For the second time in one week, we have a guest writer today. Readers, please say hello to Sam. I met Sam seven years ago, and after a rocky introduction, we became fast friends. I’ve always envied his writing style, so I’m honored he chose to share a story from his daily life with my audience today. I think once you reach the end of his tale, you’ll love Sam as much as I do. He even submitted his own Mix Tape, which I will post either on Friday or Saturday of this week. As I stated last Friday, if any of you would like to share a Top Ten list, a Mix Tape, or a piece of writing with my meek audience, feel free to e-mail me and let me know. Guest writers allow me to take days off, and watch the Mets final Opening Day at Shea Stadium.

***

Perhaps there are many of you who have not met my acquaintance, but I’m generally regarded as Evan’s really good looking friend. The shy, sexy type. I look forward to Evan’s daily updates of his blog and am highly entertained by not only his writing talents but also his vomito-philia. I am honored that he’s given me the opportunity to pitch in here, and while I’m on somewhat of a short leash as to my potential content (read: no gross-outs for Mr. Sensitive), I do have an account that I’d like to share about a recent experience.

My day started out so wholesomely. We’d made plans, Lindsey, Donny and I, to spend the afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m very cultured, you see, the kind of upper-crust individual who can appreciate fine works of art just as well as the next upstanding gentleman. It was a little crowded at the museum, as can be expected on a Sunday afternoon, but it did not inhibit my enjoyment of so many delightful exhibits. Satiated in our thirst for fine art, the three of us made our way home to New Jersey.

We decided to stop on our way to eat at Red Robin. Red Robin, for the unaware, is a sit-down restaurant that sells endless variations on burgers, and they do have a few vegetarian-friendly selections for an herbivore like Donny, who’d never been before, so our meal was just as enjoyable as our afternoon at the Met. The check came, and I said I was gonna take a leak before we hit the road. Donny said he’d probably go as well, but remained sitting as I made my way to the bathroom. Inside there was a urinal and a stall, and finding both not in use, I opted for the stall. I was pissing away when I heard the door open and someone stepped up to the urinal. I assumed it was Donny, because (a) he had just said he had to pee, and (b) the individual at the urinal was wearing a pair of Converse sneakers, just like Don had on. I could see the shoe plainly from my vantage point, and I decided to fuck with my friend just a bit. I stepped down on the white toe of the sneaker, only I left my foot there for an uncomfortable length of seconds.

The shoe pulled out from underneath mine, rather abruptly. And then, nothing. No snotty Donny comment, no “stop being a shithead, Sam.” Nothing but a long awkward silence. I was done peeing by that time, so I turned to peer through the crack between the door and the partition, into the mirror facing us. I saw someone at the urinal, wearing a green vest.

Don wasn’t wearing a green vest that day. I don’t remember what he had on, but that wasn’t it.

I was trapped, horrified at my indiscretion. I’ve enjoyed a lifetime of antagonizing strangers in various fashions, but this was a new low, even for me. I’m not sure if it’s just a NJ thing, or the whole country’s in on it, but there’s a certain, how do you say, protocol for initiating anonymous gay sex acts with strangers in public restrooms. And it generally starts with stepping on your intended’s shoe. So innocent on the surface, yet so resonant with ill intentions.

I’d just cruised my first dude.

Time slowed to a crawl in there while I waited for the sound of a flushing urinal, or the splash of hands washing in the sink. Maybe he didn’t notice me hitting on him. But there was nothing. I cracked the door a little to find myself all alone. He must have made haste in exiting after my invitation.

I was rather embarrassed when I finally came out and recounted the experience to my crew. They died, all but rolling on the floor and drawing even more attention to my guilty conscience. Don finally went to the bathroom and said the kid in the green vest was back in there, apparently to finish the piss he’d stopped mid-stream. I reasoned panickedly that he’d seen me exiting the bathroom and had a face to put on the deviant. I was ready to leave, but Lindsey and Don had a good time drawing it out just to make me suffer. I still owe those fuckers. We finally left, much to my relief.

How did I end up this way, I asked myself on the ride home. How did I become That Guy, the creepy stranger who brings an empty shopping bag into the restrooms so someone can stand inside to give the illusion of only one pair of legs in the stall? I can’t even grow a mustache, for goodness’ sake. I’m really not a sicko, I assure you (not that there’s anything wrong with anonymous gay sex). I don’t lurk in the Casual Encounters section on Craigslist looking for penises to put in my mouth. I’m as monogamous as I am heterosexual, which is a lot. But to that bewildered young man, I was a whole battalion of cocksuckers, hungry for load. And I’ll never be able to convince him otherwise. That’s the part that hurts.

Which leads me to the follow-up dilemma: what would I have done if he’d been into it? What if I’d seen his face looking back at me through the gap, eager to crack a nut? That the kind of subject Miss Manners doesn’t have the answer to. Would I had to have let him in the stall? I try to be courteous and conscientious in my day to day, but let’s just say in retrospect I’m pleased he chose to flee, rather than linger.

But not as pleased that I decided not to stand on the toilet and look over the partition to ask Donny what the hell his problem was for not finding my joke funny.

I would have been gaybashed for sure. And, for the first time in the history of gaybashing, I would have had it coming.

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