All I wanted to do was wash my hands after paging through the back issues of Bear Magazine that had been casually left on one of the tables of the dimly lit atmosphere of The Pony in downtown Seattle. The erotic fiction and personal ads had all been from 1998, and my boyfriend and I assumed the fluids on them were probably just as vintage. Feeling my way toward the back area of the bar, I was greeted by the usual line of urinals and single stall, with the only slightly unexpected addition of a well-used gloryhole. This was no ordinary gloryhole. It hadn’t been carved hastily with a pocket…