Magazine

As far as the public is concerned, if you’re carrying a magazine into a public restroom and the magazine features an attractive or partially nude woman on its cover, you might as well be on your merry way to rubbing one off. Not that I’m not encouraging masturbation in public restrooms, whether they be single-occupancy or communal. The reasoning for this is persuasive and self-evident in either case.
Anyway, women look at you as either pitiful or sick and so do men when women aren’t around. If it’s just a guy, he’ll shoot you a look like “Good call” but if you react in a way that indicates that you will not be masturbating to the contents of the given magazine, the approving-insider “good call” look becomes a “Why don’t you grab an issue of Architectural Digest” admonishment.
What if all I want to do is peruse through Black Men Magazine in the surprisingly unsanitary confines of a Borders stall? I, for one, have never masturbated in a public restroom. This is not true, but the point is that I don’t even like masturbating in my own bathroom. I’ll wake up in the morning to take a shower and have to address my erection/residual fantasies like, “Look, I don’t feel like a fucking trapeze artist at 7 a.m. Let’s take a rain check.”
True, my quarrelsome boner and mental image of that-one-chick-doing-that-one-thing should respond, “Rain check? Do you even know what that is? Maybe we’ll take a rain check when you go down to Sam McGlerg’s General Store to pay on your grocery credit.”
Fair enough, but we gotta get a DSL hook-up in here.