Warning: The following is a recount of a true story, rated PG-13 / R.

Dating Trenches: The Xtra Naughty Files

My blogs are not usually racy, but this one definitely ratchets up the raunchy factor a few notches. If you are easily offended, then don’t read this. But now that you are intrigued and I have your attention…
My boyfriend, Arthur, and I recently attended a culinary festival. This event has become more of a booze bash than the appreciation of fine cuisine. This popular attraction is always packed, but on this particular Saturday, the attendance was sparse due to bad weather.

I had been on-air as a special radio guest of “Into the Soup” with Heidi Lee (4/9/11 Part 2), which was broadcasting live at the event, and we hung out afterwards to drink in the ambiance – literally. We decided to leave the venue while it was still fairly light out, and that’s when we passed by a set of Porta-Johns.

I’d consumed my fair share of wine at that point, so I began to weigh my options of whether I should test my bladder’s fortitude or brave the germ-ridden commode. Note: I’m a major germaphobe. I’m probably a close second only to Howie Mandel.

Arthur recommended that I face my fears, hold my breath and go really fast. I agreed to suck it up. Even though there wasn’t the usual line of drunken partiers waiting, I got in and out of the loo in two minutes flat. I think I set some sort of land speed record. That is particularily hard to do considering that I only used my pinkies, knuckles and elbows to touch the germy surfaces. Shudder.

I leapt out of plastic germ fest, and we stood few feet away from the bathroom as I composed myself and wiped down with antibacterial gel. Just as Arthur was chastising my germaphobic ways, his stopped mid-sentence and blurted out, “Is that moaning coming from the bathroom?”

Moaning? What moaning? I had no idea what he was talking about. This is a guy who doesn’t hear me asking him to change the channel from “American Muscle Car” to ”Entertainment Tonight” when I’m sitting right next to him, so how could he hear moaning from 10 feet away?

Then I heard it too.  Oh, I get it. Apparently Arthur can filter out my requests, but if there’s sex happening within a mile, he’s like a highly tuned radar-detection system.

I was puzzled as to why this sound was coming from the outhouse. Maybe a bad food reaction? Then I glanced up at the top portion of the portable restroom, and I could see a brunette woman’s head through the ventilation screen. She was bopping all around and she appeared to be bracing herself for, um, something. Considering the toilet is about 10 feet high, I don’t think she was actually sitting on the seat. From this point on in the story, let’s call her “Mona.”

We stood there in shock and disbelief. However, considering the amount of alcohol that most attendees imbibe at this event, it was just a matter of time before something like this would happen. As the reality of what was going on began to sink in, Mona disappeared from our sight, and that’s when the rocking began.

The rhythmic pounding of the door was impressive. I think they were testing the tensile strength of the small plastic latch that keeps the door shut. It seemed on the brink of busting open several times, with intermittent flashes of the inside as a result of each enthusiastic pound.

I was amazed that there was hardly anyone else around to witness this event. Just then we saw two police officers strolling up the walkway. ”Yes,” I thought, “this is going to get GOOD!”

I whispered to Arthur, “Oh God, what if the cops walk by and the door flies open?”

Wait for it… wait for it…

Right when the officers were about 15 feet away, the rocking stopped.  NOOOOOOOO! They didn’t see or hear a thing. It started up again after the officers passed the makeshift love shack. ARGH! I don’t think they actually saw the police – it was pure dumb luck.

As we were cursing the gods for not breaking latch, a guy in his mid-twenties walked up and asked if we were waiting in line. I motioned to the toilet and said, “Nope, but I think it’s gonna be a while.” He cocked his head in confusion, but then the rocking ramped up some more and he was up to speed in a flash.

He announced that he was not leaving until he saw who walked out of there. We all agreed to ride it out and see who was deflowering the john. From the amount of porta-motion going on, I imagined that Mona would be accompanied by some 6’6″ football player.

About a minute later, things went quiet. Very quiet. No moaning. No rocking. Silence. All was left was anticipation. It was finally time for the big reveal.

The door flew open, and out walked Mona with… another woman. Apparently, it was a Porta-Jane. BTW: Every guy I’ve told this story to asks, “Were they hot?” For their sake alone, l smile and say, “Yes, they were.”

The two of them quickly realized that they had been busted by our wide-eyed group. Mona’s pal turned to her, yelled a profanity at Mona, and then they both stormed off in opposite directions.

All three of us stood there, stunned, with our jaws dropped. All I could say was, “What just happened? Why did she swear at her? What was with the door banging?”

Arthur turned to me with a sly grin on his face and snickered, “And you were afraid to just pee in there?”

Well said, Arthur. Well said.

The point of this story is: I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, or potty-curious, that is just WRONG to get it on in a Porta-John.  Oh, and I don’t think they used a toilet liner OR antibacterial wipes either!