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The Shame Files: Bathroom Mortification

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You know those stories, the ones that you only tell if you’re really really really shit faced drunk? And even then you slur and murmur it to the best of your ability so that no one else can decipher what you said?

Well, today that’s what we’re going to talk about since the other night on the twat (twitter) I lamented that I had the worst writers block and Aussa, being such a lovely, kind and giving kind of woman piped up with how I should tell about something mortifying that has happened to me.

After I giggled at this in bed, it was about midnight Australian time after all… I said yes. Ok, I will. And without further ado; here’s the story. Minus the 3 bottles of tequila. Ooooooooooh boy.

Sydney has one of the most joyous of celebrations… The Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras I thought going dressed as a kinky fairy would be fun. Because kinky any things are fun right? Right.

So there I was, dolled up in a purple tutu that my friend made for me, with her matching red one, a purple corset, fish nets and my doc martens for comfort. I couldn’t find wings so figured I could do without. No one would notice and I could say that some evil Satan-child had de-winged me by clapping if anyone did ask. After the huge parade and a lot of drinks and other things consumed it was time for the party. We’d decided we would go to the alternative Mardi Gras party which was in one of the clubs along Oxford Street, just down a wee bit off the parade route. The streets were still barricaded to traffic and there were still a lot of people dancing in the rain in the middle of the street at about 11pm.

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We found the right hole in the wall to try to gain entrance to and as we waved our tickets we were ushered into a hallway that was blacker than night. There were no lights apart from right up the stairs, which were also black. Or maybe they were some other colour. But when you’re engulfed in darkness all you can feel is the arse of the person in front of you. I mean, you don’t want to bump into them now do you? Arse grabbing is way more appropriate.

By the time we reached the top of the stairs whoever was behind me had felt me up to the point that I think they knew what kind of lace was on my underwear – but it’s Mardi Gras and some strange woman feeling me up never stopped me before! Oh no! I rushed through the crowd at the top of the stairs and stood stock still in the middle of the dance floor. They had streamers hanging down from the ceiling made of cotton & silk, it was a texture whore’s paradise. Yes, that would be me. I was a bit transfixed by the different sensations and totally forgot to find my friends. I have no idea how long I swayed around the dance floor, dancing and groping various materials – however at some point a cute little gay boy stopped me to ask if my boobs were real. You’d be surprised, I get this question a lot when I’m in a corset. I say of course, like I’d actually pay someone for tits this size, what are you? Insane? Which he then went on to ask if he could touch them. And again, the amount of times gay men wanted to play with my cleavage is countless. I think it’s because it looks like a bum. No, I swear, hear me out… look, here’s a picture of my cleavage in a corset. Now you tell me that it doesn’t look like a bum, go on!

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Shameless selfie: Me at our Edwardian high tea earlier this year

Back to the story however, after he’d had a wee grope and rested his head on there he chirped that he needed to find his next dance-card* partner, gave me a huge hug and ran off to I don’t know where.  I remembered at this point that I should try to find my friends, which I did. They were rolling in another room that had bigger drop down things made of various fabrics. I spotted the red tutu rolling on the floor legs akimbo and might have squealed and yelled “incoming” before throwing myself into the middle of the human cuddle pile on the floor. Bitches can’t be doing this shit without me!

During my wiggling and shifting and groping, I somehow happened to be on top of this very cute girl whose first words were “Oh, I’m a sex worker”. Yes, Uh, that’s nice? I say. What is my reaction meant to be to this considering that I have friends that are sex workers, strippers and porn stars? She says she just likes to tell people this fact about herself to stop any confusion. I ask confusion about what? She shakes her head and says, just confusion you know, people seem to mind. I shrug, er sure OK, great… want to keep making out now? I think she was pleasantly surprised that it didn’t faze me. She was a great kisser, who am I to judge? We all work for money.

At some point between the cuddle pile and getting my arse back onto the dance I decide I need to pee. The bathrooms were back down the stairs in what felt like a dungeon of some kind. The doors wouldn’t stay shut. So I precariously perch on the seat, with a foot out to make sure the door doesn’t swing open while I try to maneuver myself around the fish nets, corset & undies so that I don’t end up pissing on myself. Whoever said it was easy pissing in a corset lied! Well, unless you don’t have anything else on apart from the corset… then it’s easy as.

There I am minding my business and mid-stream the door bursts open and some guy barefoot and in glitter shorts is standing in front of me says, soooooooo I hear you’re pissing, mind if I watch?

I might have flushed all kinds of colours. I mean, I’m liberal. But I ain’t that liberal. My bladder is shy, it doesn’t work if I’m being observed and true to form, I was sitting there with a leg in the air from where I had held the door closed, hands now firmly holding my tutu over my bits as I sat there and frowned at this guy who interrupted my peeing to ask me if he could watch.. I was totally confused.

He must have taken my silent surprise as acceptance because the next thing I knew he sat on the floor in the doorway of the toilet cubicle.

Right there. 

In the middle of the fucking doorway.

I have no idea what my face looked like at this point. But all I could think of was; “What the fucking fuck? … Is he serious? No, he can’t be.. .maybe he’s off his face on drugs and he’ll go away soon… surely he doesn’t want to watch.. oh my GOOD GODS he’s SITTING DOWN!!! how do I escape? I have my undies around my knees and my hands covering my hootch and now I have a half full bladder and I just want to pee in peace why does this always happen to me which gods hate me…please glittery wee man go away…”

He notices that I’ve stopped weeing and asks me why. I still haven’t gotten around the mortification that there’s a man, sitting in the middle of my escape route waiting for me to finish my business and I also note that he is at the right height to see EVERYTHING.

Uh, I say. Um, do you ever so mind actually going away? He seems perplexed at this request, his forehead wrinkled up and he pouted at me. Yup, pouted. Lip sticking out and everything. He says: I just want to watch, nothing else. I won’t even touch you I swear. Please let me watch.

My voice went up an octave when I point out that I want to wee without an audience and my bladder isn’t into this whole get up and if he could please just get up and get out so I could finish pissing in peace.

I was too mortified to even register how weird and abnormal this situation was. Mortified, I’m not quite sure that explains how I was actually feeling at the time. But it’s a good start.

He eventually stops pouting and says “fine fine, I get the gist. You don’t like sharing your wee”

What. The. Actual. Fuck. Man. !!!! Sharing my wee?! Was he serious?! He got up and left and I went back to perching and keeping the door shut with my foot in the air and wondering why these things keep happening to me and that I shouldn’t be left alone.

Suffice to say that I found my way out of the toilets quick smart and into the cuddle pile of win quicker. Nothing quite like forgetting a really embarrassing situation by enveloping yourself in boobs. The rest of the night was a blur of dancing, new people, snogging competitions, cuddle piles, dance-cards* and joyous celebrations with friends and our queer family. I might have done the walk of shame down Oxford street at 8am the next morning in just my fish nets, tutu and corset… somewhere along the way I’d lost my boots and underwear. On the plus side, I wasn’t the only one doing the walk of shame home!!!

*dance-card: It’s where you have a time frame of various people you’ve organised to meet in various locations around the venue for shenanigans! Say, Sally for midnight, Lou for 2am, Kat for 4am and maybe a few to take home for after sunrise…

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