An American bathhouse.

My business travel during this period was mostly in the Northeast states, often by car. I sometimes started my work-week with a day-long drive to the first city, then working my way homewards to end up at home on Friday night. It was hard work, moving from hotel to hotel and seldom staying more than one night in each city.

As a married man, I didn’t look for women during my travels, My luggage would include a dildo and some lube, good for an ass-job and masturbation, as near sex as I could come while on the road.

One night “the devil” struck me. The bartender at the hotel bar was a “very” gay person. I asked him: “Is there a gay bathhouse in town?”

“Sure, here is the address.”

It was not far, but I found the place only with some difficulty – the front door was just another unmarked door in an industrial complex. This was in the USA so I guess gay bathhouses weren’t well marked for a reason.

As I parked the car and looked around, a tall, slim man walked by me. 

He went straight to an unmarked door and that’s how I found it.

We both entered at the same time. I had never, ever, set foot at a gay bathhouse by then and didn’t quite know the routine. The doorman took my entry fee, not expensive, and gave me a key to my room, a towel and a handful of brightly coloured condoms.

The place was a maze of various kinds of meeting rooms, in addition to the private cubicles, of which I had one.

I had asked the doorman, “how do I tell what a like to do?”

“Just show yourself and you will find out.”

I walked around for a while, with the towel lightly wrapped around my waist, as all the other men did. 

I looked into some open doors where a man was sitting or lying in a provocative position.