Flavor of the Week: Bad Head

"How many buttons can a toilet possibly have?” I asked myself as I fumbled with the 10-plus gadgets and functions on the indecipherable and surely obscenely expensive throne in front of me. All I wanted to do was flush it, but instead of a simple metal handle, I was presented with a cornucopia of options for keeping my nether regions fresh and clean: rinse cycles, massage functions and a bright red button disconcertingly labeled “blast.”

So there I stood, as perplexed—and probably just as drunk— as an old-timey farm worker trying to figure out the ins and outs of the cotton gin that just replaced him, having a staring contest with a complex commode. I was losing badly.

It had all started several hours before, when a night of boozing took the predictable turn from trying to suck down all the liquor within reach to trying to make out with everyone who would have me. After a few botched attempts at finding a hookup, including one that involved a lie about being from Berlin, a cute redhead wandered my way. Perfunctory small talk ensued, immediately followed by sloppy PDA that my companions later reported looked like two angry people frisking one another. After the crowd began to thin out and before shameless public finger-banging could commence, we hopped a cab and headed back to her place for some lechery that both of us were guaranteed not to remember.

Her apartment was much nicer than I expected, to an almost intimidating extent. I was drunk and dowdy looking, reeking of beer and cigarettes, and found myself walking into the lobby of a building that was, to put it bluntly, swank as fuck. Located somewhere near the united nations, the place sported marble floors, beautiful antique light fixtures and a suit-wearing doorman who gave us a look suggesting he knew exactly what my spontaneous paramour and I were up to.

So what, let him look, I thought. Nothing can ruin this evening for me.

We went upstairs, and the apartment was just as luxurious as the lobby suggested; I would soon find out that the bathroom was no exception. As we began to get down to our sordid business, the inevitable drunk piss began to creep up on me slowly. While I hated to pull myself away, I figured it was better to take care of it immediately rather than wait until my member was otherwise occupied. I reluctantly got off of my new acquaintance and made a beeline for the bathroom, determined to shorten the time gap standing between me and drunken debauchery as much as humanly possible.

What waited inside will haunt me for years to come. Of course, no posh Manhattan pad would be complete without a stupid, pretentious faux- European style toilet, and this one spared no expense. The commode had more buttons on it than a dashboard on a space ship and, truth be told, I wouldn’t have been terribly surprised if I lifted up the tank cover and found a miniature engine resting inside. It was mind-boggling, scary and, worst of all, I had no clue how to work it.

I took a leak, and when it came time to flush, it was as if I had never even been potty trained. I fumbled around for a solid five minutes before realizing that my absence was becoming conspicuously protracted— so I picked a button and hoped it was the right one. It wasn’t.

A tiny nozzle came out of the bowl and the bastard began to gush water straight at me. of course, I had activated the bidet function. It continued to spray as I leaned over the toilet, hitting every button and lever I could get my hands on trying to stop it, getting more thoroughly soaked with every passing second.

Finally I managed to turn the damn thing off and, after the initial shock had dissipated, began to contemplate how I would recover. Maybe I could do a clever lead in, I thought, something like, my pants got soaked, but I won’t be needing them much longer anyway. And maybe she would just laugh it off, find it endearing and we could let it pass and screw in peace. I took a deep breath and exited the bathroom to find the redhead standing only a few feet away.

“What happened in there?” she inquired with a touch of annoyance to her voice.

“I, uh, couldn’t exactly figure out how to work the toilet,” I answered.

She began to laugh, which I saw as a good thing. But then she kept laughing. And she didn’t stop. She was guffawing so hard at one point that she launched into a loud, spasmodic coughing fit that I was sure would end with vomiting. I quickly realized that she was not laughing with me and awkwardly inquired as to whether or not I should stay. More laughter and a curt wave towards the door were answer enough.

On the way down, the same doorman who gave me the stink eye upon arrival gave me another look, far more confused than his initial glare. All I could think to tell him was “bad plumbing.”