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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.

I feel like I'm always getting my ass dragged to Cheap Shots, the East Village dump at 140 First Avenue where the birthday boy or girl drinks for free all night. I shouldn't complain too much, because celebrating such an occasion there takes the pressure off of me having to pitch in precious cash to get someone else drunk. And, actually, it's not so bad to get myself drunk there either because, as the name would suggest, the hooch is really cheap. But a better name for that bar would be "Crap Shoots" because that's what the meet market sitch is there. Frugal drunks come in many forms (NYU kids, chunky Latin lezzers, callous-faced old men, broke skaters in $80 T-shirts), which makes that bar like a box of chocolates—you never know what you're gonna get.

At the most recent birthday bender I attended there, I was wise enough to bring a dude with me. I'm into sure things, and based on past Cheap Shots experiences, I wasn't about to show up dateless, keeping my fingers crossed and legs open in hopes that I'd meet someone suitable to bang.

There are two unisex bathrooms at Cheap Shots at the back of the bar, in a little alcove that also houses a beer pong table. Hey, anyone up for some reggae?

But truth be told, I can't help but sort of love fratty dudes, because 1.) I've never had much interaction with them, so they're kind of like an exotic species, and 2.) their primitive nature lends itself

to authentic sentiment, however drunkenly evinced. Like this one, scrawled above the beer pong table at Cheap Shots that reads "I (heart) women because breasts."

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Anyway, my date and I went in one of the johns there for some tongue action, because I hate PDAs. This is what the bathroom looks like normally, and then again under the harsh reality of a digicam's flash.

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After locking the door behind us, we immediately covered our faces from the smell. The smell, oh God, that smell! It's not surprising when dive bar cans stink, but usually they smell like a zoo, or the ghost of poops passed. This one was straight-up piss. But like, really, really, really strong ammonia-y piss. It was like someone took some industrial strength cleaner and splashed it in our faces. Any burning desire we'd previously shared was replaced by the pain of our burning eyes.

Between the dingy lighting, the muddy floors, the peeling paint and our screams, it felt like we were in a horror movie. Barely able to see out of our now-tearing eyes, we both frantically fumbled for the lock, trying to escape the stench that we feared might suffocate us. As soon as we were free, we looked at each other, breathed a sigh of relief—it filled our lungs up with the comparably pleasant stale beer air—and held each other. We'd made it! We survived! And we went back to his place and had a bunch of sex to celebrate our new lease on life.

I give this bathroom 0 out of 4 Ds.