Pissing in Cork

I spend an evening in Cork, listening to music and enjoying Irish stepdance at the Oliver Plunkett, then drinks at the Crane Lane. At some point, digestion calls. This is always a difficult moment.

I approach the restrooms: they are gender-segregated, as expected. I choose the ladies’.

I enter and scan the room: In the back there are voices and movement. I quickly move into a stall, close the door and do my thing. Ah!

When I am finished, I wait. But the club is crowded and people are entering and leaving the restroom all the time. It’s one risk to stay in the box for too long, it’s another to exit when there are still people in the room.

Stepping out, three or four women are moving around the sinks. I keep my gaze down, move swiftly towards the available faucet, wash my hands and leave, making no eye contact.

This went well.


Later, the same evening.

I had more drinks.

I need to evacuate.

Confident, both from having-been-there-before as well as from having-had-a-few-more-drinks, I enter the ladies’. There is a queue: Four girls are standing in line, waiting for their turn to pee. I join them, we exchange glances and a sigh. I’m ok. I belong.

And as much as I am enjoying my sweet moment of pissroom-sisterhood (which is touching, because it is my first), I am also thinking of my company out in the club. I’d rather be with her, than with my sisters here.

Then it hits me:

I turn around, leave the ladies’; enter the gents’, and use one of the available urinals.

Yeah.