December 2, 1999
Pissing on troughman
Transgressing at the Sydney Sleaze Ball leads to pissing on people, Steven Cohen finds to his surprise

he sleaziest part of Sleaze Ball 1999 - and the most transgressive image of the night that I can remember - is of encountering Troughman in his natural habitat.

The toilets at this Sydney party are the cruisiest and most densely populated areas, with a constant turnover of thousands of partygoers. The boys tend to take their time in there, because what fag hurries from the sight of dozens of beautiful men flashing cock with attitude?

This, together with the delayed jerky pissing action of most of the Ecstasy bladders, makes for a long and interesting wait to get to the urinals. Lots of greeting and groping and crotchworking.

When my turn came at the inner sanctum of the Horden Pavilion toilet, I noticed a gap between two musclemen, settled there and unzipped.

For a moment I couldn't figure out what I was seeing. Lying all wet and shiny in a clean white urinal in front of me was Troughman.

It was one of the strangest situations I've been in - and I am no stranger to strangeness. It was intense and intimate and unexpected and public. It was repulsive and hot and thrilling.

I pissed and Troughman raised his boot to receive it. I stared at the piss running down his leg while he rubbed his crotch, which was covered with what looked like rubber but may have been wet leather.

The odd thing is Troughman looks like a gentleman academic, with intelligent blue eyes and a piss-soaked yellow handkerchief knotted on his head.

Troughman looked all pale and collected, with piss droplets on his moustache. He gestured for me to piss in his face but I wouldn't - it felt too far for a first date and he has such an unpissable-on face (which, I suppose, may also be it's allure).

I got quite a rush of terror when Troughman half rose from lying down in the urinal. He was less threatening lying flat like a contented seal - just seeing him sit up and be active and gesture was like watching some horror movie lavatory monster come alive, rising from Lake Subconscious.

But Troughman does his thing with such integrity - he is so much there in it - that his scene acquires a distilled, erotic edge to it all, a seduction through conviction.

I was blown away by the enormity of the choice Troughman has made. It let me think about the diversity and power of the libido. What is it like to rewant the same extreme practice? Troughman is certainly the standout individual in the group by choosing to be in a position hardly anyone assumes.

In Sydney fag culture, where gay men are judged and shamed by errant hairs and everything is new and very macro-muscles, micro-shorts, Troughman's persistent public piss-drag is remarkable.

I was so intrigued with Troughman I probed everyone I met subsequently for information on him. It was a relief to find a Sydney icon who isn't pretty and doesn't glitter. For the past 10 years Troughman has been a urinal feature at every major party on the Sydney circuit.

One year Troughman failed to get a ticket for the Mardi Gras party in the big sell-out, and there was a wide appeal in the gay press to find Troughman a ticket, which duly happened.

Troughman has walked the Parade as Troughman and his framed (and what look like laundered) shorts and yellow hankie are on display in a super-trendy main road coffee-shop.

Legend has it that one year Troughman hired a disc jockey and a mirrorball for the lav he was working - what a glamorous twist to transgression, to decorate.

Thoughts about Troughman still float in my head - how has piss changed with changing drug fashions (is ecstasy piss different from beer piss); is it piss and piss only, no shit; is it part art?

Troughman may have seen the most cocks in Sydney (quite a coup) and God knows what a story he has to tell from a decade in the urinal. What do you learn from the repeated confessions of bladders, and a continuity of testicles?

The passing situation I was in with Troughman stuck with me, filled me with questions, forced me to re-evaluate my own gut responses.

That's a lot to ask from art, never mind from a trip to the lav.