‘Saunas? Who actually uses them anymore?’ I hear you sarkily remark before even reading on. I agree. And although back in the day they were good for sexual relief with a mildly attractive man that you had to wait around six hours for, before then having seedy intercourse on what can only be described as a baby changing mat – I forgot how much FUN they can actually be! Mincing through the decrepit and desperate like a youthful ball of pert sunshine. Making Herve Lerger dresses out of towels while we mocked the dregs of gay society – who looked like they were melting with the condensation in the steam room.
Back in the day, it wasn’t even about having sex – it was about having fun. Whether that meant smoking Crystal Meth and then getting spanked until you oinked like a dirty pig or putting on a head dress made from a hand towel and duty wining til you saw spots, was up to you. Nowadays, there’s so much judgement. I’m like “Sister, hold up. You’re up in the sauna like everybody else in here – so why are you cutting your eye at me because I wanna turn my towel into a high-waisted pencil skirt and get so high that I’m chewing my scousebrow. If I don’t care what I look like – you definitely shouldn’t”. PREACH. When you start taking yourself seriously in a venue when there’s more STI’s walking around than there are people – that’s when you know you’ve got a stick up your arse.
But the games are the best – sitting provocatively in our loin cloths with the cubicle door open, puffing away like Edie & Pats, bumping like bitches and saying the names of the famous celebrity the voyeurs that walk by most look like. Strangely, there were a lot of Boris Johnson’s, Sadam Hussein’s and one Lucy Lui. If you don’t play games, it’s hard to come to terms that you’ve actually lowered yourself to walk into a joint where Bareback Boys and the BBC News are played on aligned TV screens.
I’m ashamed to say I went recently, and I’ll probably never go again – but there is no denying that something about the heat in that place just gets you HIGH! When supported by drugs of course, cause you know this bitch weren’t tripping off air. So you can go to a sauna nowadays but the chances of reliving the fun we used to have are slimmer that Nicks legs in that bandage dress he made out of tissue roll that one time. Don’t get me wrong, we still had jokes – primarily thanks to Melting Grim festering away in the corner. I mean, you could at least try and look like you’re not dying.
And while most of the men looked like they’d been sitting in the steam room since I was last there four years ago with more wrinkles on their face than there was on my ball bag, they weren’t all sweating saggy slabs of meat. I met a cute Irish guy that worked in the Courts.
“What like the tennis courts?” Yes, I was totally blonde.
“Erm… No… Like the Courts of Law”
And something tells me, she weren’t supposed to be there! He was probably married with a wife and kids.
Still, you know you’re giving the blow job of your life when he can’t even hold it in an extra two seconds to give you a facial and just comes on the back of your neck. BIBLE.
“You did NOT just get that in my hair right?!”
I haven’t seen someone quiver at the thought of a scolding since my friends boyfriend tried to go ‘sexy’ chav on me. Cut to me sitting in the jacuzzi with spunk dangling from my fringe, wondering why people won’t sit next to me. It’s ’cause you’re too fabulous girl – I’d be telling myself.
So, they may not be what they used be – but if you still decide to frequent, my only advice is to beware the Covent Garden one – those perverts are DRY BITCHES. If you expect to see a ‘butch on the streets, bitch in the sheets’ body builder salontro’ing through corridors like Tyra Banks with a polyblend Rara skirt – YOU can go back to Vauxhall. They don’t even take the tamer drugs. So they’re actually here without intoxication? Yep. How suicidally gross. So if you’re longing for a dream sauna where you don’t have to have sex, the men were at least average and Meat Heads get so high they go from Adonis to Ariadne by turning their draping towel into a micro mini – dream on.
And, on a side note – you know you’ve been watching too much American junk when your strutting through the sauna labyrinth, diet coke in one hand, malboro lights in the other -
“Hey Girl -
Excuse me girl-
Sorry bitch, can you move-
Love the flannel weave bitch-
That’s how you do it bitch” *files nails.