Mens' room of an establishment called the Gopher Hole. It is, technically, one third of an establishment- there is an old hotel in downtown Flagstaff called the Weatherford whose three levels have been converted to three different venues. The prices and selection are identical in all three, but the atmosphere is curated for divergent clientele, descending in class from roof to cellar. The top floor refurbished to the original standards of the hotel- mahogany and marble, serving staff in black tie. We are in the basement with the free popcorn.
An associate of mine and I are utilizing two adjacent urinals. While my strict adherence to the code of silence which applies to all mens' rooms has relaxed in the last few years, I am still loathe to be the first to contravene that ancient law. My associate, CF, has no such issues.
When I was in Michigan, he starts, I was in the bathroom once and a cop comes in.
I'm already hooked on the story, and stand in respectful silence.
He walks to the urinal next to me, CF continues, and looks over the wall.
'you know, your tool looks just like your boyfriend's' the cop says to me.
And that's how I found out my boyfriend was fucking the sheriff.
With this, CF finishes up and walks out.
