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THE PERFECT PEE
WORDS: SUKI KENT
ILLUSTRATION: ALI BELL
THE TIME: 3am Sunday morning.
THE PLACE: A club in a disused factory in Stoke Newington.
THE TOILET: Floor ankle-deep in unidentifed liquid. Cistern lid broken
on floor. Water in toilet bowl close to overflowing.
THE OCCASION: The perfect pee.
So. The perfect pee. Hello? How the fuck can any girl experience
the perfect pee in these circumstances? Even leaving aside the tideline
creeping up the sides of yer sandals: ignoring the loo roll embedding
itself on your heel: how can this pee be anything but traumatic?
What's a girl to do? Hover? Or plonk? To hover means clenched thigh musicles
and an insufficiently emptied bladder. But plonking yer ass down on the
seat means exposing delicate flesh to the fluids of strangers. Ew! And
yet, last night, pee nirvana was reached under exactly these conditions.
How can this beee?
BACK IN THE ARC
'Male urination', Camille Paglia once famously commented, 'is a kind of
accomplishment, an arc of transcendence. A woman merely waters the ground
she stands on.' This accomplishment, Paglia asserts, is 'beyond the scope'
of a woman. The arc, and its accompanying powers of 'concentration and
projection', are something a woman will 'never master'.
This, dear reader, is bollocks.
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