A Genuinely Revelatory Experience in the Bar Lavatory Procession

Shortly before Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A lost session was had by all. Nice cuisine, good drink and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for visits to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an irksome difference, right boys?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a place. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not censure her.