i'm gonna keep on cruising at the men's only club

... There are mazes of private rooms, dimly lit that twist into dark corners of glory holes, of harnesses, of dark rooms lit by a low red light, where men find each other’s orbits and gently probe for consent, wordlessly. With a look, searching for a look back. With a gentle touch on the back, easily rebuked. I walked in laps around the labyrinth, passing strangers until they became familiar: the old white guy leaning against the wall; the chubby latino bottom waiting with his ass up in his room, door ajar; the muscular man with dark skin and shining abs sitting on the bench in his vibrant red jockstrap. I became familiar with this microneighborhood and with every new face that came in.

I learned that sometimes, a familiar face gives you a look that’s like What’s up? I’ve seen you around and I was wondering if you’d want to hang out for a bit (fuck)? and you can walk past them and turn your head over your shoulder and say, without a word, Let’s fuck.

It was at this bathhouse where men finally made sense.

Read this essay in full over on Autostraddle

Also, hey, maybe you want to pre-order my book where there will be more gender weirdness, dreamy sequences, and bathhouse cruising. You can do so here or wherever books are sold.

There'll be more HTFLAG in your box real soon xxxx