All Rights reserved
By Zachary Zane
The fifteen-million-person city of Istanbul has culture, beauty, great food, nightlife, history, religion, and nature, but it doesn’t have LGBTQ+ rights, which became apparent when hundreds of police officers in riot gear shut down this year’s Pride.
That’s why I was surprised to learn that there was an unofficial, underground gay hammam (Turkish bath) in the city. I wasn’t exactly sure what a gay hammam entailed in Istanbul, but knew I had to go. Without telling him it was a queer bathhouse, I dragged my friend Luke along.
Hidden in plain sight, the hammam was right off a major street with a small, broken-down sign. We walked down a spiral staircase into a humid room that reeked of cigarettes. A lean forty-something-year-old man with ample chest hair and cum gutters approached us, wearing nothing more than a skimpy towel around his waist. Quickly, he began speaking Turkish, but upon seeing our lost puppy faces, he surmised, “Americans?”
“Yes. We called,” I replied.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he said, ushering us to a small, private room to get changed and throwing two towels at us before closing the door.
After getting butt ass naked and wrapping the towels around ourselves we went back downstairs. Luckily, Ahmet, our bathhouse Sherpa, was there. He gestured at us to follow and led us to a steamy dome room with marble slabs, where we were to sit. There were a dozen sinks, each with a dog water bowl in it. Luke and I weren’t sure what they were for.
“Fifteen minutes. Don’t move,” Ahmet said.
Two hirsute men sat in the sauna, draping their towels carelessly to their sides, revealing their large cocks and full bushes. (Turkish men, I quickly realized, do not manscape.) One of the men had big brown eyes, thick eyebrows, and Samsonite hairstyle. He stared at me as he casually stretched his flaccid cock. I made eye contact for longer than I should have. Luke noticed.
Despite his unfortunate straightness, Luke was used to my shenanigans, “Is this a gay hammam?” he demanded.
“What? No — I don’t think so?” I played dumb. “I’m just so confused.”
“How are you confused? The answer is ‘Yes’ or ‘No!’”
Before I could reply, we heard a crash. Samson had poured one of the dog bowls of water over himself and then dropped it.
“That’s what it’s for,” Luke surmised.
Some other men passed by the sauna, peered inside, and then left, leading me to believe that there might be another room with more action.
“I’m going to take a look around,” I told Luke.
The bathhouse was a labyrinth. One smaller version of our dome room had a curtained-off section. There were squatty potties and a shower outside. Nestled next to the shower, nearly out of sight, was a room with a closed door.
I opened it. A gust of steam hit me in the face. When my eyes adapted to the darkness, I saw one hairy man blowing another hairy man while two gentlemen watched and vigorously jerked off. I turned around, shutting the door behind me.
Well, that answers that question.
I returned to the main sauna just before Ahmet arrived, motioning for me to follow him and Luke to follow another man. Ahmet led me to a curtained room, where he directed me to lie face-up on a marble slab.
My wet towel clung loosely to my waist. He rearranged the towel, tucking it so it was only covering my genitals. Just that touch to my upper thigh, so close to my cock, made me pitch a very visible tent.
He ignored it and began pouring warm water over my body with doggy bowls, then used a warm, soapy cloth to lather me up.
My erection was rock hard at this point — so hard that it pushed the towel off.
He placed the towel back over my genitals. That didn’t stop my dick from throbbing, and with each pulse, knocking the towel off again. Eventually, Ahmet just removed the towel.
After the soapy massage, he gestured for me to get up and pointed me upstairs, where a very attractive man in his late twenties, approached me. His body was that of a muscled Instagram gay. He wore a gold chain around his neck, which gently rested on his lush chest hair. Long feminine eyelashes contrasted his masculine physique. I was in love.
He took me into a tiny room with a massage table and a door, which he kept ajar. Another indication this was no happy ending establishment — even though it really seemed like it was?
Once he began massaging me, my suspicions grew. He wasn’t good, clearly untrained. This is usually the biggest tell it is a happy ending parlor. But instead, he avoided my erect penis. It was torture. I lay there, dick hard and heavy, until, at long last, the massage ended.
I saw through another open door that Luke was still being massaged. With time to spare, I ventured back to the dark room to find relief.
This is an edited excerpt from Boyslut, a queer digital zine that publishes nonfiction erotica from across the globe founded by Zachary Zane.
Read more at zacharyzane.substack.com