My first time at a gay bathhouse

Three days after breaking up with my boyfriend of five years, I went to a gay bathhouse.

Going to a bathhouse was probably the most vivid fantasy I had that monogamy had been holding me back from and, despite being bowled over by grief, I was determined to finally experience it in real life. 

The bathhouse had been in my city for years, but only came into my consciousness recently. It was well-hidden: A nondescript, unmarked brick building right beside a highway overpass. I had driven and walked by it countless times without ever knowing it was there.

I entered through a back door, facing the parking lot, and walked up to a ticket counter. I tried my best not to be nervous and betray my newness. I bought a day pass, received a key to a locker, and got buzzed inside. Around the corner, a fresh towel was waiting for me. I scooped it up and went to the locker room. I stuffed my clothes into a narrow cubby, locked it up and wrapped the towel around my waist, where it did not remain for long.

I sauntered over to the hot tub, the more laid-back space where you could chat with people or cruise for your next prospect. Within minutes, I caught the eye of a man sitting on the other side of the room. He joined me in the hot tub, and we started talking. He was a regular, and told me I had picked the best day to come: Sunday afternoons were high time for the bathhouse crowd. We started feeling each other up—about the extent of what was “allowed” in the common spaces, and then went back up to his room.