The Novelist by Jordan Castro

Author:Jordan Castro
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781593767143
Publisher: Catapult
Published: 2022-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

The coffee dripping sounded exactly like Violet peeing. Violet’s pee seemed to slap more gently against the toilet water than mine (that is, when I aimed for the center of the bowl; I often peed on the walls of the bowl to prevent what I viewed as an obscene noise from occurring—my urine pounding water, sounding almost like a kind of guzzling—at which times mine would be less audible than hers). I felt self-conscious that, to a woman who had overheard the pee streams of various men, mine would sound weaker comparatively, something a discerning mind might logically conclude was correlated to smaller penis size. Even though Violet had seen my penis countless times, I still didn’t want to give anything away; I didn’t want the strength of my stream to factor into her attraction toward me—and how could it not?

On good days, I confidently aimed at the center of the bowl and let my sound resound throughout the bathroom. There was something rather special about being able to aim; Violet could not. This made me feel better about myself: for all of the ways in which women were better than men, we would always have our ability to pee on things. I recalled, as the coffee pattered through and I kept pouring, an essay I’d read in which the author called the male pee stream an “arc of transcendence.” Freud said that ancient man used to show off for his female counterpart by putting out fires with his pee—something ancient woman could not do. But woman was complete, according to this essay, physically and psychologically; a symbolic mystery (due to her comparatively hidden genitalia); the devouring force from which all life came; though also an earthbound squatter, whereas men had external genitals which they must learn to aim and with which they must project. From this initial metaphor of male genitalia, the essay claimed, all of culture, science, philosophy, math—all of civilization—sprung.

Throughout my own history of peeing, I’d wanted to be silent, or the loudest, depending on my mood. Though even when I peed stealthily on the side of the bowl, it was ultimately because I wanted to be the loudest: by removing myself from the competition, as it were, I ensured that Violet couldn’t judge my performance and rank me in her pee-strength hierarchy.

In the past, due to opioids, I would often have to stand in front of the bowl for inappropriately long stretches, waiting for the liquid to flow forth, oozing slowly like squeezed sludge through the tube to my tip, like something thick. I absurdly considered that perhaps, to throw off the suspicion of those around me, I should pee on the side of the bowl. If no one ever heard anything, they may be less suspicious.

I remembered once having to pee before a reading at a so-called communist art gallery in Ohio. I stood in front of the toilet for what must have been ten minutes, coming so close to peeing several times, but inevitably

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