Photo via D.C.’s Smuttiest Restaurant Bathrooms:
Plenty of other white-tablecloth joints are offering titillation and trash to D.C.’s well-heeled diners. But they’re doing it in the restroom.
I hardly ever post about stuff that goes on in my town that isn’t kink related, but this was just too random to pass up. Oh, DC. Never change.
See, Vegas doesn’t have the same decide-yourself bathroom law as New York. And since Vegas rules date back to Mob days and are therefore kinda, uhh, different from those in other places, a little known fact is that a Vegas casino can ban you for whatever reason – if it doesn’t like your face, your style of gambling, your dress sense, or the fact that you’re transgender and you dared to use an empty women’s restroom. Just one security guard taking a dislike to you can have you banned from that property for life.
Genderfucking
In the saline class, two different methods of injection were used. Balls were hooked up to an IV drip, while pussy lips and clits were injected with a needle. Thus, “What sex are you?” was the first question Mistress Cynthia asked when a volunteer raised their hand to be a demo.
“Uh… cisgender male.” He seemed surprised and a little confused that she’d asked, but one of the things I quickly discovered at Winter Fire is that you can’t make any kind of assumption based on what someone’s facial structure was…or even what clothes they were wearing.
Case in point: the prostate class. If I had known you were actually encouraged to bring your own prostate to practice with, I would have brought one. As it was, I got to watch more than 12 guys strip naked below the waist, then lay down on a mat and have their lovers explore their prostates with gloves and lube. Mostly it was het couples—guy on his back, girl seeking prostate. Then a woman lay on her back on the mat. I was confused until she took off her skirt, revealing that she did in fact have not only a prostate but the usual external equipment associated with it.
This was embarrassing for me, since I’d read so much gender theory in the past year I thought I’d shed most of my assumptions. And yet it kept happening, again and again. I kept being surprised at a man having periods, or at the sight of an androgynye who had the face and flat chest of a man but also a sillicone dick. During that same saline class I wondered why a hot boy got in line for those with vaginas, until he took off his pants and revealed that his private parts were the same style as Buck Angel’s.
I always, always looked. I looked because I wanted to know more, because I was attracted to that person, and because I could look. In my everyday world, when someone unclothes themselves and just happens to be in your line of sight you have to turn away, whether or not there’s any possibility of you being attracted to them. At WF, as long as you weren’t rude or creepy, no one cared. The taboo that assumes great harm comes to people when they see each other nude was dissolved, and I always find myself much happier in such situations.
Because of this, the bathrooms were awesome. They’d printed out signs on computer paper in all caps and placed them over the “boy” and “girl” bathroom signs: THESE BATHROOMS HAVE BEEN DESIGNATED GENDER NEUTRAL FOR THE DURATION OF WINTER FIRE. Someone said to me, “Want to go into the boy’s bathroom?” and it was only then that I realized that I’d been usually going into the one with urinals. By then it was late Sunday afternoon, the last day of WF. Guys would be pulling up their kilts to piss when I came in and I wouldn’t think anything of it.
Once Winter Fire was over, I went back to my everyday life. This included going for a swim at the local pool. In the women’s locker room, one of the shower pipes had broken, pouring a constant stream of water onto the floor. A female staff member came in to warn us that a male plumber would be coming in to fix it, and there was some hooting and mock-scandalized remarks from the women as they scurried into empty bathroom stalls or hurried to put their clothes on.
I complied, but in the process I found that a procedure that had once made perfect sense to me suddenly made no sense at all. I’d seen complete strangers strip down without shame, just to discover more about how their own bodies worked. After that, I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t simply continue my tasks where I was, while the plumber got on with his.