Ahem

Or, An Open Letter to the Student Masturbating at the Urinal of the Third Floor Men's Room of Aged Philanthropist Hall

Dear Masturbator:

Allow me to introduce myself. I'm a grad student here at the Funkytown Institute for Increasing One's Future Monetary Value. I'm also the guy who came into the restroom while you were coming in the restroom, or just before. I'd like to touch on (no pun intended) a few basic notes of decorum and decency in our society.

First, though public masturbation of any sort is illegal (and disgusting), most public men's room masturbators choose to do so in the stall. I'd like to recommend that to you. I've had the unfortunate experience of overhearing guys masturbate in stalls, but it's not nearly as disgusting and day-ruining as seeing a man standing at the end of a row of urinals jerking off.

Second, you may recall you chose to pleasure yourself at the urinal next to the far wall. You were, apparently, already angled away from the entrance, but--and this is just so you know--turning your back to me doesn't shield what you're doing. One, you're now facing a wall, not a urinal, so it's unlikely I'll assume you're peeing. Two, your arm is still moving. Because the only sound I hear is your breathing, I can only assume you're not, say, shellacking the wall or, say, caulking it.

And speaking of your breathing, third, just because you realized that I was in the room and silencing your heavy, quick breathing might help me miss out on the fact that you're shaking hands with the unemployed, clearing your throat to stop breathing that way only draws more of my attention to you. I'm already trying to ignore you; clearing your throat while facing the wall only makes the sound resonate.

Fourth, and this applies whether you're masturbating in public or in the confines of what I can only assume is a gray-brick-interiored single dorm room with a poster of Jenna Jameson rubbed thin by your affectionate kisses, when you wash your hands, you must actually wash your hands. Maybe civilization didn't reach you. Squirting liquid soap from the dispenser, then flicking it into the sink, well, that skips a major step. Briskly rub your hands together. As you already know how to briskly rub, this should be an easy new task for you to learn.

And, finally, fifth, after I left the bathroom, with you in my wake (and if you're curious, yes, I did hunch my shoulders forward in fear you'd clap my back in some misguided spooge-infused idea of cameraderie), I looked back to see you walking down the hall where you shook the hand of your professor. As someone who teaches undergraduates, please let me impress upon you the utterly crucial point that, should you choose to exert zero control over the bobbing urges pressing against your Spiderman underoos, at least have the courtesy not to spread your waste to those of us who try to travel trustingly and unmolested through our days.

In the above very unfortunate incident, I was simply too shocked to report what happened or tell you to stop. Please be aware that, the next time, I will not be so inclined, now that I'm prepared to see another self-lover the next time I need to relieve myself.

Respectfully yours,

Crazy L. Thing