Gay Washroom Cruising

Suppose you find yourself with a thirty-minute interval to spare in Midtown Manhattan around seven in the evening. Surely, someone's organ requires attentive manipulation.

I can't quite fathom why my aroused, primitive intellect consistently deems it worthwhile to search for an attractively featured individual with whom to engage in a spontaneous rendezvous. Perhaps it's a characteristic of the smartphone-wielding millennial generation. Alternatively, it might stem from the artificial longing I harbor for the rapid-paced cruising interactions immortalized in gay cinema, literature, and personal accounts from acquaintances. The notion is that men in the opportune state of mind connect at the opportune juncture and locale, leading to an immediate spark.

Or so I've been informed. This ideal synchronicity has manifested for me perhaps only a couple of times throughout my decade of engaging in homosexual intimacy, and even those encounters wouldn't be characterized as particularly pleasurable sexual experiences.

Yet, for an undisclosed reason, this potential for magical connection appears sufficient justification to persist in its pursuit constantly. Consequently, I often find myself meandering between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, casting glances into a sterile, chain coffee establishment, which is far too overrun with tourists for me to find any tranquility. The frigid temperatures are also contributing to my digits growing numb as I idly refresh a gay cruising application that I shall explicitly name once their financial compensation for such endorsement commences.

I have approximately thirty minutes remaining before my scheduled meeting with a client; on this particular occasion, the train was, predictably, highly efficient. Despite being an unfamiliar face within an exceptionally populated urban district, I am unable to elicit any response from attractive gentlemen in my immediate vicinity via my application. "This situation is perfectly acceptable," my well-adjusted inner monologue reassures me, "and it is absolutely not a valid determinant of your appeal."

Subsequently, my mobile device emits a notification, dispelling the void of personal insecurity within my mind, showering it with scintillating dopamine. I receive a communication that, under different circumstances, I would likely dismiss; however, it's the specific nature of my predicament that compels my attention: "Are you near [redacted hotel]? I'm masturbating in the lower-level washroom."

Accompanying the proposition are highly provocative photographic depictions of genitalia, yet I generally harbor a degree of skepticism toward individuals who refrain from furnishing a frontal facial image early in a dialogue. On the other hand, why should the visual appearance of someone's face matter for the simple act of mutual manual stimulation within a public restroom? Nevertheless, I proceed to request a photograph of his countenance. It transpires that he possesses an appealing physical appearance. I find myself compelled to make my way toward the hotel.

To be perfectly candid, my personal experience with engaging in sexual activity in public venues is rather limited. Notwithstanding this, I frequently indulge in fantasies pertaining to such activities and consider it a significant facet of my queer heritage. Accounts of uninhibited sexual encounters in urban parks and casual hookups in bathhouses serve as our collective folklore—narratives from an era when cruising constituted a primary, indispensable method for gay men to not only achieve sexual release but also to discover one another and mutually affirm their non-solitary existence in their proclivities. For numerous individuals residing in societies far more restrictive than my own, this practice continues to fulfill that vital role.

In my estimation, public gay cruising subverts the conventional manner in which men assert dominance over communal spaces. Instead of exploiting this power to the detriment of women and girls, it reconfigures this dominance into an offering of transitional sanctuary from the norms of heterosexual existence.

However, I must confess that I've never quite mustered the audacity to engage in such activities in any location other than a designated gay club. I suspect my reticence stems from an apprehension of inciting outright disapproval from indignant heterosexual men and a profound fear of being apprehended by authorities.

I possess a faint yet enduring recollection of news broadcasts during my early adolescence concerning Larry Craig, the homophobic Republican Senator from Idaho. In 2007, he was discovered engaging in "cottaging"—anonymous homosexual acts within a public restroom—at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. The police officer tasked with apprehending more conventional homosexual offenders reported that Craig exhibited a peculiar habit of "tapping his right foot," a detail that became indelibly etched in my consciousness. Through the silent, almost instinctual absorption of information typical of childhood, I understood that this incident somehow implicated me.

Commentators and authority figures alike derided the conservative politician for his ostentatious anti-gay legislative stances. Nevertheless, the criticism broadened beyond this singular aspect, seamlessly transitioning into ridicule of the very methods gay individuals regrettably relied upon for sexual encounters, the sorts of activities the undercover officer had likely cited to apprehend numerous lesser-known individuals with unconventional desires. I was fourteen years of age when Craig was apprehended for his foot-tapping, and I had already begun to actively avoid public urinals.

This profoundly unsettling episode and my lack of experience with cruising preoccupy my thoughts as I enter the hotel through its revolving doors. My heart commences an accelerated rhythm, yet fortunately, a portion of this increased pulse is directed towards my groin. Fortunately, my extensive background as a sex worker has equipped me with the knowledge to navigate a hotel lobby with apparent purpose. This particular establishment is vast and bustling, and it is evident that its very characteristics make it an ideal locale for cruising.

To my right, I observe a flight of stairs descending to a conference area. Some sort of business gathering is in progress—the sort that perpetually occurs in hotels with the aim of fostering "leadership," "empowerment," or, perhaps, arranging later nocturnal companionship. Assuming the restroom facilities would be conveniently situated as they typically should be, I descend the stairs. Upon arrival, I notice several individuals displaying expressions of ennui behind a registration desk. I promptly reverse my direction, proceeding towards an area where the floor space is considerably diminished and no restroom facilities are apparent. A member of the hotel staff passes by, directing a look of concern my way. My attire, a fringed leather jacket complemented by a cap emblazoned with the phrase "SPIT ON IT," does little to alleviate the situation, nor does my racial identity as a person of color. I retreat back up the stairs.

My apprehension intensifies, yet I remain resolute in my intention to challenge the perceived dominance of the conventionally attired individuals with some time-honored anal intimacy. Surely, another entry point to the lower level must exist. I press onward through the main lobby, peering into the hotel's bar and then back outside, even inspecting the ground-floor restroom as a precautionary measure. However, the volume of pedestrian traffic is simply too substantial for a solitary act of manual stimulation at a urinal. I succumb to a state of paranoia, questioning whether I present myself more as a disoriented adolescent or a novice drug user. Ultimately, I make a hasty departure.

Feeling vanquished, I dispatch a message to the individual engaged in solitary pleasure, informing him of my inability to locate him. He had been offline for the preceding twenty minutes—another missed chance to fill the voids in a queer education that I regrettably never fully acquired.

However, the prevailing reality is that I have never been compelled to depend on encounters of this nature to access homosexual intimacy in the manner that prior generations were. Whether they operated in isolation or dismantled those barriers, gay men throughout history have established secluded spaces for sexual activity out of the sheer necessity of their criminalized desires. This is the historical narrative that I have been obliged to glean from the sparse remnants left by promiscuous queer elders.

There are fundamental techniques of cruising that I might have received more comprehensive instruction on from older gay mentors, but those individuals were tragically decimated due to the negligence of the Reagan administration concerning the HIV/AIDS epidemic. I yearn to connect with their spectral presence, but perhaps they have already departed.

In any event, I had expended sufficient time to commence my journey to meet my client. I received no subsequent communication from the gentleman who had been anticipating my arrival in that elusive restroom. It is possible that he was apprehended and escorted from the premises. Alternatively, he might still be present in that location, discreetly unfastening the trousers of a conference attendee from Ohio or a concierge enjoying a cigarette break.

Regardless of the outcome, I am confident that I will eventually locate that urinal, situated in the appropriate place and at the opportune moment.