Near the beginning of my first year at high school, when I was a delicate little third former, I had a considerably traumatic experience in the PE changing rooms. At my school, there is (as far as my knowledge extends) only one toilet in the girls’ changing rooms, and it is notorious for not having a functional lock. My class shared its PE slot with a class in the year above me, who were collectively not famous for having any semblance of intellect, but were quite probably famous for having a plethora of STIs between them.
On this particular day, I had, for some reason or other, taken my time in getting changed into my PE gear (this possibly had something to do with my complete ineptitude at anything that involved physical exercise and the resultant fear of and aversion to anything to do with “physical education”), and found myself suddenly the only girl from my class left in the room. However, there were still quite a few girls from the other class hanging around, doing whatever it is sluthobagwhores do – maybe texting their HIV-positive boyfriends or applying another 5 kilograms of makeup.
Anyway, it was around the time that I realised I was the only girl from my class in the changing room that I also realised I needed to pee. So off I went into the only toilet and shut the door behind myself. It was then that I discovered that the door of said toilet was absolutely insistent on not locking under any circumstances. But I really had to go. So I just got on with it, hoping like hell that I wouldn’t be burst in on.
My hopes were in vain.
Before I could even finish peeing, the door suddenly swung open and a particularly repulsive sluthobagwhore stood in the doorway, glaring at me like I was dog shit on the bottom of her shoe.
She looked like she probably weighed even less than her IQ, and if her shorts were just a bit longer they might even have been existent. I also noticed she had attractively tacky regrowth coming through at the roots of her platinum-blonde, straightener-frazzled hair. But even if she wasn’t the most repulsive thing I’d seen that week, I would still have felt shocked and violated by the unexpected intrusion.
It was one of those moments when you just don’t know what to say or do, so you just freeze and hope like fuck that everything will go away.
It didn’t, and I remained staring at this sluthowhorebagface for a few very long and awkward seconds, before she narrowed her kohl-heavy eyes, opened her overly-glossed lips, and said:
If I was shocked before, it was nothing in comparison to how I felt now. I couldn’t understand what I possibly did to warrant such assault from this chlamydia-carrying fourth former. Why was she asking me what I was doing? Couldn’t she see that I was just innocently taking a leak? She’d asked her question in a tone of voice that suggested she thought I shouldn’t even be in her bathroom because I was a stupid little third former with no rights. I could only reply with:
I didn’t see why it was such a crime to pee. Maybe she needed the bathroom, but so did I, and I was there first. I considered telling her to go fuck herself, but I was using most of my willpower to hold myself together, and the rest of it to pee as fast as I could. Not to mention the fact that I felt like I had just been surprise-raped. She stared at me for a few more seconds, presumably while she formulated an incredibly deep and complex answer in her tiny head. Then, she said:
Only after she had left, closing the door behind her, did I manage to compose myself and stop the tears that were threatening to spill over.
I couldn’t really understand what had just happened, and still can’t to this day. Maybe she was bitter because she weighed 25 grams and had fifty different STIs. Maybe she was bitter because I wasn’t either of those things. Maybe she just really, really needed to go, and didn’t know how to be anything but a bitch about it.
I guess I’ll never know.
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