The role of the penis on public transportation

So, this morning I was taking the bus.  I often take the bus, because I don’t have a car.  In point of fact, I don’t even drive, but that’s a discussion for another day.  Even if I did have both a car and a license, though, I would have been using neither this morning, suffering as I was from the worst hangover I’ve had in years.  I’m actually not especially prone to hangovers in general, and as such this particular one might not have really been so terrible when judged by an objective standard.  But, to me, unfamiliar with hangovers, it felt pretty damned miserable.  And, yes, to anyone reading this who has noticed the date, I’m waking up with a hangover on December 31.  That seems like remarkably poor planning on my part, and is doubtless going to make me a wee bit subdued for the celebrations  tonight.

But, that’s all a tangent.  The important part is that I’m on a bus, and I’m in a foul mood.

Anyone who takes public transit regularly knows that the quality of your experience correlates directly with how good a day you’re having.  On a wonderful day, transit flies efficiently about and you get everywhere quickly and smelling like elegant French parfûm.  If you’re having a bad day, though, transit steps up to kick you while you’re down.

I was having a bad day.  From the title of this post, those familiar with public transit probably see where this is going.

At any rate, it’s late morning and I’m taking the bus to a university district that is basically closed for the holidays, so there are only a handful of people riding with me.  At some point, a shambly, somewhat ragged homeless fellow gets on.  I don’t really notice that he’s there (I’m not really feeling up to noticing much of anything), until I realise that the bus doesn’t smell quite as good as it used to, and this gentleman appears to be the cause.  But, you know, whatever.  Buses aren’t exactly private limousines, after all, and this guy wasn’t bothering anyone.  He was just maybe a bit over-ripe.

And then he starts talking to himself.  Again, whatever.  I’m not keen on it, but he seems to be having a relatively normal conversation.  If I couldn’t see otherwise, I’d just assume he was talking on the phone or into a headset or something.

Then he takes out his junk.

Yay.

“Oh, great,” I’m thinking.  “What day would be complete without both a pounding headache and vagrant cock?”  Of course, I don’t look directly at the exposed transient wang (you can be blinded that way), and in fact I pretty much don’t look anywhere near that section of the bus.  I notice the other passengers also diligently looking not-over-there, so I assume I’m not alone in being less than keen.

But, you know, if a man wants to hang loose a little while he goes about his business, then I suppose it’s not hurting me.  I can just look away, like I do when ugly people get on the bus.  No harm, no foul.

Then he stands up.

Sigh.

For a terrifying moment, I think he’s about to relieve himself; however, it seems he’s only looking for a slightly different perspective.  But now, thanks to the seating levels on the bus, there’s loose junk at everyone’s eye height in the middle of the bus.  It just doesn’t seem fair.

Awkward.

And then a few rather long minutes later, he gets off the bus, still dangling for the world to see as he walks down the street and into someone’s else’s karmic punishment.  The awkward level on the bus drops back to normal, and everyone returns to staring out the window (but now doing it voluntarily).  Ten minutes after that, I’m at home using Gatorade to wash down a double dose of Tylenol, and things are feeling better.

Now, usually my blog entries are about some big-picture observation, and I use examples from my life only as an avenue through which to introduce the larger topic of discussion.  So, today I could be aiming for a discussion of the woefully underfunded resources available to combat mental illness.  Or, I could point out how sometimes things aren’t as bad as they seem, and that the worst is over quickly.  Or, I could note that ultimately, some guy’s dick ten feet away does me no harm at all, and probably only latent homophobia (or more-latent homoeroticism) makes me uncomfortable around the unexpected penis.  Or, this could just be another post about how public transit can be frustrating sometimes.

Nope.  Today, I’m just venting.  Sometimes a bad day just doesn’t seem so bad once you tell people about it.

To my 27.5 projected regular readers (just who the hell are you people, anyway?), thanks for listening.  Happy New Year!

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