There’s a masturbator in the bathroom connected to the Sentry office. The bathroom is also open to the third floor of the Tivoli, meaning anyone can walk in from outside.
We’ve often wished that our bathroom was private, and this intruder is only the head of the issue. Every time my bladder, full of coffee, drags me to the bathroom and all the toilets are occupied, it’s just one more layer of stress on top of this piece of toast upon which I’ve spread myself thin.
It’s that time of the year when everyone’s running around like a bottle of coke ready to burst when the all too innocuous Mentos is dropped into the mix. I can see it on the faces of my peers. It’s in the voices of my professors. It’s in the hurried cold of passersby. In a way, I understand what might bring the masturbator to our cozy corner of the Tivoli.
It was first mentioned by our design editor. Someone gouged a peep hole in the plastic wall of the stall. That linoleum wasteland is full of shadows and shuffling. Is it stress? Is it the thrill of being caught? Or is it the slime, the overall depravity and voyeuristic nature that appeals to something primal in this secret self-pleasuring primate?
A man recently snuck into the receiving end of a port-a-potty to spy on women. Now the creep is suing the City of Boulder, claiming he got too high. His private self told him to spy, but his public self told him to take legal action. Somehow society had wronged him.
I don’t believe that’s the case with that man in Boulder or our own local masturbator. I don’t believe society has wronged him; these strange desires come from somewhere deep within and all too personal. Still, it makes you wonder what hidden center of the mind they’ve tapped into that the rest of us have not.
We’re all stressed. We all need to turn the release valve. For me, it’s heavy metal. For others, it’s a little pot or a glass of wine. However, those things don’t affect other people. Those releases require privacy rather than perverting somebody else’s.