We’ve All Been There: The Frat House Bathroom

You waited in the line outside the party hoping the 3 frat guys with low self-esteem and big muscles manning the door would notice your short skirt/cleavage combo and let you inside. Once you got the point and nod from d-bag #1, you breeze past the fortress gate (a card table littered with empty beer cans) and dance your way (litarally) into the overcrowded party.

A wave of humid, stale air hits you the minute you step inside. You feel your hair instantly frizzing up. But the room is dark and every girl in there is suffering from the frizzies, so you pull it back, grab a few cans of (crappy) beer from yet another muscley frat boy and get your party on.

You’re dancing, sweating, having a good time when it hits you: you have to pee. And not just a little bit. A lot a bit.
As in, one more bump and grind and it will be dripping down your leg. You grab your friend, pull her close and scream into her ear, “BATHROOM!??” The music is so loud, though, she can’t hear you.

“WHAT?!” She mouths as she gets low, low, low, with a guy with giant pit stains. You try screaming again, but it’s no use. So you break out the gestures, pointing to your bladder then pointing in the direction of the stairs. She finally gets it, leaves her perspiring prince behind and joins you in the hunt for a clean-ish bathroom.

You climb the stairs, passing couples making out along the way. As you near the top you see a long string of girls lining the hallway. Obviously, this is the line for the bathroom. And obviously, you have no choice but to wait in it (because, unlike those boys, you can’t just head outside and empty your bladder into a bush).

The line moves slowly, giving you and your friend some time to reflect on the not-so-hottie she was getting dirty with on the dance floor. And the trashy girls coming out of the bathroom. And how drunk you are. And how if you wait one more second you are going to pee on your skirt.

Finally, it’s your turn. You and your friend run into the bathroom and lock the door behind you. Your friend holds your purse and fixes her hair as you attempt to hover over the seat-less bowl. You pray to the gods above that your legs don’t give out; who knows what sort of diseases lurk in the stains that litter the bowl. Thinking about it makes you throw up in your mouth a little, so you focus on the task at hand:


As you squat and release the 6 cans of beer you’ve consumed since entering this sweatbox you begin scanning the room for toilet paper. You see a couple Playboys, some condom wrappers, a notebook and a book of matches, but not one roll of TP. Anywhere. Your friend starts opening cabinets and drawers.

“There’s shaving cream, a bottle of lube and – ew! – a pair of dirty boxers, but no toilet paper,” she reports.

You weigh your options:
1. Drip dry. Ew, gross.
2. Notebook paper?
3. Drip dry. Ok, maybe not so gross.
4. Crumpled up magazine paper?
5. Drip drying may be the only option.
6. How many diseases could there really be in that pair of boxers?
7. Oh eff, I’m gonna have to drip dry.

You do a little shimmy shake, stand up and quickly pull up your undies. You no longer feel like you have to pee down your leg; instead you feel like you already did. You do a mini waddle to the sink, rinse your hands (because, obvi, there is no soap), grab your purse and exit the bathroom.

Yeah, we’ve all been there. You are not the first girl to contemplate the notebook paper, and definitely not the last to leave the bathroom with a little pee pee in your panties.

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