What Exactly Happens in Gay Bathhouses? by Kyle Phoenix








Straight up, unmitigated, constant, music backed, micro toweled, sweaty, lubed, mostly condomed men fucking.
A whole floor. Cubicles. Monitors with hardcore porn playing. Doctors chairs with stirrups, operating tables, booths with windows, gloryholed cubicles, steam room, showers, lockers and sometimes fluorescent paint on chairs and such so only black lights are on.

The cubicles are like vending machines where you can see and sample varieties of carnal activity. Or in your cubicle put yourself up for use, invitation, initiation? It blurs.
It smells like sweat, various colognes and semen. Lots and lots of semen. You thought you'd whiffed its scent before but now you can practically see it misted in the air. And if you stand still, you can actually see semen misted in the air.
Loud grunts, moans, hissing, thudding, skin flapping and slapping. Gurgling, gargling, choking, gagging. Bedding rustling or mattresses sliding, squishing, squeaking, crunching. Squishing sounds. And if you stand still and squint you can see what's squishing.
Your sneakers feel large because your towel is all you have on and you feel self conscious, out of shape, a plebe, as chiseled dudes walk by to silent adoration. You feel better as you go deeper into the labyrinth and spot ginormous men with hair a plenty strolling with their num nums and candy chokers floating free. You briefly wonder about your position in the pecking, poking, poofing order until you see a 400lb man with a leather harness, baseball cap and flip flops earnestly trying to get his Pepsi can into a chiseled dudes ice box on the floor. And you realize you're in the DMZ of dignity.
You see men who look desperate, relaxed, happy, sad, demoralized, ashamed, amused and assessing of what they're looking at. So you too idle closer and look into the cubicle and you spot what looks like an interracial Jamaican bobsledding team going for the gold throughout the rest of the team's slaloms.
You stroll through the labyrinth realizing how....something..... men are. At first its a form of wonderment at the freakdom you've paid, $25-50 dollars to enter. Then you're titillated and liberated because of the nude, touchable, yummable Baskin and Robbins around you. It's like Lilandra, the Shi'ar Majestrix has kidnapped you and the X-Men because of your consumption of the D'Bari sun for execution. But at the last moment, your mentor Professor X calls for a trial by combat, his students, your family vs Lilandras Imperial Guard on the surface of the Moon. It doesn't go well. Ok, the X-Men get trounced but in the haze of battle, you who have lived with psi baffles against your power-sexuality think fuck it and tear down those shields.
Now and forever....you are Phoenix, love incarnate!!!!!

Unleashed.
Sexually.
In this joint.

And that is your favorite song playing because groove is in the heart, right?
So you watch for the code, the signal, the foot taps, the slide overs and slide sways, the inviting brush of a hand, the inveigling beckoning of fingers, lips, hobbles , jibbies and occasionally a northward pointing kickstand. You even learn to move away, shake your head so subtlely that only a Sotheby's auctioneer could adroitly note your refusal-----wait, isn't that the auctioneer from Sotheby's?
You are the Phoenix.

And this, literally, a fucking smorgasbord. No, really that group over there on the gym mats are doing the Fucking Smorgasbord made popular in the basement of an after hours theater in Hamburg that plays the same five Ingmar Bergman films.
After partaking of the peach fuzzy cupcakes, a white not chocolate Mr. Goodbar, a few tasty 7 Ups and one surprising little wanton Wonton, you're spent.
And with your unique sex funk released into the black lit atmosphere , you notice a level of sadness, desperation, regret.
Like a couples blind date with Lindsay Lohan and Tara Reid or allowing Vivica A. Fox to give you her 50 Cent booty polishing. It seemed like a good idea, that they would not treat you as you know Wilmer Valderrama and....well, 50 Cent said they would.

You see the gaping maw of the bathhouse /sex club lifestyle. Like when you have extra drinks and chat up a group in a bar and the lights go on----because the motherfuckers closing....and you suddenly realize that if you don't leave, posthaste, you'll become one of "those" people.
Not the ones who partake of this private Fuck Buffet every few years but one of the...regulars.
At least that's what I heard they're like.....

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