K&M Bar Is For Rod Rails

In the real New York, bar bathrooms serve as fitting rooms for trying on potential pairings, an all-important step before making that one-night commitment. Luckily for us, Slut Machine has been around all the blocks. In this occasional column, she rates which restrooms of N.Y.C.'s watering holes are best for non-traditional restroom activities. And then you call her a slut in the comments, you perceptive creatures you.

Williamsburg's K&M bar (at 225 N. 8th Street) is on my short list of places I frequent because I'm too lazy to leave my neighborhood. The bar doesn't get as overcrowded as other neighborhood haunts—and that's a good thing. Especially when you have dubious endeavors on the agenda. And when I say dubious endeavors, I mean events that begin with snorting a "usable amount" of a drug off some guy's johnson.

K&M barmaid Andrea (pronounced like Zuckerman), an Aussie transplant, gave me some dirt on "bah beethroom behave-ya." Between her accent and the heinous music the DJ in the dirty white pants was playing, it's a little hard to understand what she's saying, but it involves coke, vomit, pot and sex.

The last time I was at K&M, this dude brought me into the ladies' room and gave me some coke. We didn't bother ducking into a stall, since the place was dead anyway. When we were through, I watched him pinch the baggie shut. On a whim I said, "Hey, you want me to do some off your dick?" He didn't flinch. He didn't even look at me. He just whipped out his cock and dumped a bump's worth on his shaft (which was an impressive size, even when flaccid). I bent over and sucked it up. He put his dick away and we both left the bathroom.

K&M Bar Is For Rod Rails

About two minutes later, my stomach began rumbling. I headed back to the ladies' and went into the only stall. I'm not sure I could accurately convey just how horrible the air quality became in that bathroom when I was done with it—but I'll try. It was like I took an enormous pot of summertime East River water, added some kimchi, a cycle's worth of tampons, a burnt vacuum belt, a dash of sulfur, and some coils of used dental floss, brought it to a boil, and then filled the tiny space with the thick, foggy steam. I tried to finish up as quickly as possible so I could flee the scene, but as I was pulling up my tights, I heard the door open.

I exited the stall and tried to hide my face behind my hair. Through my fringe, I saw an obese woman, probs around late 20s/early 30s, standing in front of me. "Oh, don't go in there. It stinks," I told her. I sort of tried to pretend that I only happened upon the stench, rather than birthed it.

"Oh yeah, thanks for the warning!" She was jolly, which fit her body type. "Watch the door for me," she said as she begin to unbuckle her belt and pull down her pants. I watched in horror as her FUPA unfurled and she attempted to hoist herself onto the porcelain sink.

"Are you gonna piss in there?" I asked. "That's... not good." What I really wanted to say was, "That's gonna break if you plant your fat ass on it," but I didn't want to hurt her feelings as she was already willing to make herself so vulnerable. Plus, I felt like maybe she was onto me about what caused the smell.

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I could read on her face the recognition that perhaps she shouldn't have done this; that she was wasted and this wasn't particularly acceptable behavior. She scooted herself away from the sink, and having seen too much, I left the bathroom—but returned to it every 15 minutes or so with that dude, his little baggie, and his big business.