Washrooms are supposed to be opposite-sex-free zones. They’re supposed to allow girls to adjust their boobs and guys to do whatever guys do within the privacy of their own genders. Most importantly, they’re supposed to serve as escapes. Make a washroom co-ed, and it loses purpose. It is diminished to a place where everyone simply pees – except that it is anything but. While the washroom relinquishes some of its typical functionalities by going co-ed, it breeds both opportunity and potential awkwardness. Given co-ed washrooms, guys don’t even have to take chicks home; the club becomes a one-stop fuck.
Of course, at 18, I capitalized on such opportunity (I would capitalize on such opportunity today; but now 24 and thankfully without my virginity since 19, it would be a lot more opportune), and of course such opportunity would not be without its awkward obstacles. The night I took advantage of the co-ed washroom, I was juggling three guys – three guys that knew each other – and I was inevitably doing so without an escape route, a.k.a. the non-co-ed washroom. Try maneuvering that sitch. Warning: It is not easy. Of course I would somehow capture the lust of three acquainted guys. Of course all three of these guys would separately decide to go to the same club on the same night, the night I randomly skipped my usual venture to Hotel and unexpectedly landed myself amongst them. And of course that club would have a co-ed washroom. (My life makes me laugh all the effing time. Seriously, who else does this shit happen to?)
I can recall the what-the-fuck moment when I realized they were all there. My internal reaction was a combination of “How the ef am I going to manage them?” and “This’ll be fun!” I didn’t know how or how well these guys knew each other. I didn’t even know if they were aware that they all knew me, but I hoped that they were oblivious and my goal was to damn well keep it that way. I didn’t want any potential bro codes fucking me out of opportunity.
First up was the most boring guy I’ve ever gone out with. He holds this status to this day, an assessment that takes into account the brutally uninteresting guy I went to Snakes & Lattes with this past October. Despite his lackluster character, I thought he was hot (though it wouldn’t be long before his physical appeal was knocked down a million points by his blah personality), which was pretty much my only make-out prerequisite as a teenager. (Fortunately, I’ve developed higher standards since.) I don’t remember how I ended up in a stall with him, but I vaguely remember the make-out sesh inside and I definitely remember being kicked out of the washroom by a bouncer. (Dear club owners, you are asking for people to hook up in your washrooms if you label them co-ed. Please tell your bouncers to stay out of it. – Okay, but don’t actually do this! Getting caught was the best part! Proceed to pretend like you aren’t implicitly promoting sexual activity with that co-ed washroom sign.)
As I left the washroom, I could feel a cocky smirk across my face. It said more than words would have. Upon reaching my friends, I hadn’t even opened my mouth before one accused, “You were with Vanilla, weren’t you?” (I told you girlfriends could be harsh with nicknames.)
I laughed, shocked at her apparent psychic ability. “How do you know that?”
“Your hair is haggard as hell. And he came looking for you. He was gone as soon as we told him you were in the washroom,” she said.
I laughed harder. #boys, I would have thought, had Twitter been widespread at the time.
“Seriously though, your hair,” she reminded. “You need to get back into that washroom and get your shit in check.”
Despite kind of loving the idea of rocking slut hair, back to the washroom I went so I wasn’t so bait-out. All I needed was a fourth guy on my ass.
While fixing my hair, I could see someone at the washroom’s entrance looking at me through the mirror. (Two trips to the washroom in less than half an hour, and I hadn’t even flushed a toilet yet.) I dropped my hands from my hair, turned to face him, and shot a playful grin in his direction as I tilted my head to the right. He walked straight toward me, slid his hands around my waist as I instinctively slipped my fingers behind his neck, and forced my heels to step backward, further into the washroom.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered in my ear. “I can’t get over it.”
This one was charming. Fuck my life.
Nonetheless, he wouldn’t get so much as a kiss out of me that night. He often used to flirtatiously comment that I was “such a tease.” I took that as a compliment. Just as he had guided me deeper into the washroom, I guided him right back out. Two of the three were taken care of, I hoped; back-to-back washroom encounters were a close enough call.
The third guy, I knew through work. I had zero attraction to him. I thought he had zero attraction to me. – That’s a lie. I could totally tell he had an interest in me at work, but I had been pretending not to notice for the sake of his pride. Unfortunately, pretend comes to an abrupt halt when a guy gets brave, thanks to alcohol, and nonchalantly places his hand on your ass. There is absolutely nothing nonchalant about that, friends. #awkward! He was lucky that he was already friend-zoned. I wouldn’t have taken lightly to that had he not been. Knowing that he had been drinking and sympathizing with the fact that he seemed to like me, I simply stepped away from him and said I had to go to the washroom, well aware from the first two guys that the washroom was no retreat. When I returned, his friends totes called me out on using the washroom to get away from him. Who the fuck purposely induces social awkwardness like that? Can a girl take a boy-free minute, please? Evidently, there was no escape except the exit, which I took in favour of Hotel. I ditched every club that wasn’t Hotel for Hotel by the end of the night.
To the oh-so-brilliant mind that thought co-ed washrooms were a good idea and to the club owners that install them, what the fuck, friends? Help us ladies out! How the hell are we supposed to avoid boy probs when they’re everywhere? – But, really, on a more serious note and on behalf of myself and everyone else with hot co-ed washroom memories, thank you! Obviously, I only hate them when they’re working against me. Combine them with hot guys, and I’m a co-ed advocate. In fact, it was just around Valentine’s Day that my friend posted an article on Facebook about a Toronto restaurant encouraging its patrons to have sex in its co-ed washrooms, to which I responded that it is for the purpose of making use of places like these that I need a boyfriend ASAP. Public indecency? Sounds like an exciting V-Day to me! (I know, I know, how the fuck am I single, right?)
About the Author
Maria Bellissimo was the protagonist of a sad, boring life until she turned her story into a happiness experiment. She chronicles her search for happiness on her supremely awesome and appropriately named blog, The Happiness Experiment, which she hopes will inspire others to launch their own happiness experiments. Follow her adventures on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.