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vengeful deity
Facing a vengeful deity

 Magazine Feature Features Archive  
September 2002 Email this to a friend
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Bathhouse Payback
By Joseph Couture

By and large, the bathhouse gods have been pretty good to me. I usually get an all-right guy, and the hassles are generally kept to a minimum. But the great tub gods are persnickety and if you offend them, you're in big trouble. If you don't believe me, listen to this story.

I was back in my Ontario hometown for a visit with my family and got pretty much what I expected from them. Lectures on everything from my smoking to finding a real job because writing isn't really work and doesn't pay very well. It was enough to put me in a really bad mood; so I decided to slip out and go to the local bathhouse to escape.

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Every seasoned tub veteran knows you shouldn't go to the baths in a bad mood, it shows on your face and scares the boys away. This was my first mistake. I went anyway. It was a Thursday night and the place was a little busier than usual. But it was quantity, not quality.

I'm normally a very polite person when it comes to turning guys down because I want others to extend the same courtesy to me. But on this particular night, no one seemed to want to take no for an answer and the older guys were in super aggressive mode, leering at me in the shower and attempting to paw me in the sauna. The only two cute guys, by my lights, in the place made it clear they wanted nothing to do with me. It all only worsened my mood.

When this older man, 30 or 40 years my senior, approached, the stage was set for my second big mistake. "What are you into?" he asked as he leaned close to me. "Nothing," I replied with contempt as I moved away slightly. "Come on. I bet I know what you'd like," he said as he reached out to grab my cock. And that's when it happened. I snapped. "What could possibly make you think I'd want to have sex with you? You're old and ugly," I said a little too loudly.

The look on his face just dropped. He was devastated; I had hurt his feelings. If you're a half-way decent person, you never, never do that. You're never mean, no matter how big of an asshole you're dealing with. I immediately felt bad, but that wasn't good enough. I had committed a bathhouse sin and would have to be made to pay. And pay I would.

Sitting up in the bar later having a drink I found myself talking to this acquaintance I had seen around for a number of years. He wasn't attractive to me, or very interesting, but he got my attention when he started talking about this "awesome" bathhouse he was going to the next night. "It's in a border town with the United States and you get all kinds of horny American men," he said, obviously trying to tweak my interest. "If you want to come along, you can," he said. "Just as friends, no strings attached."

I thought about it for a bit and remembered all the hot experiences I'd had with American men, and then told him I would go. What could be the harm? I thought to myself. Little did I know the gods were setting me up for my grand punishment, and it would be spectacular and disproportionate to my crime. We had a two hour drive ahead of us to get there that I thought would be no big deal. But I was wrong. The second I strapped myself in my acquaintance starting talking. And talking. And talking. For the next two hours I was treated to his extreme right-wing views on everything that was wrong with society. Homeless people are lazy. Mentally ill people are just weak willed. Canada should bring back the death penalty. On and on it went. He was not someone I would spend five minutes with had I known anything about him. But I was stuck.

When we arrived, I couldn't believe we were in the right place. The building was like a small rundown warehouse with wire mesh on the windows. At the check in, we were greeted by a sour-faced Italian-looking man who was obviously annoyed to have us interrupt the hockey game he was watching. The main room was dark, dirty and looked liked someone's basement wreck room, complete with tacky wall paneling and the smell of cigar smoke in the air.

I quickly separated from my "friend" and went to my room. I opened the door and began to fully realize what I had gotten myself into. The carpet was dirty and cum-stained. The bed was nothing of the sort. It was basically a wood slab with a sheet put over it, and the pillow was damp (I don't even want to know why) and there was an extreme draft coming from the window right above the bed that made the room freezing cold.

I undressed and decided to shower and take a tour and see if at least there might be some cute guys around. A quick walk through the place revealed only a couple of older men and the staff playing cards in the front room. I still had hope, though. It was a Friday and it was early, so those cute Americans might yet turn up.

I returned to my room, left the door open and struck a pose on the bed. It was only a minute later when I heard someone making their way down the hall. I lowered my towel a bit and dimmed the light, ready to pounce the second some hotty came in. Then I saw him. This gigantic, 300-pound whale of a man. He was wearing an old and frayed track suit and was carrying a large brown paper bag. Although he was white, he had a big, puffy Afro-style hairdo. When he turned to peer into my room I could see he hardly had any eyebrows. He had plucked them all out, maybe because he was some kind of extra large drag queen in his spare time.

He gave me a big smile and then fumbled with his key right outside my door. Turns out he had the room directly across from me and I could see everything as he undressed. When he stripped down I saw his body clearly. He had mountains of rolling flesh all over him and a pimply back. He sat down on the middle of the bed and leaned against the wall with a view directly into my room. Then he reached into his bag and started pulling things out. I watched for a second, curious to see what he had. I'll be damned if it wasn't a double order of BBQ chicken wings and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

He dug in like he had been fasting for a week and was eating wings with one hand and alternating between playing with himself and drinking straight from the bottle with the other. He was slobbering BBQ sauce all over his face and down his chest. Every time he caught me staring he'd give me a little wink and give his little guy a tug.

I tried to pretend he wasn't there and just kept my eyes on the hall. Every time I heard someone coming I would get my hopes up. Time and time again I was disappointed. Then along came my next suitor.

He suddenly appeared in my doorway, all sunshine and smiles, this 60-something farmer, or truck-driver type. He was wearing filthy old blue jeans, cowboy boots and no shirt. His tits were flabby and sagging and he had a brown baseball cap on that had "Old Fart" emblazoned across the top. When he smiled at me I could see he had food stuck in his teeth.

"Hi. How ya doin'?" he asked me.

"I just want to relax for awhile," I replied, looking away and covering myself up.

"You're cute," he said to me. "I was lookin' for someone cute."

For some reason I wasn't flattered. "Like I said, I'm just relaxing. Keep looking," I said to him politely, but gesturing at the door.

"I can tell what you like. You probably like to fuck," he said to me as he started undoing his pants.

"No, really. You have to leave now," I said to him one more time. Then he dropped his pants around his ankles, turned around and bent over. Revealing his wrinkly, saggy ass. Then with both hands he spread his ass checks apart. There were little balls of dirty toilet paper caught in the hairs around his ass. "I like a little lick before I get fucked," he said, waiting for me to go to it.

Were I in another frame of mind, the whole scene could have been amusing. "Buddy, look. I'm not interested. You have to leave," I said to him firmly as he stood there with his ass checks spread apart. He seemed to get it this time, but he looked genuinely disappointed.

"Okay, okay," he said as he put himself back together. "Maybe you'll change your mind later," he muttered as he shuffled himself out the door. I looked up and saw Mr. Chicken Wings sitting there staring, a big smile on his face.

I forgot about the incident in a few minutes and got back into cruise mode, which was fine for about the first hour. But after that, with not even one potential trick in the whole place, it started to get tedious. Not to mention the fact that I was freezing half to death in that room. The place did pick up slightly as it got later and later, but there was no way you could call it a happening place.

My eyes would periodically wander across and look into Wing guy's room. He was making his way through that bottle of Jack Daniels like there was no tomorrow and getting drunker and drunker. When I looked at him again, something just didn't seem right. He was leaning forward and had a look on his face that signaled physical distress. I kept watching. Then suddenly he flung his head back, and then forward again, simultaneously projecting vomit all down his front, across the front of the bed, and on the floor. His big body wavered back and forth a couple of times and then he fell straight backwards and passed out drunk, covered in his own puke.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. So I decided I would walk down and mention it to the attendant, who was watching TV again when I went down. I told him what had happened and he just looked at me like it was my problem. Fine, I thought. If he doesn't care, I don't care, and went back to my room.

Before I knew it, there he was again, standing in my doorway. The Old Fart. He had changed into his towel but kept the stupid hat on. "I figured it out," he said to me, like he had just experienced the great enlightenment. "You want money." I rolled my eyes. "No. I don't," I replied. "Sure you do. Here, this should be enough," he said as he laid seven US dollars on my table.

"No," I told him sternly. He dropped his towel and started stroking his uncircumcised little cock. "Come on," he continued, "give me a little sample and maybe I'll give you a couple of extra bucks."

"Get out!" I half shouted. He seemed startled and, once again, genuinely confused. "Okay, maybe later," he muttered as he turned and left.

It was getting quite late and I still hadn't seen anyone who interested me. There were people coming in, but they were mostly older men, not my cup of tea. This decent-looking middle-aged man came by and stopped and looked in my room. "Want some company?" he asked nicely. "No thanks," I replied gently. Then he moved on the next room, which happened to be Wing Man. The room was dark and he stood there looking for a long time before wandering into his room. He pulled Wing Guy's towel down and started feeling him up in the dark. Then he stopped suddenly, probably because he encountered something wet, and turned away.

As he was exiting, I could see him raise his hand to his face to smell whatever was on his hand. He touched his hand to his nose and took a whiff. He left a big chunk of food matter hanging from his nose where he touched it. In a second, the color ran out of his face and he started the dry heaves. The same thing happens to me. Just the smell of it makes me want to toss my cookies. He stood there, gagging and heaving, until finally he exploded and threw up all over himself and the floor in the middle of the hallway.

Now I had another problem. Nobody could cruise my room or walk down the hall without stepping in puke. I had to get the attendant to clean it up, and fast if I was ever going to get laid. I started to get dressed (I wasn't going out there without shoes) when I saw him coming down the hallway full steam ahead. He was looking me directly in the eye and started to say something before I could tell him to watch out. Then, without warning, he stepped right in it and slipped and landed flat on his ass right in the middle of the pile. He looked up at me and smiled as if it were funny, totally not realizing what he had fallen in.

I suppose it wasn't very nice, but I was about to bust a gut laughing. He reached out his hand in a gesture asking for me to assist him in getting up. "No way, buddy," I thought to myself. I quickly reached up and shut the door to my room. A second later I heard him: "Holy fuck! Jesus! Disgusting!" he said to himself as he realized what it was he was sitting in. I could hardly stand it.

I waited until he was gone before going downstairs to get the attendant. "I'll have someone take care of it," he said to me, as if that was what he had to say to get rid of me. I toured around the place and finally realized that it was very late and those hot American men weren't ever coming. The attendant hadn't shown up to clean the hallway, so I decided to just shut the door and go to bed. I hardly slept a wink because of the bone-chilling cold, but at least the temperature kept down the smell.

In the morning, my "friend" came and knocked on my door. "Time to go," he chirped, all happy and shit. "Thank God," I muttered under my breath. All the way home in the car all I heard about was how he had sex with six different guys and how hot they were. He gave me explicit details of every act they performed.

As I listened to him I realized that I had to have been being punished for some horrible crime. I had descended into the pits of bathhouse hell with the flames licking at my heels. The only thing I could think that I had done wrong was to tell off that poor old man the night before. I had broken the bathhouse commandment "Thou shalt not be an asshole," and justice had been swift and definitive.

Author Profile:  Joseph Couture
Joseph Couture is a journalist based on London, Ontario.


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# Subject Author Date/Time (ET)
1130 Words of Wiisdom onthego 09/09/02 02:38 AM
1127 Bathhouse Payback eastlawhiteguy 08/30/02 06:13 PM

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