It was a balmy July evening, uncommon two summers ago. The air for shenanigans was ripe with potential. Somewhere in the city, a man struggled to engirdle himself in a fine polyester dress. He succeeded. Destination that night: an adult shop in a barren area of Portland's east side. Goal: to get some ass.

At this particular shop, my shop, there exists a back room partitioned into many tiny rooms. Some of the rooms contain holes, so that people may stick what they will through them. People come and utilize these rooms and holes for the most sinful of reasons.

Our aforementioned lipsticked cross-dresser sauntered into the shop that night. With a flick of his wrist, he turned a sharp left and down the carpet-laden pathway that leads to the booth complex.

Moments earlier, a trucker had stopped into the shop. Mounted on his left hip was a rather deceptive fannypack, usually the mark of a wuss, but this man was a surly type and clearly not down for any extraneous bullshit. The nylon strap securing it to his midsection bore the scars of many a manhood challenge. When he asked me for change to use in the booth, I quickly gave it to him with minimal eye contact. Nobody wants the once-over from a man who is about to tie one off. Especially a buff man who is already rough and tumble enough to carry a fannypack in 2009. He made his way to the compound.

Back in the chamber of moans, the crossdresser had set up shop next to the fannypack'd trucker. His goal closer than ever, he decided to put himself through the hole. Our trucker friend, however, was not holed up in his booth intent on entertaining someone else's penis. Ignoring it, he went about his business.

The crossdresser, furious and unfulfilled at this time, decided to urinate on the trucker; obviously unaware of the girth of this man's biceps. When the first drop of urine reached the trucker's coat, he fumbled for his fannypack. Opening it, he withdrew his cargo: a can of mace. Gritting his teeth, he half-emptied the can onto the offending member. Inside the adjacent booth, a scream of pain was emitted. The other half of the can was reserved for the crossdresser's face, which was carried out post-haste. A second scream of pain was emitted.

Hearing all of this ruckus, the security guard was dispatched. Like a man possessed, he tore down the narrow alleyway and into the booth cluster. Finding the booth occupied by the urinator, he entered it, only to find a cloud of mace and no mace-ee. Because the booths are self-contained, the noxious gas lingered and the security guard got second-hand maced. Charging out into the hallway, the sentry grabbed hold of the half-naked person and escorted them out of the building by the neck and belt loops. I responded by turning the page in my book. In the back of my mind I wondered if the vending machine was out of Dr. Pepper.