Men bath house
I'm a bath house virgin. I've been near many, stayed next door to one before in Montreal as well as Chicago, but never took the steps to go into one. I've chatted with friends before about their visitations to bath houses, but the conversations did not get too colorful, maybe because I was not too interested and maybe because I didn't want to know about all the penetrating details.
Gareth Johnson has recently done some leg work for us that want to understand more about bath houses, but are too reserved right now to move into one. Here is his chat with Twitter user and gay bathhouse enthusiast MännerSpa to talk about saunas, men, and sex.
When did you first attend a bathhouse?
I was in my early 20s — it was Steamworks in Chicago. Around the same time I also visited the celebrated Man’s Country in Chicago, it’s since closed. I see those visits as being my initiation into the world of the gay bathhouse— one modern school, one old school.
Did it live up to your expectations?
Although I reflection I knew what I was venturing into, it was still a fairly surprising experience. The ambience and the concept was exactly what I was
The American Man: A Sunday Morning at the Bath House
Sunday mornings are for men only at the Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village, and I’m pretty sure that you know what that means. So I’m nervous in my red swim trunks on this hot August morning because I’m used to passing but, unlike the eyes-averse gym locker rooms I’ve grown accustomed to, I’m also relatively certain that for most dudes who go to a guys-only bathhouse on a Sunday morning, dicks are gentle of the whole point.
I’m here because, for me, a straight, bearded, tattooed trans man with a different sort of anatomy, a bathhouse feels thrilling, dangerous even. Everything about me is self-made, hard-won: this hairy stomach, these chest muscles, this carefully trimmed beard—all of it a mosaic that makes my reflection strange but not dissonant, all of it my ticket into this grimy, foul-smelling, sexed-up space.
It’s one thing to risk my body with needles and scalpels and the threat of cancer. It’s quite another to be exposed to a mob of dudes in a dank, dungeon-like basement of steam rooms and a sad-looking pool to really try the way my elderly life overlays a life in which the very fact of my body is a crud
The Freddie Guide to: Bathhouses
What is a bathhouse?
Bathhouses – also known as baths, saunas, or gay saunas – are spaces where queer men* meet to socialise, relax and own sex. They are legal, licensed sex venues, as opposed to regular saunas or steam rooms where people cruise.
The number of gay bathhouses in North America peaked in the s. Most of them closed in the s, as local governments made public health rules to curb the HIV/AIDS epidemic. These rules were often rooted in homophobia.
Today, there are still bathhouses in most major cities across the world. You can find them through Google or on cruising sites like Squirt and Sniffies.
* Historically, bathhouses only admitted cisgender men. They are generally becoming more inclusive. Many have more relaxed door policies or devoted times and events that are safer spaces for trans and non-binary people. If this applies to you, it’s best to check online or chime ahead before visiting a venue for the first time.
When you arrive
When you arrive at a bathhouse, you’ll get to a front desk with an attendant. This is where you’ll pay for your entry along with any extras like private rooms (if the venue has them
My Very Last Night in a Gay Bathhouse
THE LAST TIME I went to the gay baths, some years ago, I stepped in poop. Actually, more like a pile of poop, because it crept up between my toes for a horrific second before I realized what my bare feet had stumbled across.
I made the grim discovery while standing in the private room of another customer there, making small talk. While I had hopes of more meaningful communication, my plan was cut fleeting when I stepped forward and directly into the offending dung heap.
Lurching endorse and out of the room, I limped posthaste in the direction of the wet area, walking on my heel, soiled toes splayed upwards. As I negotiated the crusty terrain of the carpeted hallways, there occurred to me many questions.
Whose poop was that? How did it get there? Should I go back and tell the guy I stepped in it? Did he know there was poop in his room? Was it his poop? Did he want me to step in it? Was it a poop trap?
The episode spoiled whatever momentum my evening may have had. Later, sitting in the lounge area &#; same men, similar towels, but with smoking and less sex &#; I began doubting my choice of sexual venue.
In most big cities, there exist two opti
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