| August
1998
Playing with Dynamite, part 1
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For many young men, toilet sex is like a rite of passage. It's where
unexpectedly, the first quick encounter is made. Rushed and scrambling, furtive
even in bright fluorescent light. No way to dampen the pulse, nowhere to hide
the feet. Excruciatingly urgent, a mere open zipper would be enough for the
zenith. Climax in a closet.
For some, the first time is not the end of it. They go back again and again to add another generation to a toilet subculture that began when the first public toilets were built (in the Roman Empire?). It is a great underground tradition. It is also a great leveller. You can meet anybody from pop idol George Michael to your friendly janitor. But it is against the law. Yet too many young men have become blasé about the risk. "What are toilets for, if not to relieve yourself?" It's easy to joke about it, but once in a while, someone does get caught, and then it isn't funny anymore. Like his case. Dynamite's case. He wants to be called Dynamite. Toilet sex was the last thing on his mind when he was having lunch at a downtown shopping mall, but when he went to the public toilets to wash his hands after the meal, the first of an inexorable sequence of events happened. Walking in to the restroom, he saw the Other guy, in a black tanktop and blue jeans at the washbasin. The Other saw that he saw. And then the dance. A glance thrown. A glance returned. With compliments. A smile launched through the mirror. A coy smile in response, floating gracefully back. Synchronised choreography in the washing of hands. A pas-de-deux in the drying of them. One leads, the other follows. It is settled then. Except that that particular restroom was too busy. So Dynamite walked nonchalantly out, and up an escalator to an upper floor. The Other followed a few steps behind. No instructions, no directions needed. They both knew. The upper restroom was Good. Quiet. They made their way to the last cubicle. Good again. Nice and clean. They went in. The Other left first. Dynamite waited in the cubicle, door closed, for appearances sake. And then the walkie-talkie. He heard it approach. And knew it wasn't going to be a good day. The walkie-talkie came and stood outside the cubicle door. Dynamite didn't move. Didn't make a sound. The walkie-talkie crackled, hissed and buzzed, and a gruff voice spoke into it. And waited. Dynamite still didn't move. Still didn't make a sound. But gradually he realised the game was over. He opened the door slowly to leave, but this burly security guard rancid with day-old sweat just stood there, blocking the way. He was rude and intimidating, insisting on seeing Dynamite's identity card. Dynamite didn't feel much like dynamite under him. You can imagine a situation like this turn ugly and with no one around, it would be easy for the guard to forcefully exceed his authority. Physically. So no resistance. No point trying to push your way out. He took Dynamite down to the basement where they had their security office. The Other was already there, in tears, with another security guard glowering over him. Interrogation. The first security guard threw at Dynamite, "What did you do inside? How come there were two of you? I was waiting for you from the beginning." Dynamite remained defiant, but not the Other. The Other wailed, "It's all his fault. He wanted to be my friend." "What???" Dynamite shouted within himself. "I never said anything like that! Could you not have said at least that we were friends?" "He seduced me," continued the Other, tearfully, and then turned to Dynamite, "How could you?" Dyanmite was speechless with rage. There were no more words to shout within himself. The second guard said to the Other, "Anyway, you're bigger-sized than him... you could always punch him," as if punching is something you resort to at the slightest provocation. "Well...I was just being polite," he said, between sobs. "Oh, sure!" Dynamite sneered. The security guards demanded their particulars, and insisted that they call home. In the course of this, Dynamite picked up the Other's name for the first time. And that he was married, with a family. And that he worked for the government. And that it was all shattering down around him. A colossal mess. A wreck of a tidy life, from a moment's indiscretion. But Dynamite was still angry with him. Very angry. Then the police came, and they were bundled into the car and taken to the station. The Other cried all the way. They were separated at the station, but both spent hours there. A plainclothes inspector led Dynamite into an office. Functional room. Two desks, the other vacant. A statement had to be taken. Straightforward, to the point. Civil and business-like, no need to show off authority or power. Almost boring. It began with a long preamble. Name. Address. Age. Job. Religion. Father's name. Siblings. What were you doing at that shopping mall? How did you meet the Other? Why did you go up to the upper toilet? And more…. Dynamite behaved exactly as Dynamite always behaved. He was direct in his answers. "I remember saying this," he told me, " 'If I don't tell you guys the truth...somehow or rather...you would find it out...might as well I tell you all this!' " Not that that was necessarily the wisest thing to do. But what would be the wisest thing to do, under the circumstances? After all, there were no witnesses, and who knows what actually happened in the cubicle? But to lie in a Police Statement is an offence. So how? Not a good situation to be in. But the attitude of the inspector made it a little easier. "Why cannot do at home, huh? …I also have many gay friends, but you should be more careful!" And then Dynamite was told to wait. He waited. The inspector went away with the draft of the Statement. The long Statement. Probably to confer with his superior. He came back and Dynamite was asked to go to another office, this time with more desks, but also what looked like a more senior officer, though with plainclothes, it's hard to tell. This one was an open office, with other officers occasionally coming in and out, not that having an interviewee in the room changed anything for them as they continued with their business. The second inspector reviewed the Statement, going through word by word. And Dynamite remained Dynamite. "Yes, I am gay!" "Wah...you so out huh!" the inspector officer said. "Hello, beware that this is not America!" Indeed, this is not America, and the Statement was a hot potato. As he went deeper into it, he said, "I have to omit all the strong words that you have used and some of the things you described in detail... to save your butt!" "But one thing for sure... at least you confess you're gay...but I suppose the other guy …" the inspector finished off the sentence in this thoughts. The Other must be crying and denying. Denying and crying. Somewhere else in the station. "In any case, just to let you know, we have received many complaints on this kind of thing. So we just do our job." What is that supposed to mean? "Just be careful next time. Do it at home...hotel...somewhere safe." And by the end of all that administrative hassle and after more consultations with higher-ups, he said, "Owing to your ignorance of the law, and being a first offender, we have decided to let you go." Presumably they said the same thing to the Other
as well. But would life ever be the same again? On to part 2 © Yawning Bread
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Footnotes
Addenda None
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