When I Feel Like a Man

I almost never feel like a real man. I usually feel like a kid pretending to be a man. That is what happens when you are 23, and you have the adorable facial construction of a 12 year-old. You get carded at R-rated movies by 16 year-old girls, everyone feels compelled to call you ‘buddy’, and you seldom get to feel like a man. There is, however, one exception. There is one recurring situation I cherish. I just experienced it at the public library. I am blessed.

It is when a bathroom gives me agency. When I have the option to pee in either the higher standing urinal or in the little kiddie one. When I have this choice, and I choose to pee in the higher urinal, then I feel like a real man. I walk into the bathroom and stare at each, into their soul, through their glossy exterior all the way down to the septic basin below. One is fit for a king, the other is a diminutive replica fit for a toddler. I choose the throne. I stand tall and pee with hubris, the entire time looking down upon that puny receptacle beneath me, thinking “Ah. Children.”

On the contrary, what a degrading feeling it is to be at a football game—a venue where men are lost in gridiron grit, often shirtless in bone-chilling December weather because they are insulated by a permanent layer of toughness—and to be forced to use the kiddie urinal. There are few worse feelings. I wait on line behind all those bearded beasts who are just dying to empty their kidneys, which are exhausted from deciding which chemicals are worth holding in order to play games with the brain, and which chemicals should be sent to the soap cakes. I'm up next up. I look down the line of urinals, and see that they are all occupied in a dance between penis and porcelain, connected only by the rhythmic flow of excrement between them. I pay attention to the different techniques at use. Posture while peeing tells you a lot about just how tough a man is. It’s like the assumed position causes somatic changes within the toughness cells of the body. Some guys do the hand-in-pocket thing. Some impatient imbibers take a healthy swig of beer mid-stream. Others do the one-armed lean against the wall above the urinal, elbow bent at 75 perfectly acute degrees. I’ve always envied those who could execute this one with authenticity, and toughness.

Then there are the ‘Capital M’ Men. The Maximus Decimus Meridii of football fandom. They do a bimanual, outstretched yawn, no hands required to perform the duty—their toughness acting independently from their organs, which at this point know their job too well. I look at this masterpiece from the back, still waiting for a urinal to be freed, and I notice how the figure of these men is almost a perfect embodiment of the Y chromosome.

I observe all this, and have to wonder what position my body will take when it is my turn to step up to the dish. I just barely catch the sound of a subtle zip, nearly lost in a symphony of synchronized splashing; it’s an indication that someone is wrapping things up. Then I see a small boy, maybe 8 or 9, depart his workstation. I know what this means for me. What is left is a kiddie urinal, tucked away in the corner and begging for some company. I ask what I did to deserve this. What bunny I stepped on to warrant this kick in the face of a manhood I try desperately to possess. There is no shame like having to take a wide stance in front of a bunch of grown men, and having to pee into a kiddie urinal. I don’t want to look around as I do it, but really I don’t need to. They all know they are better than me, and in this moment, I know they are right. In this moment, I'm reminded that I am nothing but a boy pretending to be a man. The kiddie urinal delivers this message.

I get through it, because I have to pee. That’s what brought me here in the first place. I try to change my perspective on things. I think for a second that maybe I am the tough one, because I peed in a kiddie urinal in front of a bunch of grown men and my heart didn’t stop beating, nor did my urethra close up. But then, to pour salt all over my wounded dignity, I realize it’s an automated flusher. This is devastating. I wish more than anything that I could at least grip the metal handle, pretend I'm revving a Harley or a Kawasaki or a Schwinn—whatever is considered toughest these days—and send that shit down myself, with an angry jerk of manly aggression. This act would reclaim some power in my life and show that maybe I was in control of the experience the whole time. But the damned thing is motion activated. I walk away with my chin glued to my chest, and the kiddie urinal taunts me with the gentlest flush gravity will tolerate. One of those flushes that just delicately dilutes the urine pooled at the bottom, without doing any formal flushing at all. At this point, I am left no choice but accept the fact that the kiddie urinal owns me. It beat me down, and then wiped my butt in front of my “equals”. I'm a boy, only pretending to be a man.