigarette lighter of a car with its engine running in order to work.

I took a deep breath, walked out of the bathroom, and smiled politely at the person standing in the hallway waiting to use the bathroom.

I returned to the party, found Bob, and quickly motioned him to 'come over here' as I stood against the wall and tried to look 'casual'. When he came over I quickly explained what had happened and Bob tried to stifle his laughter. I gave him a look that told him it wasn't even close to being funny so shut the fuck up.

Then he 'wanted to see', and I figured he might be more willing to help me conceal my horrible mishap if I let him, so I stepped away from the wall slightly and did a quarter turn so my back was toward him for a second, then returned to having my back against the wall.

Needless to say, this incident did not help me feel less nervous or intimidated by our hosts. But my khakis did dry eventually and I was able to move about the party rather than try to look 'casual' by standing against the wall.

Ah yes. Good times.

Drag Queen name of the day: Ivana B. Popular