Bathhouse Secrets

I hate house music, but it thrums through the speakers of the bathhouse on a constant loop. There’s no escaping it, which is a nightmare for my migraine. I was so cock hungry this morning, I forgot to eat real food. I saw a vending machine on the second floor sandwiched between a machine dispensing shower room flip flops and another that had butt plugs and cheap silicone dicks. This place is a three-story, horny wonderland probably best experienced on some level of ecstasy. I’m stone sober in the middle of the day as I navigate the darkened hallways. 

The burgundy carpet, soft beneath my feet, exudes a warmth when met with the low amber lights. The floor gives way to black plastic panelling as I make my way into the playroom. Large black stalls with saloon style doors line the walls. Each is a vertical coffin only big enough to house a standing man with holes on the side walls to stick your cock through. 

The room is empty now, so I don’t bother waiting for someone to pop out the other side. Instead I walk around the big leather swing, bolted to the ceiling with silver chains in the middle of the room. A lone light shines down on it, ready for some eager bottom’s fifteen minutes of fame. There are buckets of lube and condoms on the walls. The space is sparse but efficient. No one is looking for creature comforts. The only thing I need is for this fucking music to stop. 

Unlike most days, today I embody every inch of my gargantuan frame. Despite the headache, I soldier on. Creating a persona. As I circle the maze of hallways, nude except for a white towel wrapped around my waist, I hold my head high. I channel all those yoga mantras, lengthen the spine, ground your feet, head to the sky, and I butch the fuck out of them. 

The bathhouse is a space for peacocks and tigers. You strut or you stalk. But I’m motherfucking King Kong here. I exist to turn heads with brute confidence. I circle down to the steam room on the first floor and become a silhouette, wide and carved from granite. I see a man, shorter than me, obviously, but pretty. We ask each other if there’s been any luck today. By the look in our eyes, we both know the answer is yes, now that we’ve found each other. 

I didn't catch his name. None of us have names here. We’re bodies and room numbers. I’m 201 and he’s homeless. Just wandering the halls hoping to find someone kind enough to take him in. I don’t judge the locker dwellers, but I’m bougie and need a place to sit when I’m not out chasing cock. He’s compact and assured. No one this attractive has ever spoken to me here. My first visit was all gloryhole grandpas, but him, he’s got revelry in his eyes. We pass my room, but he keeps leading us further into the darkness. He’s a muscle-bound imp full of mischief. 

He takes me to another part of the play area. I hadn’t found this room on my own. There’s a bench and an audience. His hands are smooth against my chest hair. His goatee is still slick from the steam. Laying his towel down on the contraption, he straddles it. His hard, round ass hangs off the edge. I slap a heavy hand down on each cheek and he bucks like an overstimulated colt. I’ll have fun breaking in this one. I saddle up like it’s the Ken-fuck-y Derby, and start him off at a light trot. 

Honestly, I’m not much of a top. I was just hoping I’d get to suck him off and move on with my day, but there’s something in his confidence. He positioned us here as if we’d already agreed on it. So I fuck him. My hips are clumsy and my legs are shaky. I’m tall, but this bench has me on my tip toes. 

I fasten my grip on his hips and let his moans drive me on. More men traipse through our section, sizing us up with lingering eyes. I watch a man stroke his cock as I thrust and wonder if he’s trying to find my rhythm. I expect the performance anxiety to strike at any moment. But then I remember that I am not me. I remember, I’m 201. King fucking Kong. I am the one who fucks today.

But I don’t want to come this way. All bravado and pent up testosterone. Not before I’ve had a chance to give someone here the best head of their life. So I make a meal of a fake orgasm. Grunting and spanking ass. I curse loud enough to be heard down the hall. My partner does his part too. This is the closest I’ve come to being a porn star. There’s a part of me that craves more. 

Drenched in sweat, I pull out and discard my condom in a discreet trash can in the corner. My bottom eases himself back up to standing. His eyes are lightly glazed and he’s smiling broadly. His teeth are perfect. We politely thank each other as if we’re ending a business dinner and go our separate ways. I never saw him again. 

The showers are on the first floor. A big, open semicircle of faucet heads over a tile floor. The closed side of the circle holds floor to ceiling windows. The open side leads to a set of steps to the large hot tub. Here you’re always on display. Always viewed. There’s a thrill in the performance.

I make a show of lathering my cock as I rinse away sweat and sex. More men walk past the window, they saunter up to the hot tub. Someone enters the steam room. I’m not sure how to signal to anyone that I’m looking to suck cock. A formal announcement seems out of the question. I wish I could wear a sign that reads “Mouth for use.” I head back to my room.

Room 201 is a small, utilitarian space. A twin sized mattress with a plastic cover sits pinned to the left side. A small bedside table holds a big chunky remote for the tiny flat screen mounted in front of the bed. Granulated porn plays on the TV as I lay back. There’s a channel to watch the cameras in the gloryhole room. I flip to it to see who is skulking about, only to find two hunched over geezers circling it like geriatric vultures. 

My headache increases. The shower did little to dull the pounding. I can’t tell if a new song has come on or if it’s the same beat that’s been playing for the last two hours. My body tells me to go home. That the action is all but dried up, but I hold out hope. There must be one guy who wants his dick sucked. I need something to rub up against my tonsils before I go. 

I left the door to my room open. Maybe my hard cock would attract some brave window shopper. It bobbed in my lap. An anglerfish lure. My mouth ready to seize my curious prey. 

A few guys walk past, not tempted to look. Big burly men likely hunting college twinks. I wrestle with the fact that I don’t look like much of a cocksucker. That King Kong swagger counteracts my more submissive desires. So I try a new approach.

In the center of the room, I kneel and open my mouth wide. I take my damp towel and wrap it around the top half of my head, covering my eyes and nose, leaving just a hole, wet and waiting. I clasp my hands together behind my back and I wait. 

Through the gauzy fabric I watch shadows flicker across my doorway. Some figures slow for a moment before marching along. Others speed through like there isn’t this juicy, fuckable gargoyle waiting in this room. A literal open invitation. Then I see him. 

The shadow walks past quickly, then doubles back. His silhouette stands in the doorway. I see his head double check the hallway like he can’t believe his luck. He steps in silently and closes the door behind him. 

“What are you looking to do?” The mystery man asks. His voice is bubbly with excitement. 

With a roll of the eyes that he can’t see, I take off my blindfold and fix him with a “can’t you fucking tell” kind of look. Before me stands another snack of a man. Likely early 30s. He’s tall enough that his waist is perfectly in line with my mouth while I kneel. The standard white towel is cinched around a slim stomach. Not a “look at my abs” kind of body, but a pleasantly toned “I work for this but I’m chill about it” abdomen. He clearly spends time in the gym. He’s got shoulders for days and those biceps that always look flexed.  A broomstick mustache hangs above a charming smile. His glasses are cute. He gives “I’ll have him home by ten” energy. I hope his cock has a mean streak. 

I tell him that I want my throat fucked. He smiles a big dopey grin. Like I just bought him a fucking puppy! 

“I can do that,” he affirms. 

He’s already hard when he unwraps himself. His pretty pink cockhead is moist and shiny. I have to keep myself from swallowing it whole right away. I grip firmly at his base and engulf his head in my mouth. I purr, loving the way it fills the space. His soft skin pressed to my tongue. He breathes out heavily. I slide my mouth deeper until my lips meet my hand. 

Sucking a cock for me is what I imagine smokers feel like after a long work shift. Tension I didn’t know I carry softens as I ride up and down the length of him. The shrill pulse of my headache dulls for the moment. I can breathe again as I choke myself. 

I take his hands and put them on the back of my head. I pick up my pace, taking his entire shaft into my mouth and then pulling it back out. His cock is slick. My saliva paints my nose and runs down my chin. He moans and shifts his feet, trying to stay balanced. Soon, he takes control and I no longer have to move my head as he drives his cock in and out of my mouth. I relax and sit back on my legs. Happy to surrender. 

My eyes roll back as I watch his face. His innocent smile is now all gritted teeth and focus. I rub his balls and it sends him over some edge. He pulls out. 

“Come on my face,” I exhale now that my mouth is finally free. 

My drool and spit drip off his cock, raining down little drops on the floor in front of me. To my dismay, he’s checking his watch. 

“Fuck, my time is almost up,” he says. 

Soon the intercom system will call his room number. I stroke his cock again, hoping to coax him to stay, but he’s pretty focused on this deadline. I knew he was a little “have him home by ten” bitch. 

“Thanks!” He says as he wraps his towel around himself. 

Thanks. I don’t have time to wipe my mouth before my cock in shining saliva is gone again. I guess it’s only fair. My karma for faking it earlier. 

The headache returns, but my time is almost up too. I figure this is the best this trip will offer, so I get ready to leave. Another shower, a round of mouthwash, and I get dressed again. Walking past the towel clad while fully clothed is an odd feeling. It’s the sad realization that I am no longer like them. I must go back to the real world now. Where I have a name and a job and insecurities. 

I drop my towel off and exit out an unmarked door onto the busy street of Boystown. The sun is still high in the sky and there’s plenty of time for lunch. At a diner, I deepthroat a chili cheese dog. Then I’m in my car headed back home. I say goodbye to 201. The room and the person. Back to domesticity and nights spent reading quietly by lamplight. Always remembering the time I felt like I ruled the world.