Bitch Kitty Racing

I went out to dinner with some coworkers this evening after our shift at the restaurant ended. We chose a new upscale Italian place, so posh that there are no English versions of the menus. This kind of pretension is rare in Seattle, but it does seem to be popping its ugly little weasel head up more and more. Still, the food is very good, the waitstaff is one of the best looking in the city, and there is usually something interesting on the wine list.

After dinner I made my way down the hall to wash my hands. The bathroom was unisex, as is apparently trendy these days as it makes for all sorts of mingling opportunities (“So, uh, d’ja make boom-boom or lemonade?”). The barely frosted glass door with the letters “WC” etched on it showed a candle burning within. How very Euro. I opened the unlocked door, but the bathroom was occupied. Indeed, the toilet itself was occupied. A very attractive curly-haired brunette woman sat upon the apparatus with her elbows on her knees, unavoidably exposing her thighs and the slight spread of her bottom on the seat. Though I did not dawdle or stare, I did notice she was quite pneumatic, very sexy. Of course, she was also most probably ridding herself of a very crisp Pinot. “Oh! Excuse me,” I said, and quickly shut the door. I returned to my table so the young woman would not have to cause for further embarrassment upon encountering me as she emerged.

“You’ll never believe it,” I said at the table, “But they don’t seem to have locks on the bathroom doors.”

“I noticed that,” said Emily (as an aside and note to our waitress, Emily was not my date. Though you kept glaring at me like I was the kind of creep who dates nineteen year-olds, I assure you she was, in fact, twenty-four and was, in fact, not my date. She was the roommate of a coworker and merely sitting next to me. So save the disdainful facial expression for your father). “Was there anyone in there?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Was she hot?” asked Peter.

“Kind of,” I said, too embarrassed to admit that I had looked at a women peeing and found her to be attractive, as if it was her urination that I found appealing. “I didn’t really look.”

“She come out yet?” asked Peter. “Let me know when she does. I want to see her.” My companions all began to squirm and turn in their seats, craning their necks to look over and around the high booth in which we sat.

“What’d she look like?” asked Aaron and Erin together. It was then I realized that everyone at the table thought exactly as I felt; I had just seen a half-naked woman and it was kind of sexy. Though accidental, and prurient, and slightly perverted, I had just seen a stranger with her pants off. My friends were treating me as if I was the reason her pants were off, as if I had done something to deserve that glimpse of smoothly rounded thigh. Were they all closet peeping Toms? Did they masturbate while their dates piddled? Or is the unlocked unisex bathroom the new grocery aisle?

The woman came out of the hall and blithely walked by our table, and she was, in fact, hot. She saw me, smirked, and hid behind a curl as she walked by. Was that a flirt? I think that was a flirt. Is a smirk a smile? Is hiding behind a curl coyness? I found it hard to believe she would recognize me from such a brief glance. Maybe she just thought I was cute.

“Dude, she’s hot. You should talk to her,” said Peter.

“What the hell would I say to her, Pete? “So, uh, did your pee smell funny?’” But she was hot and she did smile at me. Or did she? She was behind my position at the table so I couldn’t really scope her out, give her the eye, use the old Black Irish charm which has made it easy for the Irish to overpopulate any country with an adequate food supply. I went back to the bathroom to wash my hands, putting a chair in front of the door so I could have a little privacy. On the return to the table I could see her sitting at a large table with six other women and I could see that she was looking directly at me, no mistaking it. I smiled at her and sat back down.

“Dude, she was totally checking you out,” said Peter from his position facing her.

“Doesn’t matter. I saw her pee. I have never in my life wanted the kind of relationship where that level of intimacy is acceptable. You know, like those couples who poop with the bathroom door open and continue their conversation.”

“No one does that.”

“I assure you, they do.”

We paid our bill and made our way to the door. On they way out, Emily, by far the drunkest, began to make a bit of a spectacle of herself by having some sort of argument with Peter. Her tiny little voice wound up and up through the register of human hearing, ending in the keening death wail of an angry rabbit. Though the two of them were in front of us, they were obviously with us. I began to feel a bit embarrassed. As we passed the table of the seven women, my new friend was watching the scene.

“We don’t know them,” I said to her, and flashed my most charming smile.

The brunette looked directly at me and slyly smiled. “Really.” She paused, then said loudly enough for her entire table, the table next to hers, the waitress who already thought I was a pedophile, and the entire foyer to hear, “So, uh, tell me: did it make you hot to watch me pee?”