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February 26, 2008

Bro, There Ain’t No Shame In Bathroom Stall Whackage

A Codependent Collegian Guest Editorial
By Evan Greene, University of Miami Class of 2010

Greene: Dedicated to His Masturbatory Activism

You know, I used to feel really embarrassed when I used the fifteen minutes between classes to find an out-of-the-way campus shitter, slip a porn mag from my satchel bag, and pound out a monster batch of nut butter.

But bro, there ain’t no shame in bathroom stall whackage, because it’s just heeding the call of Mother Nature, like taking a mean whiz or dropping a monster deuce.

I remember my first time like it was yesterday. It was my freshman year, way back in the fall of ’06, and I got this stiffy the size of Idaho in my elementary statistics course. I was eying Tracie Crenshaw’s thong in the third row, and her ass, at least at the time, was the tastiest on campus. Next thing I knew, class was over and it looked like I was smuggling Toucan Sam down the front of my jeans. There was only one solution: I found the nearest restroom, hoped no one came in, and beat my meat like it owed me money.

For the rest of the day I felt a little weird about it, like when sometimes I jerk off to my hot second cousin Rita’s Flickr page and then see her at Uncle Dave’s for our annual Fourth of July picnic. I wonder if chicks have sixth sense about that sort of thing. Anyway, as I was saying, it occurred to me after a few bowls of Kind Bud later that night that stroking one’s trouser worm is just, you know, a part of life, and should be covered under the umbrella of acceptable bodily functions one can discretely perform in a public can.

So for all you bros out there who need to ease the strain of a tenacious boner between classes, just remember: the men’s room is your sanctuary. Particularly the one on the second floor of Hammond Hall—I swear, it’s like no one ever goes in there, and the toilet water is always blue and smelling good.

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