Sitting to Pee: Here, There and Everywhere

By Starla Renee Trimm

Reading Stana’s discussion of her travels and the inevitable topic of restroom use when on the road in feminine garb (no one thinks about or discusses bathrooms more than T-girls) brought some memories into focus.

Back in the day, in my healthy years when I had a life and actually went places, I took quite a few road trips en femme. As I passed most of the time, I never had any serious problem using the ladies’ room pretty much anywhere. (And we didn't yet have reactionary politicians trying to pass laws making it a capital offense to simply pee in an appropriate facility.) Nevertheless, when travelling in unfamiliar places (especially here in the South), better safe than sorry.

What I would do when my bladder was crying uncle was to seek out a gas station/convenience store — not the large 7-11 type enterprises, but the smaller businesses that only had a small kiosk type island housing cashiers and a limited array of junk food and beer. Why? Because such facilities usually had small bathrooms that required key access. Besides the fact that they could only be used by one customer at a time eliminating the possibility of a negative encounter in the restroom itself, there still remained the remote chance that someone might see me entering or exiting the thing, have doubts as to my gender status and make a fuss.

Having to request the key gave me an "excuse" in the event of a confrontation. If they handed me the key to the little girls' potty (as was the case almost 100% of the time), I figured I was passing well and pretty safe inasmuch as I could always protest that, hey, that was the key the clerk gave me, so I assumed that was the bathroom I was directed to use.

And since even in male mode in such situations, I was sometimes given the ladies' room key simply because the boys' room was (a) out of order, (b) on the verge of being declared a toxic waste cleanup site or (c) occupied by a leisurely squatter who was taking his dear time while, as my Momma used to say, "my back teeth are floating" — the notion of being perceived as male, yet directed verbally or tacitly to the ladies' loo was not inconceivable. Maybe I was overthinking things by coming up with such complex planning, but you never know.

In any case, my confidence in such a scheme was bolstered and solidified on one road trip when my gas tank was on "close to fumes" and my bladder on "dam about to burst" as I entered the little hamlet of Waynesboro, Georgia ("The Bird Dog Capital of the World"). My only option for topping one tank off and emptying the other was the rather shabby looking enterprise at the center of town, manned by several bearded good ol’ boys in overalls, chawin’ tabaccy and generally perpetuating the “seedy side of Mayberry” stereotype.

Well, between having that brassy boldness that prior positive encounters produced, as well as the point of no return risk of an impending flood under my denim skirt, I did not even hesitate to stride into the place, flash a sweet smile at the Head Bubba and ask for the bathroom key. Whatever tiny residual concern remained that had not yet been overridden by urological distress was quickly dispelled as the dude handed me the ladies’ room key with a wink and a smile (and, I think, a bit of a leer), drawling “There ya go, darlin’.”

For once, I was far more comforted than offended by such sexist behavior!

Wearing Veronica Beard

Jerick Hoffer (aka Jinkx Monsoon) femulating in television's Capitol Hill.