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6:47 a.m. - Tuesday, Apr. 29, 2003
Ms Leslie Learns to Pee

I should have practiced squatting.

Even during the two years I lived exclusively as a woman, I retained a guilty luxury. Sure, it was fine to be the lady and sit to pee. Fine as long as the toilet was clean, the seat dry, or I wasn�t in an awful hurry. But whenever I encountered the slightest inconvenience, like a disgusting mess in a rest area where a ladies� toilet was supposed to be, Or if I was alone where there �were� no toilets, or sometimes, if I was just in a hurry, I always knew I could cheat. I could just stand at a distance and aim that thing, do my business and give it a hearty shake. Honest? Not in the least. Fair? Who ever promised you fairness in life anyway? It was just a matter of how much personal integrity I was willing to lose to avoid dealing with an inconvenient urinary event.

I let that luxury go last September. It wasn�t so hard. Umm�..no pun intended. It was simply a minor detail in the process of becoming more whole as a woman.

But then, I never really encountered one of those inconvenient moments since then either. Not until I rushed into the ladies� room at the Chinese Temple just outside of Pattaya, Thailand.

It was a long ride in Richard�s pick-up truck. Ees had to go bad. So did I. And at that last moment, just when we finished racing down the path to the public toilets and thought we could make it, we turned the corner to find an admittance charge, so we had to stop and dig out a few coins before we could go in.

By the time I opened the door to a vacant cubicle, I wasn�t even thinking of new adventures. I was only thinking of all the new muscles I was forced to use to keep a hot wet trail of water from darkening my pants down the inside of my leg. I wasn�t prepared for what I saw.

My first instinct was to turn away and look for another cubicle. This one seemed to be broken, as there was water streaming out of the cubicle and into a floor drain by the lavatory sinks. Then I realized that there was water coming from all the cubicles. And watching it wasn�t making my own plight any less pressing. Glad I had worn my sandals with the thicker soles, I waded in and shut the door behind me.

The tiny room was tiled floor to ceiling and had two levels. Half of the space was taken up by a raised step into which a porcelain fixture had been set. It resembled a toilet in that it had the same general shape and function in the bottom of it, but it was nothing like any toilet I have ever seen. Instead of a seat, it had only two places where one was apparently supposed to place her feet and��. And what? I was wearing pants, for crying out loud.

Next to the porcelain fixture was a small built-in tank or tub. Water was running into it through a spout in the wall. There was no shut off valve. It was this tub, hopefully, that was flooding the floor. There was a little toy plastic cooking pot floating in the water. Between the two fixtures, I wasn�t entirely sure just which was the toilet after all. I was entirely sure, though, that at that exact moment, I missed my penis in a big way.

Water covered the raised step and cascaded down to the lower part of the cubicle. There was a small floor drain there, but it was clogged and had probably been clogged since the Chang Dynasty. My problem was becoming clear.

I needed to find some way to pull down my pants and keep them from touching the floor (or anything else) while emptying my bladder, presumably into the porcelain fixture, although I wasn�t about to be too fussy. I had to quickly get through about five thousand years of female human evolution and teach myself how to go to the bathroom without a proper toilet and without peeing all over the pants I was trying to save from the floor water.

Did I mention I missed my penis?

I tried just standing with my feet in the appropriate places on each side of the so-called toilet. Between me and the receptacle, of course, hung my pants and panties. I�m no rocket scientist, but I understand gravity. Clearly this wasn�t the right way to do it.

Frantically, I evaluated my options. I thought of leaning with my hands against the wall, but that seemed too precipitous. With water all around me, one slip was a guaranteed drenching, and in what I would be drenched, I was still not ready to say. If the little tank hadn�t been overflowing, I might have been able to sit on the edge of it and hang my bottom over. I was sure this wasn�t right, but I considered it. Only the fact that water was flooding it kept me from trying.

At last, my mitochondrial DNA, I suppose, took control as I cleared my mind and listened to the force. There was only one way and I was going to have to do it.

With my pants around my ankles, mere millimeters above the wet tile, I squatted lower than I have ever squatted before. I hugged my knees and pulled myself around my own belly until my bottom hung free and clear over the intended receptacle. With a silent prayer to all the women who�ve come before me, I let it go into the place where it belonged.

Now, if only I had purchased a little handful of toilet paper.

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