A Way to York

intoxication and violations

write a chapter in which a female character is forced to use the men's bathroom for one reason or another.

There was a thin line between white sobriety and black intoxication. The moment you cross the boundary, you're welcomed to a whole new world that Disney would have never imagined.

York was well past this line, stomping on it with her foot and giddily dancing as she sped past to the murky darkness on the other side. It wasn't her first time in such a place—or her last—that greeted her with a numb warmth. It was in this place that time existed in only wisps of the past and bliss, why, that was the name of the game.

She was now swapping high school experience with the bartender, who had pretended to be a sassy gay best friend in order to climb his way up the social ladder. It had earned him the permanent seat next to the most popular girl in school. 

"It was really an undercover sting operation to dethrone her from her position and allow someone that wouldn't exploit people for her own advantage. We got a quiet mousy girl to maintain the hierarchy." He laughed and spun another glass to the other lean girl with thick tresses. "It fell apart real quickly when I left for college."

"You know what you should have done?" She waved her glass around. "Get a lesbian to direct the whole show. That would have scared everyone into listening to her and give power to queers."

He crooked his head and quirked a smile. "Do you mind me asking?"

She let out a high-pitched guffaw, covering her face with her hands trying to muffle her laughter. It wasn't the first time that someone asked her or implied it. "No! I swear that I'm not."

"I didn't mean anything by it. It's just . . . almost everybody here is apart of the community. It's where all of them flock because this place is where they don't get judged. They can be themselves here and it's pretty nice to talk about it without getting odd looks."

"You too?"

He nodded and held up his hand. A two golden bands wrapped around one finger and twinkled. "Two years and strong. He's a great guy."

"I bet," she said, downing another shot. A tiny ball of dread grew in her stomach, but she later recognized it as something else. A wave of nausea crashed into her.

She shot up with much difficulty, knees knocking into the stools beside her and scrambling towards the closest bathroom.

Of course, as the result of the state she was in, her vision was as heavily impaired as a bat. This caused a number of bad ideas. 

One—the distinguishing symbol of the men's room had really looked like a colored stick, so that wasn't helpful at all as she kicked the door open and released the insides of her stomach into the toilet.

Two—it might not have been a great idea to venture into a bathrooms whose stalls were painted with obscenities and profane phrases, where the walls stunk of smoke and vomit. She would have to talk to Baron about maintaining this place.

Three—her lungs and throat burned, and her head throbbed. This would make a terrible aftermath later on, she thought as she threw her hair back and wiped her mouth.

She should have been accustomed to this already, not enough that she had a problem (she was buried in denial), but enough to not receive a head-splitting headache the next day. There should have been some perks that came along with this.

The banging continued, and at first she though it was from her head. There was a couple getting hot-and-heavy in the stall beside her, slamming each others' bodies into the wall. It only made the bile resurface and she met with the toilet again.