My friend Calvin gave me the moniker “Bathhouse Betty” mocking the number of times I have visited my local bathhouse. We actually had a huge falling out once as he described in great detail the statue that should be erected in the lobby with me wearing only boxer briefs, tube socks, and a headband, bent over on all fours positioned in such a way that all of the patrons would have to mount me in order to gain entryway to the rest of the facilities. At the time, I took grave offense to the whole ordeal considering the fact I had not patronized the joint in years at that point and even if I did he would still hands-down win the “number of men slept with” contest so I was just appalled by the whole slut-shaming concept.
Fast forward a couple of years, Calvin has since passed away, and my sexuality has been shuffled to the back of my consciousness while I dealt with some real-life issues that all funneled down to my personal financial affairs that have left me teetering very close to complete and utter oblivion. I’m happy to report that while I’m not where I want to be, through hard work, diligence and prayer; pressure has returned to that cabin. And with that, I suddenly look around and find myself with an almost vampiric hunger for human companionship. My last relationship infiltrated all my systems like a cancer and for years now I have been going through spiritual chemotherapy trying to kill all of that negative energy from my heart logic, from my head logic, from my spiritual reasoning, from my sexual prowess; that little afroed psychopath got all up in me and it’s taken this long to clean him out of my blood. During all that time, I would reason that only a “masochist” would put themselves out there like that again. Nowadays, I think it would be more of an “adventurer” who would. Though I am sure there is some overlap between the two.
My last relationship infiltrated all my systems like a cancer and for years now I have been going through spiritual chemotherapy trying to kill all of that negative energy
So Bathhouse Betty made a return this year, touring all of Los Angeles’ hot spots. Older, pudgier, arthritic, but none the worse for wear, I have squeezed my size 7XL overalls into every bathhouse, glory hole, sexy party and porn shop that had a big enough bed, ledge or chair that wouldn’t break under my weight. I remember telling my friend Lei that, during the course of this year, I made the realization that I’m a bottom to wit he spit out his tea and choked out, “You just figured this out NOW?” I rolled my eyes and replied, “This is why I don’t like to talk about it. Faggots get all sassy and are delighted at the thought that someone is as big of a sissy as they are.” There is a whole other conversation that needs to be had regarding Top/Bottom politics but needless to say, I am the “Bottom Whisper.” No matter what I do, and I assume it has something to do with my size, my beard and my voice, I tend to attract all bottoms within a twenty-five-mile radius. It might have something to do with pheromones like, I think my spleen produces a substance that engorges every “Mangina” within my vicinity. Which is cool with me. And I have partaken in many a "Top" activity, but Papa needs some D thrown back at him sometimes. Engorge my “Beargina” if you will, it needs some lovin’ too.
Now tonight, with a surplus of funds that were hard-earned from my many cabin pressure sustaining jobs, I decided to make one last end of the year tour of the bathhouse. My last couple of ventures were nothing short of spiritual movements. If there were a theme song for this particular aspect of my story, it would be Erykah Badu’s “Kiss Me On My Neck.” I need somebody to walk up behind me and kiss me on my neck. Breathe on my neck. I want somebody to walk up behind me and kiss me on my neck. Breathe on my neck. IT’S BEEN SUCH A LONG TIME, I FORGOT THAT I WAS FINE. SO KISS ME ON MY NECK. BREATHE. FUCKING BREATHE. NIGGA. ON MY NECK. GODDAMN, THAT SHIT FEEL GOOD!
But I digress.
Still suffering from a sense of Homeless Adjacent PTSD, I had a close watch on the buttload of money I recently acquired. I had a feeling the night itself was going to be a bit expensive, but I was just going to keep a very watchful eye on my expenditures. I easily imagined myself sliding from bathhouse to bar to Vegas to hotel and back to oblivion. The soundtrack to that would be “Nowadays” from the Chicago soundtrack. There’s men everywhere. Jazz everywhere. Booze Everywhere. Life everywhere. Joy everywhere, nowadays. Then I wake up under a vomit and pissed stained blanket on Skid Row.
But I digress.
FIRST STOP: CVS FOR SOME ESSENTIALS
I wanted to go to Pleasure Chest, but it seemed so far away so I decided the local CVS would be fine. My condom collection was getting a little crunchy, so I decided to pick up some fresh ones and some off-brand lube. I decided to pick up some Red Bull too just for a quick pick me up. I was so astounded by the price that I took a picture of the receipt and posted it on my social media profiles with the caption, “I would almost think it’s cheaper to get an STD but I have close friends with STDs so I guess I’ll just pay this exorbitant amount of money.” To wit friends who are a part of HIV/AIDS Advocacy Organizations got themselves in a tizzy around the idea of me actually paying for condoms when they give them out like candy at the clinic and urged my friends to come in and get tested. Honey, they’ve had the butt flu for a really long time, they’ve got it covered. And if I didn’t have time to go to Pleasure Chest, I didn’t have time to go to the clinic, and aren’t you happy that I made the decision to actually just go ahead and pay for condoms and not just raw dog it? Thank you very much. Then other people actually zoomed in on the receipt to see that I purchased Extra Large Magnum condoms and were duly impressed by my illusionary monster horse cock. I’m not saying that I don’t have a monster horse cock, but what I am saying is that… I’m... gay… so… there’s ANOTHER dude involved who might need an Extra Large Magnum condom. But by all means, feel free to spread THAT rumor.
TOTAL COST: $39
NEXT STOP: THE BATHHOUSE
Fun fact. Los Angeles’ premier bathhouse is located right on the edge of skid row. To avoid bumping into alter-Universe Breeze waking up from under his vomit and piss stained blanket scoring some crack, I decided to take the 5 freeway to the 10 which avoids the w