I can't remember the last time I was inside a woman's toilet.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm a sick and depraved pervert, but I'm not the sort to get sexual kicks from sneaking my way into an inner sanctum and masturbating into the sanitary towel bin. Though if you want one, I know a few guys you could talk to.

I mean just... in there. Randomly. Because the night dictated it, and it happened and suddenly you look around and you realise you're in a bog and there aren't puddles of piss on the floor. And only then do you realise there's a minor transgression, and that, as all minor transgressions, is kinda fun.

Two reasons of course:

i) I'm no longer a skinny-hipped 19-year old zinekid with a head full of curls and a taste for skinny fit and eyeliner. There's never enough gay men for teenage girls to have their requisite effeminate fella, so they have to turn to other sources. Like - say - testosterone-crazed monsters who'd happily talk the deep and meaningfuls one minute and drag them into a cubicle for a little friendly groping the next. I am a grizzled hack, and can't get away with such youthful things anymore - either by action or temprament.

ii) I no longer am out my fucking head on mega-booze every night of the week and prowling nightclubs looking for flesh to consume. The alcohol and the hunting mechanism can often lead to hurried cubicle-based sex acts at any point, especially when you're as wanton as I am when in Bad Kieron mode.

Not that I really miss it - it's just more of a case that you realise something has genuinely passed, and probably forever. It's exactly the same way I feel when I think that I'll never wear a school uniform in all seriousness again, and sit in a classroom catching glances at some girl's legs a few desks forward.

It's gone. It's over. It's something you'll never do again.

I suppose this is what other people would call nostalgia.