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Dear Politicians Drafting Bathroom Bills,

Look, I can't speak for all women but I am. We thank you for your concern. Frankly, in all my years using public restrooms, it never crossed my feeble female mind that a predator could be lurking by the hand dryer, ready to strike as I obsessive compulsively check and recheck my fly (if not for that one time in fifth grade…).

But I confess: I was a bathroom predator once. We were dining at Nobu in Manhattan, my husband and I. Word on the street had it that notorious BFF Gayle King was holding court in a back room of that very establishment that very night. Gayle King - just one degree of separation from the Big O, only steps away from me and my volcano roll! I get star struck; I had to have a looksee.

I sauntered over to the rear of the restaurant ever - so - slowly, disheartened at seeing nothing as I made my way to the ladies' room, which unlike my Lilliputian bladder, was empty. Moments later, just as I was heading to the sink, the door opened and in walked a coughing, statuesque goddess, who zeroed in on a stall. It was all I could do to contain myself.

"IT'S HER!!!" I hollered internally. Then, "No, it can't be!" Then, "IS IT??"

"I can't get this faucet turned on," I said out loud to no one in particular except Gayle King, who was peeing and sneezing just inches away, behind the door.

That was true, not just a clever stalling device. A lifelong feeble bladder has turned me into an emergency restroom connoisseur: Short of squatting between parked cars, I say with confidence I can pindrop a "secret" New York City toilet like nobody's business (number one AND number two). The cans, I've got covered. But figuring out faucet mechanics and their myriad, newfangled variations is a legit stressor. (Does the handle work up or down? Where is the handle? Oh, this one has motion sensory? Then why isn't the water flowing - are my hands too high, too low?)

"Yeah, this one's tricky," said the phlegmy voice within the stall.

"I know, right?" I countered smartly, as she blew her nose.

Fumbling nervously, I finally located the switch and deliberated by repeatedly lathering and scrubbing my hands with the vigor of a surgeon heading into the OR. Meanwhile, I could tell the woman in the stall was, well - stalling as long as was humanly possible for a person of her frame and stature in 2 x 2 square feet of space.

"She thinks I'm a crazed fan," I thought, as I briskly scoured my fingers one by one until all 10 were sparkling, and then launched into the process all over again. I had to know if it was Gayle King, and I was going to win this pissing contest if I had to scour my hands raw!

Sure enough, with nothing further to occupy herself with, she finally flushed, exited the stall and swiftly washed her hands. I was still going at it, too - as evidenced by the small pool of blood now floating down the drain. And just when she was ready to make her escape -

"ARE YOU GAYLE KING??" I shouted, as she was sliding out the door.

"I am," she said, and like the crazed fan she had taken me for, I fumbled for her hand, accidently grabbing her pinky instead, shaking it up and down manically. Gayle King wrenched it free, running off in a tizzy.

You'll be glad to know I was punished for my behavior, Politicians Drafting Bathroom Bills. Days later I caught Gayle King's wretched cold - no small irony, given my excruciating hand washing.

So you're right. Lavatory predators must be stopped in our tracks! Because I just can't promise to hold back on a future victim. By the way, I hear Caitlyn Jenner's in town. God help her if I run into her in the john - I'll pounce on her faster than you can spell LGBT.

- Claudia Gryvatz Copquin

Claudia Gryvatz Copquin is a seasoned journalist, author and essayist, and the founder of Long Island's first literary festival, Word Up: Long Island LitFest, now in its third year.