Before I give up on the dark room, a lean, twink-looking figure silhouettes himself against the entry, his chin sharp and pointed, like he can make out just enough of me to be interested. I’mnot typically into guys my own age, but my balls need to shoot, so when the skinny guy merges with the darkness around me and his cold hands touch my warm chest, I go with it. We start making out. He tastes like mint – he’s got a chewy rolling around in his gob and I actively have to direct my tongue to avoid it as I probe his mouth. Gross.
‘Wanna get a cubicle?’ he asks, breaking away.
I tell him I do.
He leads me into the corridor, his back to me. He has scruffy brown hair and a tattoo spilling from his ribs onto his back – some lyrics in fine calligraphy I can’t fully make out as my eyes adjust, accompanied by a crown.
He finds a cubicle, leads me in and latches the door.
We drop our towels. His gaze falls on my boner and he gives a satisfied smirk, then roams north, across my pelt of belly hair, up to my face.
And we both recognise each other at the same time.
‘Holy shit!’ he cries. ‘Zeke – fucking – Calogero!’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say. ‘Charlie Roth.’
It’s not just seeing Charlie Roth for the first time in seven years that shocks me. It’s the first time we’re seeing each other naked. We were never lovers.
Only friends, until we weren’t.
‘Are you kidding me?’ Charlie says, gawking at my body. ‘Wow. What are the odds?’
‘Probably good odds, to be honest,’ I say, crossing my arms over my chest. ‘I come here a lot.’
‘Wild,’ Charlie says. ‘I almostnevercome here – only did cos I got ghosted by a selfish prick on Scruff and needed to get off.’
Charlie mirrors me by crossing his arms across his body. It’s an insanely redundant gesture of modesty given we’re both buck naked. Charlie’s penis is soft but plump – more of a shower than a grower. He doesn’t have a single pube, which always weirds meout and is why I usually avoid guys into manscaping. His balls are waxed and smaller than mine.
While I’ve been scoping out his body, he’s been checking me out, too, and neither of us has reached for our towel. My big veinycazzois hanging out. If this had happened seven years ago, we would have covered up immediately. We were too close as mates to ever hook up. But so much time has passed – without any words between us – that I don’t know what the rules are. The world of man-on-man sex is a lawless place: you can hate a guy, run into him in a sauna, screw each other’s brains out, then never acknowledge each other ever again.
I’m not saying it’s healthy, but it is what it is.
And I’m not saying I hate Charlie Roth. Anymore. Maybe I never did. Maybe we were just mad at each other and we let it get out of control.
Suffice it to say I have no clue how this interaction is meant to proceed.
Charlie barrels through my confusion. ‘Always figured you’d be cut, dude.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘Why?’
‘Dunno. Aren’t Italians always circumcised? Thought I saw that in a movie once.’
‘Dunno about other Italians, but I’m Sicilian,’ I say. ‘Either way, I’m uncut.’
‘I can see that, dude. Giant balls too. Good for you.’
I am weirdly proud of my nuts. They’re my best asset. Big, meaty, hairy nads that hang low and swing as I plough a guy. Charlie complimenting me feels nice, like a détente between Cold War superpowers, but him praising my nutsack, specifically, makes my skin crawl.
‘We’re not gonna fuck,’ I say.
Charlie snorts, his face creasing with laughter. I spot the familiar black industrial piercing at the top of his ear, but it’s nowaccompanied by an eyebrow piercing and a nose ring that weren’t there when I knew him.
‘Of course we’re not, you clown,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t see a thing in that dark room or I never woulda kissed ya. It’d be like fucking my own brother. So wrong.’
My shoulders relax. He called me his brother.
‘So … you’re not mad at me anymore?’ I ask, and it’s the most vulnerable thing I’ve done in this sauna, much more than standing naked in front of him.
