I don’t remember a specific time that I didn’t have a small, underlying, perpetual fear of the toilet, but I know that there must have been one. After all, most of us had a period of time as small children where we were naive to all of the ill-fated things that could happen in the world.
Such as snakes in the toilet.
I don’t remember exactly when this fear began. The fear that I would sit down to pee and a snake would launch out of the toilet and bite my hoo-ha or, worse, slither right into it.
That might sound strange to men, or even some women who apparently have no fear about foreign objects entering their vagina. They’re probably pretty whore-ish and so have absolutely no sense of boundaries when it comes to vaginal intruders. I, on the other hand, do not like foreign objects in my vagina, especially when unexpectedly thrust into it while I’m just having an innocent pee.
To prove that my fear is not unfounded, I even did some research, which produced terrifying results. But Calmass Husband was unsympathetic.
Me: I just googled “snakes in toilet” and looked at images. Long story short, I’m going to have to start peeing elsewhere
CAH: We don’t live in the south where snakes swim
Me: I think they could swim anywhere
CAH: … we don’t have swimming snakes here
Me: prove it
CAH: I can’t
Me: I think it’s easy for you to be so cavalier about such things when you don’t have to live in fear of being violated every time you sit on the toilet. Plus, you men get to pee standing up, and it’s not like snakes are salmon who swim upstream.
How nice it must be to be a man and just whiz willy-nilly into the toilet, without giving a second thought to unwanted snakes in your penis.
As for me, I can’t remember the last time I sat on a toilet without a little fear in the back of my mind, and the need to peer into the toilet, mid-stream, to make sure that nothing reptilian was lurking below the surface.
And keep in mind, I don’t even have a fear of snakes in general. I actually quite like snakes and think they are often misunderstood and inappropriately villainized. I do, however, have a problem with them swimming up into my toilet, and potentially my vagina.
As of this writing, I found at least TWO incidences of people, one man and one woman, getting bit by a snake in the toilet. There could have been more, but I couldn’t bring myself to scroll any further down Google. The fact that it has happened to at least two people is enough for me, because it means that it is possible that I’ll be the third.
I discovered on my honeymoon that this fear is not specific to snakes.
We found a nice hotel in which to stay on the last night of our honeymoon that was fairly new and aiming to impress its guests. Not 5 minutes after we entered our room, we heard a knock on our hotel room door and found that the front desk, to whom we mentioned it was our honeymoon, sent us a complimentary bottle of champagne. Seriously, if you mention to people that you’re on your honeymoon, you get all kinds of free crap. Try it.
We were pretty tired by the time we arrived at our hotel, so off went our clothes, uncorked went the champagne, and on went the TV. It just so happened there was a marathon of the show “Ghost Hunters,” and so we hunkered in to watch a couple of men, who were probably past their prime in terms of starting a legitimate acting career, chase ghosts around allegedly haunted buildings. CAH and I snarkily made fun of these ridiculous men wasting their time chasing ghosts, and found the seriousness with which they took their missions hilarious.
A few hours of Ghost Hunters, and a half a bottle of champagne later, I had to pee. As I slid off the bed and headed into our hotel room bathroom, a thought began to creep into my mind, “What if a ghost is in the toilet??”. I quickly laughed off the idea as having had too much champagne and sat down. I couldn’t go.
Was the idea so silly? The episode of Ghost Hunters we’d just finished watching showed the hosts trying to chase down a little girl ghost, which we all know are the creepiest ghosts of all. Surely a little girl ghost could quietly hide in a toilet bowl with no trouble at all. What if I sat down to pee and she poked her little girl ghost fingers right into my lady business? Or worse, her tiny hands were probably nimble enough to full-on vagina punch me!
I sat there, frozen in fear at the thought of a tiny little fist furiously punching my vagina and feeling fairly certain that statutory rape laws would prevail since I was the adult and, even though there is little I could to stop a mad little girl ghost, I should have known better than to laugh at the idea that she existed in the first place, thus angering her to the point of hiding in a toilet and waiting for the complimentary champagne to overtake my bladder.
I must have stood up and sat back down at least a dozen times as I went back and forth between “This is ridiculous, there is no such thing as angry fisting little girl ghosts” and the fear of feeling that tiny cold fist violating my lady bits. I didn’t know where her little ghost hands had been and, let’s be honest, kids NEVER wash their hands.
I briefly thought about calling my new husband into the bathroom because I thought I might feel better if someone was in there with me, but I didn’t want to let my crazy peak out so early on in our marriage.
I carefully laid towels down in front of the toilet in anticipation for the possibility of having to bolt off the toilet and run away mid-stream (it wouldn’t be fair for housekeeping to have to clean up my pee stream) and half-squatted over the toilet so I could watch for a tiny girl ghost while I peed.
Thankfully, I was able to complete my pee into the toilet without any signs of a ghost.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after that several stories surfaced about men being caught inside of port-a-potties, spying on women as they did their business.
Yes. Men like to watch women do their business in a port-a-potty and have no issue with standing in a huge hole of waste to do it.
For me, it was yet another toilet intruder to worry about. Granted, I don’t pee in port-a-potties often, and even when port-a-potties are all that is available, I will try to hold it if I can. I take serious issue with the fact that port-a-potties are nothing but huge shit holes, disguised as bathrooms.
So I’ve done a fairly admirable job of avoiding port-a-potties, but sometimes, you have got to go and there are no other options. Recently, when my husband surprised me with a road trip to go wine tasting, I had to make that awful choice.
We stopped off in the middle of nowhere because CAH had heard of this little Mom and Pop shop that allegedly sold the best beef jerky in the world. I was thankful because the Venti Iced Latte I sucked down at the start of the trip had my bladder in a death grip. I followed my husband into the store and asked the burly woman behind the counter where the bathroom was.
“Outside” she answered in a husky voice, pointing outside as if I would somehow be confused as to where outside was, relative to where we were standing inside. My stomach dropped. I had to pee, badly, but something told me that port-a-potties in the middle of Deliverance Town would be a house of horrors, best-case-scenario. My ever-cheerful husband cheerfully told me he’d be out after he bought the beef jerky because he also had to go.
Of course he was cheerful, he could just saunter into the port-a-potty like the King of the Jungle, and pee standing up without worry of a creeper dude appearing out of nowhere. He had the advantage of standing and always being aware of the depths below.
I slowly and timidly walked out to the port-a-potties, and entered the first one.
I immediately noticed the plastic paper toilet-cover dispenser, on which some comedic individual had carved “Obama’s Policies”, which only served to confirm my suspicion that I was amongst the type of people who would wait for unsuspecting women in port-a-potties. Not because they hated Obama, but because they felt a port-a-potty was the most effective forum to ensure that their political views were heard.
I took a deep breath and began to pull down my pants. I heard CAH cheerfully enter the port-a-potty next to mine and manage to pee and exit the port-a-potty before I even had the nerve to gingerly squat over the toilet. I took another breath and slowly squatted over, silently praying that I could pee quickly, and that it wasn’t the kind that started strong and, just when you think it’s about to end, is drawn out for an extra 30 seconds with the tiniest trickle of a stream. Those are the WORST for avoiding port-a-potty creeps.
As I began to relieve myself, CAH, now standing right outside the port-a-potty, began talking to me:
“Awwwwww honey, there’s cows out here! They’re coming right up to the gate!” he said, oblivious to the fact that his wife was potentially squatting over the face of a pervert.
“Babe! One is eating right from my hand! You’ve got to see this!” he exclaimed, as if I was taking so long in the port-a-potty because I was enjoying myself in there.
I finished up and walked outside, where CAH turned to me with a sweet, blissful look on his face, obviously unaware that I had narrowly escaped the potential of giving an unintended golden shower to some political port-a-pottie graffiti vandal. I decided he was totally selfish for not standing outside, readying himself to rush in and defend my honor should I let out a terrified squeal at spying a face staring back up at me from inside the potty.
It was then that I realized the fact that, when it comes to the dangers of having a vagina and needing to use a toilet, chivalry is dead.