It turns out that the only place easier than a public restroom to meet casual racists, and come face to face with your own self-loathing, is online. Sex or no sex, most of these trips to the train station culminated with me sitting in the parking lot banging my head on the steering wheel of my car, sobbing. I could spend 10 minutes coaxing a guy into my stall, only to have him twist his mouth in disappointment after seeing my eyes, then toss off a mumbled apology as he turned around and walked away. It didn’t take me long to figure out that an eager, hairless, heavier Asian guy was far less appealing than, say, the blond-haired, blue-eyed college football player who shivered with fear and could not speak when you touched him. I figured out on my own that tapping my foot beneath the stall divider signaled interest. That was where all the action could be found, and as we pulled our pants up, he let me know the busiest times were between 3 pm and 6 pm on weekdays, when most men were on their way home from work in the city. My guide told me what must have been immediately obvious to anyone with any experience at all, that the stalls furthest from the door offered the most privacy. Inside, the stalls lined the long wall in an orderly row. I’d been introduced to Fifth Avenue Station by a married man in his forties who I met in the communal showers of the YMCA.
I’d tell friends I had to head straight home after school, and while sitting down for a bowl of kimchi stew at my family’s dining table in the evenings, Uhma and Ahpa would ask how my long hours studying at the library were going. As a high school junior and senior in the mid-’90s, my favorite after-school activity was having sex in the men’s restroom of the local suburban train terminal of Naperville, Illinois.