“Some never notice me in the Gents toilet. Some never see me, in the far corner, seemingly looking innocently at the dirty floor as I wait for the first golden drops to dribble out. Some never realise what I’m in there for, what I’m there for every day, each morning, patiently waiting for the right opportunity. Some never suspect; but others, mostly married, mostly old, they know. They know there’s a small hole drilled through the wooden partitions dividing the third and fourth cubicles, and that on the walls of the second, the telephone numbers of lonely transvestites and the sordid fantasies of middle-aged husbands are scrawled in biro. They know why the toothless pensioners furtively peer around, seemingly taking forever to dry their hands beneath the meek waft of air from the temperamental drier, it’s stiff circular button covered in a sticker, the design long since rubbed away, leaving only peeling white remains. They know the times of day when the cleaner arrives, her mop barging through the puddles of piss like a sword cutting through flesh, the toilet emptying out as she reloads the smashed-up paper dispensers, her hair greasy, her cheeks plump, swollen like an over-ripe fruit and her eyes vacant, dumb like that of a cow’s led to the slaughterhouse.
They know what goes on....”
George Rostov’s blog is now online, dribbling with gratuitous references to fisting, faggotry and felching, and positively oozing with lewdness and filth (not to mention to Herpes and Hep C). Feel free to pour scorn and hate upon his immaculately tonsured head, and report him forthwith to the authorities.