I Did It For Science: Caught!

Experiment: To get busted in flagrante delicto, and I mean IN flagrante. My special friend, Ms. Inimitables, and I are going to be going at it when the door opens, and someone is going to be treated to quite an eyeful.

Hypothesis: Adding the possibility of getting caught to the otherwise delightful act of copulating is a little like sprinkling one’s popcorn with paprika: not necessary — but definitely nice. But knowing you’re going to get caught — well, that’s a drizzle of sweet cream butter. Or so I assume…

Materials:
• Willing partner: in this case, Ms. Inimitables
• Restaurant bathroom, door unlocked
• Unsuspecting intruder

Method: Getting busted having sex is typically no more difficult than "helping" your friend babysit, accidentally leaving your dorm-room door unlocked, or failing to notice workmen on the rooftop outside your window. In such situations, it pays simply to discontinue pistoning (without extraction), then wave and smile with the nonchalance of a sous chef seen chiffonading parsley. But intending to get caught is a slightly different matter. It requires discussion, anticipation, and planning — and, for me at least, elicits all the Hooksexups of any public, penis-related performance.

When I raised the question with Ms. Inimitables of when and where we were going to be discovered, we struggled to find consensus. For some reason her parents’ bed was deemed off-limits, as were her office, Central Park, the DMV, and the Disney Store.

But then she turned the tables, accusing me of trying to take the easy way out, for apparently it wasn’t enough that a Latino family from the building next to mine gazed in on us last week during a bit of pretzel logic. Seen, yes, but clearly only for shame — not for science.

A few days later, Ms. Inimitables conveniently had a triathlon to race on Staten Island, and I thought, what better place to get busted than on the ferry back, under the approving eye of Lady Libertine? Sadly, though, the ferry was so crowded and had such giant restrooms, there was no good way to sneak her into the men’s. Coitus interruptus impossibilus.

Then I remembered the Metro North railway with its (I long ago noticed) massive single-toilet restrooms with sliding doors that are notoriously hard to lock. (I’ve walked on a number of people mid-squat. No one was ever pleased.) Inquiring minds want to know, why, Mr. Train Car Designer, did you make the bathroom stalls larger than my Manhattan bedroom if you didn’t want me to transfer some of the activity of the latter into the former? I consider the design a tacit mandate from the Budd company.

So Ms. Inimitables and I began doing the thing we like to do, with her leaning up against the metal sink and me doing my best imitation of an ornamental cloak. We did it, and we did it, and we made noise, and we made sure the door was unlocked, and no one came (uh, by which I mean to say, no one tried to enter), and we kept doing it, and still no one came (and not doing so was becoming increasingly difficult for one member of the constituency), but still no knocking, no busting, no discovery, no jail time. With Ms. Inimitables, a mortal man can only hold himself back so long. So finally, we returned to our seats, blushing madly but feeling like two hands that had clapped in the forest.

A little more research and I found the perfect spot to try again: an historical Manhattan bar/restaurant famous for its burgers, with upstairs seating and stall bathrooms at the back, the last one co-ed. So two nights later, a few beers and a disc of cow in each of us, we trundled to the back, giggling, ready to get amorous.

The bathroom itself wasn’t too bad: a reasonably clean, darkwood affair. I undid the button of Ms. Inimitables’ jeans and a fheww sound came out, like an untimely flatulence. Actually, it was an automated air freshener just above us, clearly with a sense of humor.

Now, to get caught, you have to leave the door open, but it pays to keep it locked until the two of you are past the preliminaries. I was wise enough to bring some lube to speed things along, and soon enough we were both fulfilling the biological imperative. But, again, no visitors! How could that be? And, I have to admit, the pressure was getting to me. Once I started thinking about how the pressure was getting to me, it really got to me.

My ever-supportive partner, sensing things were amiss, stood up, turned, lowered as if to propose to me, and instead took my wilting leek into her mouth while, she would tell me later, resting her head comfortably against the toilet paper roll. What a good woman.

Suddenly, the door cracked open, and a very high, very mortified woman’s voice yelped, "Sorry!" I can imagine the tableau before her eyes: a man with lowered Calvins, his back three-quarters to her. A soap-commercial beauty on one knee, mid-Electrolux — hardly what you expect to see when you go to use the john after dinner. Still, she was a sport and, collecting herself outside the door, followed up with the eminently civil, "People have to use the bathroom."

"We‘ll be right out," I replied at volume, not exactly qualifying as master of subtlety.

A passerby at that moment would no doubt have heard some low-voiced cackling and chortling amid the hurried sounds of pants being pulled up, zips zipping, etc. But less than a minute later, I bravely exited in front of my companion, shielding her from scrutiny, only to meet not the polite patron with the insistent bladder, but another insistent face, our grandmotherly waitress, who scowlingly indicated that in my haste, I had failed to sign the credit-card receipt. Egads. I wrote in an unduly large, apologetic tip, and we rushed to the door.

Observation/results: Spontaneously getting it on can be fabulous, for sometimes the cup just runneth over, and, hey, why shouldn’t it? Planning to get caught, however, means that you have to manufacture all the momentum — and fight off the jitters. It’s definitely a much dicier affair.

That said, it’s pretty fun getting busted either way, assuming the crime stays victimless (I’m glad the surprised woman wasn’t a mother bringing her eight-year-old to the loo). Having your disapproving server waiting for you outside, however, is less fun, and clearly James Bond would have pulled the whole experiment off with a little more aplomb.

Still, while the disapproving face of our server is not soon to leave me, and while technically it was pretty much the worst sex Ms. I and I have ever had, there’s no doubt it’s one that we’ll remember, and the giggle count will continue to rise. Plus, next time we plan to get caught in a restaurant, I’ll remember to leave the forty-percent gratuity before we leave the table. That should take care of the scowl.

Read more I Did It For Science here.

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