Strange Things Happen in Public Men’s Rooms: Part One
“Liar! LIAR! I’ve had better sex with GIRLS! And they had bigger DICKS, too!”
Quenchless thirst is my primary lifelong malady. If I am awake, even for half-a-minute, I am ingesting some kind of fluid. Every day. Always.
For a while, mostly in my 20s, that fluid was alcohol, but even before and since that glorious era of black-blood vomit and sleeping on the sidewalk, a constant flow of soda, coffee, water, tea, juice, and you-name-it has run past my lips and perpetually down my gullet.
The inevitable byproduct of all this guzzling, of course, is that it keeps my bladder and urethra in a similar state of near nonstop irrigation.
And, yes, I realize that this entire process may be an unconscious concoction of a reason to excuse myself in polite company so I can grab my wang several dozen times a day.
No city hates normal human excretory functions like New York City. Public toilets are as rare there as gargoyles fake-rocking to Sonic Youth and/or fake-laughing along with The Daily Show are damnably inescapabale.
This lack of latrine access posed an issue to permanently-needing-to-piss Youngman McBeardo as I navigated New York City in my formative years - a rather severe one.
One early solution was to shell out 60-cents for a cup of coffee at a diner and duck into the john quickly. That price should indicate how long ago this seemed an affordable option.
So other than chancing a desk-appearance ticket and letting fly between dumpsters, the torrential tinkler’s best best in New York is to memorize a map of what few easy-access, free-of-charge lavatories the city has to offer.
For me, the go-to squirt shack was the men’s room in Washington Square Park, located more or less directly between the East and West Village, and instantly accessible by R or F trains, which have been my eternal subway lines.
In fact, though, Washington Square definitely resides more on the West side of things, and its heart - among other pulsating organs - lies more firmly in Chelsea, at least as far as the men’s room is concerned.
Once you survive the reek of stepping inside, four urinals line opposite walls in an alcove to 
your right. At any given moment, these urinals provide receptacle services to eight masturbating men.
Sometimes there’d be a long wait and - no judgments or nothin’ - once a spot opened up, I’d power-surge my stream into the spunk-basted porcelain for maximum volume fire-hose sound-effect as if to announce: “I pull my pud in the 25-cents-per-40-seconds privacy of Times Square peep booths, thank you; just pissing through.”
Fortunately, I never had to step past the jerk jungle to make use of the number-two facilities along the back wall. These were just open-air toilets - no walls, no doors, just commodes (without seats, of course) - and, if you were homeless, a wonderful place to take a load off while leaving a whole lot of loads behind.
If you were interested in sex with men that just couldn’t be provided by peeking at pee-pees, the back half Washington Square Park men’s room sounded like the place to be.
Note that I wrote “sounded” because, literally, that was what I heard during my numerous 
whiz-stops through the years.
One auditory outburst circa April 1988 shines above the others though. Amidst the usual slurps, grunts, and whinnies, a furious male voice boomed:
“Liar! LIAR! I’ve had better sex with GIRLS! And they had bigger DICKS, too!”
My immediate attempt to suppress laughter while I secreted the gold prompted a near seizure. These convulsions disappointed the diminutive African onanist to my right who interpreted the gyrations to be erotic.
I barely even finished, let alone attempted a final jiggle, before stuffing the goods back in my fly and hightailing it out into the fresh air and “Cheeba! Cheeba!” sales pitches of the park.
“Liar! LIAR! I’ve had better sex with GIRLS! And they had bigger DICKS, too!”
I wondered, for a long time, what prompted that tantrum.
Discussions with friends who make sex with men in such scenic and aromatic conditions - be they gay, straight or, as Gene Simmons says of Ace Frehley, “free … free in [their] choices” - resulted in a theory that the subject of the tirade claimed to be packing monster-meat in his jock-strap. And then, once exposed to be lacking in genital generosity, his pick-up partner scolded him for exaggerating.
Other guesses as to the apparently whispered declaration that ignited the verbal powder keg:
“I won’t come in your mouth/anus-hole.”
“I WILL come in your mouth/anus-hole.”
“I just came in your mouth/anus-hole.”
“I love you,”
“I hate you.”
“I have no particular feelings about you.”
“Tuberculosis and feces-fumes are the ultimate orgasm-enhancer.”
“Daddy?”
The world may never know.
And still, that’s only second most amazing thing I’ve ever come across in a New York City men’s rest room. Stay tuned for more.
In the mean time, use the comments section to propose what the one bowl-side sodomist might have said or done to so incense the other.
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Comments ( 2 )
“No, really!! Rob Zombie’s HALLOWEEN is WAY better than the original!”
John B said at
Sep 23 09 at
7:10 pm
By the way, how did I spend most of my adult life in beautiful NYC and not know there was a public commode in Washington Square?
And for my money, the most disgusting men’s room I ever set foot in was Port Authority in 1987… Had to piss on the floor because ALL the toilets were overflowing with feces. Literally, it was piled over the seat. I wish my nose were blind.
John B said at
Sep 23 09 at
7:16 pm
