The last time I was in New Orleans was on Millennium night — the cusp of the year 2000. I’d never been; the atmosphere was similar to Mardi Gras — you know, chicks flashing their tits for beads, Hurricanes practically coming out of the taps, bros getting arrested every two minutes — but with thousands more tense people wondering if some cyber terrorist was going to create some Y2K clusterfuck at 12:01 a.m. Thankfully, that never happened.
I was a freshman in college and still not of drinking age, but I had a nice older brother along with me, supplying an endless stream of booze.
Now you’d think that that’d sound like the greatest night of my young life — but it was marred by something so natural, yet so incredibly frustrating: After several hours of boozing, I really needed to pee, and it got to the desperation point.
If you’ve ever been to a place like New Orleans’ Bourbon Street, you’ll know that there aren’t many bathroom options. If, for example, your hotel is a mile away from the action as ours was, you’re pretty much up shit creek without a paddle all night long. All the restaurants and bars have lines snaking out of them, so you might as well just piss your pants. But I wasn’t going to fucking do that. I wasn’t going to piss W-I-L-L against a wall either, because that’s a one-way ticket to public urination; and let me tell you, I saw a friend get ticketed for that shit right in front of me one night years ago, and that little stream of whitish-yellow cost him about $1,000 and a court date. Fuck that, right?
I remember being so desperate to drain my lizard, that I literally lied my way into a hotel, pretended like I was staying there, and unloaded one of the greatest streams of my life into the hotel’s porcelain head. Damn, that felt good.
This situation brings up a point: It’s not just an isolated incident; I have been in this situation numerous times over the years, and it’s terrible. They should do a study; it probably happens every second on the weekend at some new, jampacked bar or club.
Now take that image of Bourbon Street and project it onto any crowded watering hole: Sloppy drunk chicks showing bros their tits in the back room for beads; bros yelling at each other about which Yankees player they’d rather suck off; hipsters sipping at ginger-beer cocktails that you just want to empty on their heads; that girl in the red dress against the back wall, who looks like she hates life, eye-fucking you; a drink magically appearing in your hand every time the first one goes down your gullet. Most nights at the bar, too, you’re drinking more than you usually do, and that means the beer or liquor or shots are going through your system a lot faster — and that urge to piss is going to grow in you like a volcano on the verge of erupting.
Then, at some point, you turn to your best bro, and say, “Bro, I gotta go use the little boy’s room.” You stumble toward the back of the bar, a little sweat bead starting to form at the top of your Anthony Davis-style monobrow. You walk past red dress, and she winks at you, and your dick gets a little hard, which just makes you want to pee even more. And then you stop in your tracks, because for chrissake, the men’s room line is longer than any ladies’ room one you’ve ever seen in your life. “It’s not supposed to be like this,” you say to yourself. Men’s room lines are supposed to be mechanical, orderly, piss-and-get-out-type affairs. This one is 10 warm bodies long, and you can feel that urine rising in your partially erect penis like mercury in a thermometer.
At the very last minute, right before you think you’re actually going to explode, you get the front of the line and it feels like a huge accomplishment. Really, it’s not; you’re actually just doing a completely natural act which you should’ve been able to do 10 or 15 minutes ago. But you were literally cock-blocked by nine other grown men, who couldn’t squeeze their dicks fast enough into a small toilet, wash their hands, and then carry on filling themselves up once again. Dammit, right?
Having to piss is a terrible, terrible thing in a crowded bar. It’s almost as bad as having to take a shit. But that’s for another day.