Baths and Sex Clubs: Part II

Well, my vote for the best bath house in the country is, hands down, Chicago’s Steamworks. Located in funky Halstead, north of downtown, Steamworks is a modern phallic temple with three floors, dozens of rooms and almost as many booths and glory holes, all sorts of nooks and crannies, all dedicated to the glory of dick. Clean and popular, it’s what makes Chicago for me.

And when it comes to sex clubs, nothing beats the efficiency of Slammers which, as a bi-coastal enterprise, maintains a whorehouse in L.A. and one right here in Lauderdale that has given the bath houses a run for their money and has even put a dent in the bar scene. Hey, you can walk in in street clothes, don’t have to strip, stroll around till the rhythm is right, then grab a first come, first served booth with a latch for privacy (unless you’re an exhibitionist and prefer the few with peepholes in the doors). And for those into oral games, there’s the two level suck-a-rarium, lined on all sides with gloryholes.

So, bath house or sex club, what works and doesn’t work?

First, you need a critical mass of men for stuff to start happening. Too few a universe of men, and guys wait for the next best man to walk in before they “commit” themselves; too many, even the lowly are waiting for God, that is until their time or patience or Viagra has almost run out. Then they’d do a pursy lipped Lutheran minister to get their rocks off.

Time of day and day or night of the week also has a lot to do with success and size and quality of the crowd. Though nights, especially Fridays and Saturdays, are traditional hotbeds, mid or late weekday afternoons can witness some brisk business from bi-marrieds, college kids, or retirees, in-shape or otherwise. Thursday nights at Slammers where you get a few bucks off if you wear leather are surprisingly lively with non-nonsense hot men.

Being in the right spot at the right time is also part of the game. Sometimes everything’s in sync and you and your soon-to-be paramour for the next seventeen minutes fall all over one another. Other times it’s a waiting game, to a point you feel more frustrated at 3 a.m. when you leave than at 10 p.m. when you came in.

I also find the guys, solo or paired, who keep passing your room with the door wide open time after time after time for half the night, staring right at you each time they pass, never close the deal. The best guys are the direct ones who just walk right in, grab your cock and take it from there.

And, of course, the baths, in particular, have a silent language all their own. If you grab a room (I do whenever I can though it costs more; you, in theory, have a better chance of netting a catch), the position of the body is all important: ass up or dick up. A can of Crisco on the end table. A whip at the foot of the bed. All can speak volumes to you or your would-be suitor.

One big advantage that clubs and baths have over picking somebody up in the bar is that, if after ten seconds you realize it ain’t gonna work, he wants to fuck and so do you, well no hard feelings, you or he just move on. Not like picking up the love of your life in a bar when you and/or he have had a trio of $3 Long Island iced teas and find that great chest in his T becomes two mounds of jello when he takes it off. In your bedroom. And, as we all know, that can be just the start of a string of unpleasant surprises. Even if you go over the check list on likes and dislikes before the two of you exit the bar, it’s funny how suddenly he has amnesia and changes his mind in midstream after you’ve gone through the trouble of unlacing your damn boots.

But the one hard (no pun intended) fact of sex club/bath life you have to accept is that it’s all about “The Bod.” Personality, torn, piss-stained jockstraps, and material success in the outside world (unless you discreetly have a hundred dollar bill tucked between the cheeks of your ass) are all secondary to “The Bod.” And I’ll take an ugly, pock-marked guy with a terrif tight bod any day of the week over a pretty boy who’s either ironing board thin or The Blob. But whatever you got, whether it’s a hairy chest, great legs, a tight ass, or a dong to the floor, sell it.

Me? I lay in my room stark naked, propped up on my pancake of a pillow, dick Viagra hard, with only my work boots on. You know: the porny look. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t but, hey, it at least puts ME in the mood.

In the sex club where guys tend to keep their jeans or shorts on, strip off the shirt if you got something to show off, and don’t bother with underwear. It gets in the way when a quickie is available for the price of a lascivious grin. And please! No cologne. He wants to smell your sweat, not the Calvin Klein.

No bod? No looks? No youth? No dick? Just the urge? Well, that’s why the Gay God created dark orgy rooms or glory holes. I chuckle when guys look on the other side of the wall to see who may be waiting to suck their cock. Does it matter? Some of the homeliest guys are the best cocksuckers.

Me? I just pretend he’s Brad Pitt or my heart throb of the night and let it all hang out for his, and my pleasure.

After all, guys, isn’t sex seventy percent fantasy anyway?

Tomorrow: Dirty Talk

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