I Hate Hooking Up In Bathrooms

I’m just going to come right out and say it: I hate having sex in bathrooms. It is not sexy or exciting or spontaneous like everyone says it is. It is a pain in the ass. The only time I don’t hate it is when I’m blitzed out of my head, but when I’m like that I don’t hate anything, except maybe last call. Any other time, though, I hate bathroom sex. And it takes a lot to admit that, because saying you hate bathroom sex is like saying your sex life is at the thrill level of a statistics seminar. But that is a risk I’m willing to take. I am in direct violation of approximately three hundred Cosmo tips and as many sex advice manuals, and I don’t care.

Theoretically, I understand the appeal of the bathroom: it makes banging absolutely anywhere a fantastic possibility. Bars, coffeehouses, airplanes, hospitals… no bathroom-having establishment is off-limits. Endless options. Add that to the can’t-wait-til-we-get-home-gotta-have-you-right-now sensation, coupled with the exciting (terrifying?) possibility that your mom/ boss/ barista/ flight attendant could walk in at any time, and you have yourself a modern-day bodice ripper. Right?

Maybe. It all kind of depends on who you’re with. If you’re totally in love with someone, you’ll do it with them in a walk-in freezer if that’s what they want. On the other hand, if you’re banging someone you don’t like quite as much, and you’re any kind of self-aware, having sex in a bathroom is pretty awful.

For one thing, it’s gotten to be an incredible cliché. Remember when bathroom sex used to be naughty and taboo? That was when having sex outside the bedroom was considered naughty and taboo. In the 1800s. But now it’s just like… expected. Pick up any vapid magazine and it will urge you to “Make sure you stay on his mind all night — meet him in the men’s for a quickie!” or “Steam up her Sunday — hit her hot spot under the hand dryer!” and similar nonsense. If your girlfriend doesn’t like it from behind straddling a toilet, she’s vanilla. If she does, she might be the one. But the thing about bathrooms is, you’re not being as sneaky and seductive as you think you are: everyone knows what you’re up to when you take a buddy into the stall with you. And if they don’t know it then, they’ll know when you don’t exit it for the next twenty minutes.

Though having sex in a cramped public-ish place can be appealing in its own right, the one bathroom setback you can’t avoid is the fact that it smells like crap. Literally. I know, I know, the bathrooms at fancy upscale locales smell like fresh-cut summer grass. But that’s not where you’re likely to bang. You want it quick and dirty at The Trash Bar, whose signature scent is stale piss, squashed roach and despair. I don’t even stay in a bar bathroom long enough to fix my makeup, let alone have a worthwhile sex sesh. And unless you shovel a gram of blow up your nose beforehand or carry around a travel-sized bottle of Febreeze, the olfactory experience of almost any bar bathroom will make you lose not only your hard on, but quite possibly your liquor.

Add to that the fact that bathrooms are goddamn uncomfortable. No matter how big the bathroom actually is, there never seems to be enough space. Now I don’t know what this is like for men (I’ve heard you guys have an easier time with this), but girls, you basically have four nightmare options: on the toilet (“Could you spread a little wider?” “Nope, my knees are in the stall walls”), against the wall (better not have a significant height difference), on top of the sink (“Could you move up a little? The faucet is up my ass”), and on the floor (I hope no one actually does this). The problem is, by the time you’ve maneuvered your bodies into a position that isn’t horribly awkward, three of your friends are pounding on the door to make sure you haven’t passed out in there.

All of that aside, the biggest reason I hate having sex in bathrooms is because it makes me feel like an inconsiderate asshole. I know there are fifty people desperately waiting to take a piss and I feel bad for them, because I know all too well what it feels like to be in their position. I know how much it sucks to squeeze your thighs together for fifteen minutes in an everlasting line, gripping your beer in silent rage while you wait for some clueless weirdos to finish getting it on in one of two available stalls. I get all that, and I can’t concentrate on having an orgasm in the midst of a line of rupturing bladders. Just can’t.

So in lieu of the bathroom, how about we just have a couple shots and do it in your car later, windows down and everything? At least there won’t be anyone waiting to drive it and it’ll smell like Royal Pine.