Bathhouse bye-bye

How could I be losing interest in my favourite kind of fun?

Rating: NNNNN

A simple blow job changed my life. It started out like any other bathhouse trick. I was towelling off in the sauna, minding my own business, not bothering anybody, when he walked in. He was masculine, mid-30s and muscular – a ruggedly handsome real man.

He took his spot across from me and leaned against the wall. I studied his every gesture and expression, looking to discern his intentions. Nothing said go, but nothing said no either. I moved closer, continuing my study but still no clues. I moved closer yet, and when he did nothing to indicate he was displeased, I reached out and touched him – and when I discovered he was willing and able, I did a lot more than that.

I left him like I leave all my tricks, with just a smile and a gentle “Thank you.”

I saw him again at the baths several times after that. I would discreetly stare at him in the shower and watch him as he cruised the halls. We never spoke and never found ourselves in circumstances where we could connect again. That is, until one night he got tired of waiting and decided to make a move.

I was sitting at the bar with a cocktail, smoking cigarettes and watching The Simpsons when he walked in. Every seat in the place was empty, but he walked up to the chair next to me. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked, all warm and friendly. “Be my guest,” I said.

I can’t remember what he said next. I just remember that once he started talking, he didn’t stop. He was a total chatterbox. He told me his name was Ken and I learned quite a bit about Ken over the next hour or so. Not the least of which was that he wasn’t just some dumb jock in a towel. He had a brain as beautiful as his body.

I rarely talk to any of my tricks, because I might discover that I don’t like them, and then I’d be sorry I had sex with them. Nothing is a bigger turn-off than when some guy opens his mouth and he’s either a complete idiot or a right-wing bastard. Ken was far from being either, and that turned me on even more. The sex with him later that night was way better because I was having sex with a person and not just a body.

Ken had one more thing he wanted to talk about before we parted ways: when we would see each other again. He asked if we could exchange phone numbers. I’ve had countless experiences in bathhouses and sex clubs, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve given out my phone number. But there was something different about this guy, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but that voice in the back of my head was telling me not to miss this opportunity. So I gave it to him.

We hooked up a couple of days later, and before I knew it we were officially “dating.” I knew almost right away that this was potentially serious, that it could actually go somewhere. I got very nervous and started to panic.

I liked my life. Who says being a pig slut whore is a bad thing? I liked having lots of sex with lots of hot guys every night of the week. Every experience I had ever had with boyfriends had always been a disaster and way more trouble than they were worth. I didn’t want to give up what I had.

So I brought up the subject of having a quasi-open relationship with Ken. We would go to the baths and pick up guys for threesomes. We would still have sex with other guys we would just do it together. That way I could have my boyfriend’s ass and eat it, too.

He agreed, and one night we went hunting. We found an acceptable candidate and lured him into our room. I’ve had lots of threesomes in the past and never had a problem, but this one just didn’t work. Yet the minute we threw him out and started to have sex just the two of us, things got hot.

That was when I figured it out: I had lost interest in other men. I had to face it. I was in love. I had always thought of myself as this radical queer activist who was just born different, but now I was discovering I was really just an old-fashioned romantic at heart.

Up until now, two nights in a row was a long-term relationship for me. Now, several months later, with Ken, I’m ready to call the gay Guinness book of bathhouse flings. And I think it’s going to last and change my life in ways I never expected.

I’m sure my friends will be pulling up to my house with the white picket fence soon to collect my radical gay card.

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