I’m walking home from work last night and as usual I pass by The Spa Excess, a popular bath house that’s been operating forever. Often I see men coming out of there with de-spunked looks plastered across their faces so I guess it’s popular – I haven’t been inside there since 1998.
Outside the door is a man who is doing the tourist dance: looking up at the building, looking down the street, looking at me with questioning eyes, looking back at the building. As I approach he asks: “Where is Steamworks?”
I’m taken aback. Do I look gay? Or more specifically, do I look like a guy who goes to a bath house? He must have wanted it bad if he’s “randomly” asking strangers where bath houses are.
But I answer (and it takes me a moment to remember): “Up on Church Street… you go–”
“Is this place any good?” he asks, interrupting, pointing at the doors of Excess. Obviously he wants particular tourism information. To know the vibe/popularity of the place, not directions.
“Don’t know, don’t go,” I say and leave him to his (t)horny dilemma.
As I walk away I think of some better responses and file them in my “Shouldacouldawoulda” file:
“They seem to be bed bug free!”
“It’s where I met (KAFFF KAAAFFFF hoark KAFF) my boyfriend!”
“It’s full of… Somalians!”
“I lost my favorite penis scab in there.”
“They clean. So yeah.”
“Worst Souvlaki ever!”
“You have to wish to make your heart’s dreams come true!”