London Calling

Given the grand name of the bathhouse I was seeking — “The Pleasuredrome” — I did not expect it to be hidden under a railway overpass.

Then again, this is the way of most gay sex spaces: Obscured from the view of polite society. Even Google Maps didn’t display an accurate location, and I found myself circling a faceless brick building for a few minutes before I realized the pin was misplaced, and I needed to cross the street to the glowing portal under the rail bridge.

Once inside, the desk clerk asks me if “I know what this venue is.” I hesitate for a second, only because the phrasing of the question is a bit odd, but I say yes; I very much know what this “venue” is.

Locker key in hand, I dump my clothes in a cubby and head downstairs barefoot, grumbling to myself at the lack of sandals provided. I slink into the hot tub, my usual first stop at these kinds of places. It’s rather empty, and I wonder if, at 9 p.m., maybe I’ve come too late, as it is a Monday (and the end of a holiday weekend). Maybe the gays have already gone home.

I make something of a lap, but the place is small, just a bar and tiny sauna and a short hallway of private rooms upstairs. It’s not very cruise-able. So I go back to the hot tub. An older guy who isn’t terribly attractive sidles over to me. We start stroking under the water, and it’s fine; he’s really enjoying it and I’m happy to be of service.

By the time he gets properly hard, we decide to head upstairs to grab a room.

On the way up, making small talk, I say I’m American but live in Italy, and he tells me he lives in America but was born in Italy. Because of course he was. I ask where. Sicily. I ask where in Sicily. He says we’re not doing this, I say yes we fucking are. Where. He flips it to me. I say the name of my grandpa’s town as we’re closing in on our little room. He says he’s from the other side of the island. We swing the door shut behind us.