An Open Letter to the Guy who Masturbates in Public Bathrooms While I am There

Dear Sir.

Go fuck yourself.

No, not like that. Jesus Christ, could you stop that for one second while you read this?

All right. Now that you're actually paying attention I'm going to start.

There have, of course, been times when I have been out and about in the real world such as I am forced to inhabit on days when I need things other than pornography and animated films to sustain myself. I understand that most of you, being my readers, are paralyzed in mortal fear of this 'real world' and cannot fathom an existence in which pornography and anime are insufficient sustenance, but I assure you that most people require things like food and social contact.

Now before my inbox is filled with a hundred angry emails from sweaty people wishing desperately to inform me of how their questionably substantive relationship with Sakura from Cardcaptors has completely replaced their need for human interaction, I don't fault you people for not wanting to go outside. It's a scary place. I know, I've been there. There's, like, bears and shit.

Indeed, on any trip outside one can run afoul of anything from disease to elderly women with firearms. Sometimes I wonder why I even step outside my front door, but then I realize the only things left in the fridge are from the previous owners and the company responsible for such things have shut off the electricity because the neighbours take it for granted that, since they have seen no one enter or leave the premises for six months, I have died in the interim and now rot in a closet surrounded by the dried remnants of my own accrued waste.

These reports of my death are, of course, greatly exaggerated, and as the neighbours look on in shock I emerge from my cocoon and take flight into the outside world until I remember I can't fly and almost end up hit by a bus, which I board using money caked with months of pocket filth. The driver regards it with disdain as it leaves my shaky hand to clatter into the payment collector but fuck him. I'm on my way out to the mall.

Now, herein lies the problem. Most of you are familiar with malls and, by extension, the unspoken rules of society one is expected to follow. When one is at the mall for an extended amount of time attempting to resolve the various retail based challenges around stockpiling sufficient supply for another six month hermitage, it is inevitable that 'the call of nature' will come around to rear its ugly head and one of the ugliest of such rules becomes evident. By unspoken social contract and the official disapproval of Starbucks on such matters, I am forbidden from, for example, retreating into a corner and fiercely guarding my territory by marking it in the traditional manner. Rather, it is expected that I enter a public facility for the express purpose of discarding bodily waste in a manner not displeasing to those around me. Such a facility is known as a bathroom.

And the problem with THAT is that much the same problem as related above befalls the chronic masturbator. Now, god knows that happens to him out there. Perhaps he sees an attractive woman, or a store selling attractive women's clothing, or a picture of a store that might sell attractive women's clothing, or someone near him talks about a store that might sell attractive women's clothing, or he just ate something particularly sexy for lunch. Whatever the reason, there seems to be a distinct sort of man who uses the public bathroom for another, far more sinister purpose - to wrestle with his overwhelming desires in quite a literal and physical manner.

And now we get to the reason I brought this up. I go to public washrooms frequently, out of necessity. By my calculations almost 66% of the time there is someone already in there. Someone fighting the good fight against the one-eyed dragon. I am cursed by God, it seems, never to enter a washroom in a public space that is not inhabited by someone engaged in manual control of the joystick.

Ladies and gentlemen, a great man once said 'two outta three ain't bad'. By which I assume he meant 'if you enter a bathroom and more than about half the time there is a dude masturbating that is just too much to be coincidence.'

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we can reach only one logical conclusion here. I am being stalked by a man with one, singular, disturbing purpose - to pound the post wherever I am found.

Now, I've never actually viewed this man in the midst of the act, thank everything that is holy, but there are some damned incongruous sounds going on here, so either I am hearing the happiest, most enthusiastic man ever to defecate or there are dark things going on in the stall that no man dares to open. This man follows me from place to place wherever I go and spanks his crank when I am at my most vulnerable. This man is sick, ladies and gentlemen.

Sir, I assume you have read this far into my account, since you are such a dedicated stalker. I would like to ask you something from the bottom of my heart.

No, not the heart of my bottom, fucking stop that and pay attention.

Look, I don't know you, or maybe I do and you just don't make your identity known, in which case I never want to know which one of my personal acquaintances is engaging in this, but seriously, there is such a thing as going too far. I fear for my safety, really I do. Maybe one day your obsession will go too far and you'll want to introduce yourself, possibly whilst already in the process of strumming your instrument. I don't want this to happen, for both of us, really, because for me it'll be incredibly mentally scarring and, to be honest, I'm sure you don't want to run afoul of the police, who have a fairly consistent policy when dealing people who follow other people around while polishing the rocket.

So, okay, quite seriously, fuck off.

Not like that. Just bugger off, go away, tickle your pickle at home like everybody else and don't drag me into it. And stop thinking about me in drag.

Actually, you know what? Fuck it. Think about me in drag. Just don't come near me ever again.

Sincerely,
Daniel "Pudding" Casey.