Lookin' for Love...All the Wrong Places

by Bradford Stanley

As I walked into the Dartmouth Review office, characteristically late, I paused at the door. I heard laughter inside. They were probably making fun of me. Again. I cruised in the room with my typical stupid grin on my face. A cry came up from the room. People started saying, “Yeah, Stanley!” “Stanley would be good for this!” I had never gotten a positive reception when I walked into a room before. Maybe they wanted me to buy beer.

Over the course of the next five minutes, I agreed, under extreme peer pressure, to do an article on the gay bathroom scene at Dartmouth. Last year at some point, in the Week in Review there was a story on the mass quantities of gay solicitation going on in bathrooms at Dartmouth. My assignment was to go to these bathrooms and see if they were for real. In short, I was going there to solicit sex. What a bad assignment. I was pissed.

But, when I thought about this more, I realized that this was actually kind of a cool concept. The gay community was really on to something. If I were gay, this would be the coolest idea ever.

You just go into a bathroom and “knock two times for BJ.” I couldn't imagine gay guys ever leaving the bathroom except maybe to eat or something. What a fantastic concept!

So, I thought it would be a good story on a cool subculture of Dartmouth. While most of the campus is standing around drinking beer and listening to Groovemerchant or Stand Up Eight or whatever the hell they are called now and staring at each other for the thousandth time, the Dartmouth gay community would be having a crazy party in one of the many bathroom facilities on the Dartmouth Campus.

So this past Wednesday I drove up to the rear entrance to Baker Library. I parked my car and then took a few deep breaths. I was a little more nervous than I anticipated because the Review Staffer who was going to go with me backed out because of a job interview he had. I gathered up my courage and sashayed into Baker Library. I walked through the door and then quickly glanced around for the bathroom, finding it on my right. I took a deep breath and then sauntered into the bathroom, silently singing to myself, “In the Navy, yes, you can sail the seven seas. In the Navy, yes, you can put your mind at ease...”

It didn't seem unusual in anyway. It smelled like a bathroom, looked like a bathroom. I didn't see any disco balls or shag carpeting. Nothing that I anticipated.

Someone was in one of the stalls, so I went over to the urinal and stood there, pretending to relieve myself. I glanced up and carved into a wooden shelf was my first clue. The shelf proudly advertised that the viewer should call “296-8298 4 great BJ.” Well, there was my first clue as to the nature of this bathroom.

But, this wasn't really what I was looking for. In “straight” bathrooms there are girls' phone numbers written on the wall. Having guys' phone numbers on the wall wasn't that innovative. I decided to try the stall. Whoever was using it left without washing his hands. Gross.

I nervously crept to the middle stall. I closed the door and saw just what I anticipated. Scrawled all across the door to the stall was a litany of suggestive material. Such suggestions included, “Knock two times for BJ” and “First time, nervous but willing to try anything. Monday at 7.” These suggestions were combated, if not eloquently, by bigoted statements such as “I hate gays!” There appeared to be a great culture clash going on in this bathroom.

I then looked down and saw the gold mine. Carved in the door was the command to “tap foot for sex.” Right next to this, though, was a threat that, “If I hear you tap your foot you die.” This appeared to be a no-win situation. I was screwed either way. But, I had my assignment and I felt obligated to carry it out.

I nervously extended my foot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I tried to prepare myself for the consequences. I cautiously tapped my foot. I thought I heard a rumbling in the distance and then waited twenty more seconds. Nothing. I tapped again, this time a little offended. Again, nothing.

“Come on, you stupid bathroom. I'm not that bad looking.” I smashed my foot against the ground.

Nothing. This bathroom was lame. Far from being the hard-partying bathroom that I had anticipated, this restroom was just like any of the other thousands of bathrooms I had been to in my life. I felt bad for the gay community. I thought that they were really on to something. But they didn't really have it figured out after all. And I was sitting here on a toilet seat trying to see if I could extract sexual favors from a bathroom. Pathetic.

I shuffled out of the bathroom with my head held low. Rejected by a bathroom. I've hit bottom.

As I walked out of Baker Library into the cold winter air, a different song crept into my head. “I can't get no...”

And so I wrote it up and handed in my article. It wasn't nearly long enough, but, whatever, it wasn't the first time I've heard that. And I went on with my life. But it kept bugging me. The gay community had potentially come up with the best idea in bathrooms since toilet paper. Maybe this was the elusive bathroom and I blew it by not being a nice enough piece of ass. It bothered me.

The Wednesday after I wrote my article, I had a harrowing encounter with a bottle of Colt 45, and I was pretty intoxicated.

And pissed. I wasn't going to let myself get rejected by a bathroom. Brad Stanley deserves better than that. I grabbed fellow review contributor Gene Long and stumbled outside. We walked to Thayer. I had heard tell of gaiety in the bathroom in the basement of the dining hall.

I walked in the door and what did I see? A condom machine. It had to be some sort of sign. Gene pointed out that all the condoms were lubricated. I thought this must be the legendary gay bathroom. I went to the stalls and saw written, “willing ass wants hot college cock $$$. When? Now.” I was confused. No one was in this bathroom except me and Gene. I got a little scared. Gene wasn't the famous bathroom sodomizer. Or was he?

I was too drunk to think. It couldn't be Gene. I had dragged him to the gay bathroom. He was probably afraid that I would attack him. This graffiti was unlike any I had seen in the Reserve bathroom. There was no date, no time, no signaling, or no phone number. Something was fishy. I checked the first stall. There was no solicitation, only frat-graffiti. This was not what I was looking for. I looked around further and saw that there was a big debate on the wall over homosexuality. People wrote “there's no love in gay life.” This was countered by “I am ashamed that at this institution which I love, such intolerance is `tolerated.' Silence indicates implied consent. Fight Back.” The response to this was “Shut the f*** up already! All the faggot literature I read in bathrooms either says `suck me' or feel sorry for me.” And then my alcohol-addled brain slowly figured it out. This wasn't a gay bathroom, this was a very political bathroom. Somehow, this bathroom stall was the epicenter of the debate over homosexuality at Dartmouth.

God, this bathroom was lame also. At least I wouldn't feel bad about being rejected by this bathroom. I got Gene and I walked out, my mind clear. Well, almost.

I still wondered about this elusive gay bathroom. I knew it was out there somewhere. I still believe.