“Is somebody gonna match my freak?”
– Tinashe –
Sometimes I wonder if being gay comes with a membership to the Promiscuity Club. My journey of self-discovery has turned me into a referee of my own thoughts—constantly blowing the whistle on self-doubt and red-carding guilt out of my mind. Picture me on one of those lonely nights: prayers start with “Dear Universe” and end with “Sincerely Confused.” Those prayers turned into tears and guilt turned into self-hatred, and I was forced to grapple with my own thoughts and emotions. Why should I waste my energy condemning the part of me that makes me the happiest?
Hating myself to the point of exhaustion, one day, I decided, enough is enough. If they want to call me a sinner, I’ll embrace it unapologetically. There will be no path to heaven, so I might as well plunge into the deepest layer of hell.
And let’s face it, the thought of putting my junk anywhere near a vagina? That is my idea of hell.
After my initial encounter with the Harley-Davidson guy, which almost landed me in jail, I made an effort to keep in contact with him. Our relationship blossomed into something more regular, with him occasionally coming over to my apartment to stick his wood inside of me. And for the most part, I had a good time. His kisses were filled with passion, his touches were imbued with gentleness, and his thrusts were filled with purpose. Most importantly, we had good chemistry outside of the bedroom. He often shared his mischievous stories when I gleefully laid my head on his chest. And what I loved the most about him was his spontaneity. When most guys were hesitant to deflower me the moment I told them I was sleeping on a twin-sized bed, he thrived on the challenge. He loved being creative— the bathroom, the backseat of my car, you name it, he’d fuck me there. He was happy to just have me despite our limitations, and when the dick was that good, who was I to resist such a gift?
I can’t remember exactly how this came about, but one day, we were talking about Steamworks, a gay bathhouse located in Berkeley. Before this, I had only visited the wholesome establishment (lol) once out of curiosity, and I was only frolicking around for less than thirty minutes because I was a shy boy (also lol). My Harley-Davidson guy had frequented the bathhouse more often than I did and, to my surprise, thought it might be fun for us to go together. My initial reaction was pure confusion. What’s he suggesting? Are we going to enter the bathhouse together but hunt for guys separately? Are we just there to watch other gays doing their thing while we munch on some popcorn? What kind of twisted mind games is he trying to play here?
“I don’t know. We can just have fun by ourselves, and if other people want to watch, I suppose we can let them,” said my Harley-Davidson guy.
As a gay man plagued with severe body dysmorphia and low self-esteem, the thought of having someone else, let alone a group of naked men, watching me fail at bottoming was horrifying. On top of that, I didn’t have the best track record at handling rejections, and the thought of pushing creepy old men away was frightening. There’s also the possibility of my Harley-Davidson guy leaving me stranded in the dark room for a younger twink. So many things could go wrong, and what would be the reward for my indignity? Being objectified by naked strangers?
But my curiosity got the best of me. Grinning, I replied, “That sounds fun! Let’s do it.”
One Saturday afternoon, I parked my car on the street three blocks away from Steamworks as a way to disguise my perverted behavior. My date, the Harley-Davidson guy, was already at the front entrance waiting for me, looking irresistible in his trademark black motorcycle jacket. After waiting a few minutes in line, we were greeted by a Latino man with an average build at the receptionist, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Sensing my anxiousness, my bathhouse date suggested that we rent a standard room in case we needed some privacy. In retrospect, I truly appreciated this gesture.
Steamworks, in a perverted way, felt like Disneyland for horny gays. There was a spa/sauna area near the front entrance, a massive room filled with lockers, a full-blown gym area, a dark maze with glory holes, and a room with a set of leather swing. Basically, everything kinky that you could think of, they had it there. We got a room near the jacuzzi area, and it had all the things one thirsty homosexual to do the deed: an outlet to charge your phone so you can mindlessly scroll on Grindr, a cabinet to store your belongings, and a tiny bed sufficient enough for you to get plowed into oblivion. Once my Harley-Davidson guy and I stripped naked in our room, we decided to explore all Steamworks could offer.
We stepped outside, and I was mystified.
Most of the gays walked around with a small towel around their waists to cover the last remainder of their dignity. My Harley-Davidson guy was holding my right hand while serving his duty as a tour guide, explaining what things were to the clueless twink he brought. For a short period, I was feeling happy and proud. I glimpsed around as we were walking, barely naked, and my Harley-Davidson guy was definitely the hottest person around. And for him to unabashedly parade me around with our hands interlocked? I felt invincible.
The first stop to our long, romantic walk in the bathhouse was the sauna. The moment we stepped inside, we were greeted with thick, billowing fog and lustful stares from some sweaty old men. My Harley-Davidson guy and I decided to sit at the corner of the room. The moment my Harley-Davidson grazed his leg over mine, however, all hell broke loose. Next thing I knew, my right hand was on my Harley-Davidson guy’s hard abs, and his tongue was all over my mouth. My dumb ass thought the dense steam might reduce our visibility, but when I caught a glimpse around, everyone in the room was watching us.
Holy shit… I had officially become a slut.
By the time we got to the gym area, I was already feeling horny as fuck. My body was taken over by something of a higher power, and the next thing I knew, I was already kneeling on the floor with my head positioned between his legs. And I didn’t just give him an average blowjob— I was performing in front of an audience like my rent was due in two days. The crowd was slowly gathering, circling around us like a flock of vultures with their hands rubbing their crotches. Strangely, however, I wasn’t bothered at all. In a twisted way, I was enjoying the attention.
My Harley-Davidson guy gently pushed me away and said, “Let’s just go to our room. I can’t wait to fuck you any longer.”
The disappointed looks from the crowd were apparent when the free show ended early (they haven’t even got the money shot yet!). As I slowly descended back to earth, I did notice one older, relatively fit gentleman who kept eyeing me and giving me a flirtatious smile. In any other situations, I would allow him to dick me down get to know me better or have some deep conversations with him. But alas, better the dick you know than the dick you don’t know.
My Harley-Davidson guy and I entered our room, and we immediately got it on. The white towels that covered both our bulges were on the floor, and he wasted no time reaching into his backpack to pull out a condom and a bottle of lube. However, taking an eight-inch penis up my ass was never an easy task. I stopped to take a break and excused myself to the bathroom.
Guess who I found next to me at the urinal? That same older gentleman who eye-fucked me in the gym.
I froze. Was he following me? Was he waiting there the entire time for his turn at me? Was I the hot commodity at the bathhouse? What about my husband in the room, still waiting for me with his raging boner?
“Hey there, I enjoyed your little show at the gym earlier,” the older gentleman seductively whispered while giving me a smirk.
“Oh, thank you, I suppose?”
“I was wondering if you want to come into my room?” said the semi-naked gentleman, displaying his muscular torso as an irresistible temptation to my susceptible mind.
I had a lot to think about. The barely-clothed gentleman standing before me was attractive, albeit a tad older than I would prefer. My mind was already running countless dirty scenarios on what I would do to the bulging muscles on his body. He would have been an uncharted playground, and the novelty of exploring my Harley-Davidson guy’s body was slowly wearing off on me. However, ditching my original date, who, presumably, was still having an erection in our shared room— that would’ve been the ultimate dick move. I arrived at this place with my Harley-Davidson guy and intended to end my excursion with the same person.
“I’m sorry, but I’m with someone,” I said to the older gentleman with guilt.
I walked back into my room, and my Harley-Davidson guy was lying naked in bed, one hand on his phone and the other on his gigantic dick. He greeted my return with a relieved smile and a warm hug, and I could hear a slight worry in his voice. I was brimming with happiness. Out of all the options in the bathhouse, I chose the right man to deflower me. And most importantly, he chose me. All my insecurities and anxiety dissipated, and I immediately jumped on his lap, kissed him passionately, and took every inch of his love inside of me. It was probably one of the best sex I have ever had.
We ended our raunchy adventure with a burrito dinner at a nearby taqueria. Little did I know, it was our last meal together (cue dramatic music for reasons I’ll spill later). If I had a crystal ball at that moment, I would have savored every moment I had with my Harley-Davidson guy. Damn, I would’ve probably asked for seconds (maybe in the taqueria bathroom, because why not?).
Looking back, I feel nothing but gratitude for my short encounter with him as it helped me discover how enjoyable sex with emotional connection is, whether it leads to something more or not. Our fling was like a breeze in the desert – refreshing, straightforward, and surprisingly profound. We constantly talked about what we liked and didn’t like, and he was open to accommodating my needs and always accepted my incapability with a smile. Something clicked in me, and I realized this was the feeling I was constantly chasing. Behind the thirsty facade and self-deprecating jokes, I have always wanted something more: to be treated like a human with feelings.
So, here’s to you, my Harley-Davidson guy. Thanks for showing me there’s more to life than beyond a random Grindr hookup, regardless of your inability to emotionally commit. You taught me that even in a world of fleeting connections, there’s magic in finding someone who sees you, bathhouse escapades and all.
SquirtTale 