Gay slang vol.1: lesbian toilet party
So there I was, enjoying a few quiet (sort of) post-work drinks in a venue that appeared, for all intents and purposes, almost wholly straight. We talked, we peeled condensation-saturated labels from bottles, we attempted to mould La Roux-esque quiffs in our hair. Then, after consuming one too many millilitres of liquid the inevitable happened; I had to go to the little girl’s room.
Going to the toilet for the first time in a bar/restaurant/mobile village library always intrigues. Will it be a luxurious, fluffy hand towel –cushioned haven? Will there be soap dispensers made out of chrome that don’t require you to put your hand loosely in the vicinity of ‘underneath’ and (probably) misjudge where the hole is? Or more likely, will you be forced to instinctively clutch your hand to your mouth, creating a DIY air vacuum in the hope of avoiding instant cholera? Upon reaching the doors of this particular set of waste collection devices (in the basement, down two flights of stairs I hasten to add), I uncurled my fingers in preparation. There definitely weren’t going to be any miniature bottles of hand moisturiser for me to steal here. What greeted me inside was a room temperature roughly ten degrees lower than anywhere else in the building, one victorious light bulb soldiering on where his light bulb comrades had long since given up, and a particularly extreme example of wet countertop syndrome. I hate wet countertops, possibly even more than wet door handles. Why? Because you always put your bag on them. You just do. Usually whilst momentarily distracted by attempting to wash several universes of bacteria off your hand without breathing and/or putting your foot in anything suspicious.
Anyway, the point of all this flowery build-up is that on this night, in these toilets, in that temperature (and feet away from an obscenely wet countertop), I was greeted by two women having sex in a cubicle. Not with the door shut, oh no. Right there, brazen as you like. Assuming my heart had stopped due to the sudden change in temperatures on the way in, I supposed I must have died and wound up in some kind of purgatory modelled on Ghetto (the old one). But then I remembered I needed to wee, and figured dead people can probably tick ‘bodily functions’ off their to-do list at the very least. This thought process obviously took as long as it sounds, because by this point our sexually-explicit friends had clocked me and pushed the door shut in the locality of my bamboozled face. Good, so now I’m the pervert and they’re just the innocent bystanders having sex.
Bearing in mind the title of this article, I realise that the natural conclusion to the story is that I somehow ended up muscling in on the action and having the best toilet-based sex of all time. Not so. For the love of God, not by that countertop. Rather, the continuing sounds of drunken ecstasy making their way from below the cubicle door got me thinking. Namely, why on EARTH do lesbians go at it in toilets so much? Is it the convenience? The lack of suspicion raised by two girls sharing a cubicle (unless you’re in a gay venue, where they’ve cottoned onto the trend and all but spit HIV-infected needles at you for breathing by another girl within a one mile radius of a toilet bowl)? Perhaps it’s just the desire to make long queues even longer? Who knows. But beds, it would seem, are so passé.
In order to try and make sense of this public facility mystery, I did what I so often do: comparing and contrasting it with the heterosexual world. Like most residents of this country who begin drinking underage, I’ve been frequenting heterosexual bars for a considerable number of years. In all of that time however, I’ve never seen or heard a guy and a gal getting busy in said location (maybe they go in the gents? *shudder*). If I did, I would convey appropriate volumes of disgust by way of audible huffs and over-zealous head shaking (long live British conservatism), and probably brand the participants skanks/sluts respectively. Conversely, a night out to a gay venue in which you don’t see two lusty ladies getting jiggy behind (hopefully) closed doors, is something of an oddity. For some reason though, this is kind of ok. Just like how years of watching busty young blondes get zealously stabbed by masked/disfigured serial killers on the big screen (run THAT way you idiot!) desensitises you to violence, so too cubicle sex – to a large extent – has become normalised.
Now I’m not claiming to be Mother Theresa, or even the unrelated goddaughter of Theresa, or Theresa’s uncle’s brother’s second cousin for that matter. I will shame-facedly admit to having been one of these ‘cubicle dwellers’ at one point – not sex though, don’t get me started on wet toilet seats – and I know that my reasoning for choosing to go in there rather than letting lust take its course in the open confines of the bar area, was because we were genuinely hiding. From someone (it happens). So is that the answer? Are hundreds (tens?) of lesbians the length and breadth of the country all hiding from someone… or just too blooming impatient to wait until home time? The way I see it, the majority of us would all agree that optimum public toilet procedure should involve going in when you literally can’t hold on any longer and doing your business whilst attempting to touch/inhale/look at as little as possible in the process. Why anyone would choose to get intimate and (more) naked in a place that ordinarily makes you want to gag is beyond me. As such, to all of you Randy Rachels who can’t hold back your lust-making till the front door is slammed eagerly behind you, may I suggest scoping out somewhere a little more pleasant for your public indecency*? Perhaps a broom cupboard would do the trick? Not that I’ve tried it, obviously…
* TMC in no way endorses public indecency, or lesbian toilet parties for that matter. Please refrain wherever possible – especially if there are wet surfaces of any description.