The Hatchet has disabled comments on our website. This article appeared in the Februissue of the Hatchet. I walked away gleeful and dodged glances, like I just got away with something corrupt and too fun for an average Tuesday evening. My friend later described the room to me as “the one with the sex swing” but in the darkness I couldn’t see it.Īs I pulled clothes back onto my sweaty body and left, I was struck by an entirely different sensory experience under the friendly 14th Street storefront lights than I had earlier. I didn’t feel threatened at all, but after a little more than an hour it was my time to leave. An 80s-porno looking man tried playing with my towel and I quickly exited, not wanting to find my fate if I had stayed with the group of lustful men. Inching away from some dark contraption in the middle, I thought I stepped on someone’s foot, only to turn and see three or four men just standing, waiting. Turning out of the steam room, I walked into a dark alcove ahead of me that was so dim I couldn’t see where the walls closed in. It quickly becomes an obscene amount of eyes on you, when committing to public sex acts.
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Patrons who just stepped in would turn their heads at the action and skid on the wet floor, distracted by the free entertainment. I watched the mustached guy I entered with and one other man get serviced on the first bench inside by a third man. At the time I thought, that’s rich.Īfter a brief exchange it was back to the steam room. The doors on the booths said only one occupant at a time. Walking around might lead you to a stranger beckoning you to come inside. This part of the building has multiple corridors – housing about 60 private booths, with different rates for the Crew rooms or larger Captain rooms.
I found some luck and was led back to the private rooms, past the urinals, where further into the hallway grainy old pornos play on small TVs. After five or six minutes ruminating in the steam, I began to wonder what the etiquette of this place is. I sat beside a person who looked closer to my age than the other men around us, but he eventually walked off. All body types were present, and no hierarchies were evident in the silence. I crossed paths with at least 35 different men, ranging from fresh meat in their mid-twenties to virile elderly men. Wading in mist for five minutes, I began to recognize the passing faces, with each go round their eyes narrowing and becoming more devilish. But for some, the space was just a place to relax and unwind. I headed to the steam room, where most of the cruising – the perusal of anonymous sex – went down. Bridging the sauna and steam room doors were a number of showers stalls, which was a relatively tame open space. The one sauna room could fit more than 10 people, and through the glass I saw a party developing. My eyes darted everywhere but the screen.
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Paintings of nude men line the TV room, which switched between the news and dramas.īut most could not watch TV.
Lube and condoms were in copious supply spread out around the space. Representatives from Whitman Walker, a D.C.-based health center specializing in LGBTQ health, were conducting optional HIV screenings.
The entrance and large entertainment room has lockers, chairs and a television. With the locker rental – where I could leave my clothes after I disrobed – and a one-time membership, my total was $18 because Tuesdays are half off.Īfterwards, I was handed a towel and gained access to the first floor, which has a tanning room and gym. On display were typical items you’d expect for sale, like the appropriately titled “ultra douche,” and poppers, a drug that can make you feel heady and relaxes your muscles during sex. There’s no more information given by the employees, but you catch on quickly. They value anonymity here, so to pay, you go into another small room with a different employee. through the small window to prove he was at least 18 years old. Upon entering the building, there is a tiny lobby housing only a shut door, a circle porthole and one mustached man in line, who gave me a cursory look after slipping his I.D. I arrived at about 7 p.m., just as the workday was closing out and bathhouse patrons were coming in.
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The frosted windows allow for discretion alongside real estate offices and cocktail bars. NW, Crew Club blends in with the commerce almost too inconspicuously for all the testosterone ready to flood out of the building. and a return to the sex-positive aspects of the gay community. To older gay residents, the bathhouse may be a reminder of the life left behind in a post-AIDS crisis D.C. Instead of scrolling through faceless photos on Grindr to find a hook-up, some gays opt for a steamy night out at D.C.’s scintillating bathhouse.Ī rite of passage for GW gays, or at the very least a seedy pipe dream circulated through the gay grapevine, Crew Club is D.C.’s only gay bathhouse and sauna.