On Friday 26 August, a week after the evening I had with the married man, I went to my first gay sauna in London. Except that I didn’t go inside. Instead, I sat at a bus stop, on the other side of the road, for over an hour, watching who went in and out, trying to make up my mind if I should join them.
It was a very warm, balmy night. I’d initially planned on going to The Greenhouse sauna in Luton but then I got lazy after I’d had dinner and figured out I’d need to travel for an hour and a half just to get there.
I washed myself, douched, and stepped out for a walk – with half a mind to visit the Sailor’s Sauna in Limehouse, East London, later on.
I walked through Victoria Park, everything dark already, eavesdropping on the conversations of friends sitting at picnic tables, on the grass, their voices sounding drunk and stoned. On the other side of the park I entered Mile End Park and followed its canal south, heading towards Limehouse. There were plenty of people about, mostly couples and cyclists. Further inside the park, I checked out the area around the sports field, according to Squirt.org where all the cruising takes place, but I didn’t see any guys.
Finally, I reached the Sailor’s Sauna. The bus stop across the street was perfect to watch it – I could just hang about and pretend I was waiting for a bus. In the hour and a half I sat at that bus stop, only 6 guys went inside. They were all out of shape – four of them being in their 50s and two in their 30s. (One of the younger guys was a nervous Pakistani/Bangladeshi guy who snuck in, and the other was a tall, white bearded guy.) Nothing against bears, nervous guys (so was I, after all, sitting at that bus stop like an idiot) or older men (which I have a fetish for anyway) but none of these guys turned me on. Some seemed to have stumbled drunk out of a pub. And they mostly looked like married men. One guy was in there for no more than 10 minutes (it’s 17 pounds to go in.)
I bought a Redbull to try and stay awake, watched the sauna for a bit longer and then around midnight decided to head back home.
On the canal, on the south side of Mile End, I walked past a tall, good-looking guy with a shaved head, who smiled at me. I smiled back and after a few paces turned around to look at him. He had also turned around. I felt that familiar tremor: “Should I?” And so I decided to walk in his direction.
He had sat down on a stone ledge and one of his legs shook, maybe out of nervousness. We said hello, chit chatted about the night and how it was good to go for a walk. He grabbed his crotch and asked if I wanted to go elsewhere, and I replied that I did.
Being close to him, I realised he was much better looking then I first thought – he was actually gorgeous. He said his name was R. and he gave me a firm handshake. I lied to him (I don’t know why) and told him my name was James. He said he was a painter/plasterer and had lived in that area all his life. He couldn’t wait to get out and see the world – his dream was to go to Australia – but then he said with some resignation that only a lottery ticket could get him there.
R. was slim and strong. He wore sneakers, shorts and a t-shirt. Whenever we looked at each other as we talked, we smiled.
“Where should we go?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I laughed.
We walked into the sports field area of Mile End Park, past a gay guy drinking from a water fountain, who stopped what he was doing to watch us go by. Further down the path, we went behind some trees by the field and began to feel each other’s crotches. He unbuckled his shorts and opened my jeans. He was wearing white briefs and his cock was hard, lying to the side. It was a thick, beautiful 8-inch toy.
I leaned down and started sucking him. He held my head and fucked my face, shoving his cock all the way down my throat (thank god for my good gag reflexes.) Suddenly he stopped and started buttoning up.
“There’s someone here,” he said and we fixed ourselves and moved back to the main path. I saw a shadow standing nearby, between the trees, watching us. It was the guy from the water fountain.
He then suggested we go to the nearby Tower Hamlets cemetery. Again, he teased me if I already knew it, and I told him that I honestly only knew the front gates. “We’ll go in from the back, but you wouldn’t catch me in there by myself at night, no way,” he said.
“We can stay near the exit,” I suggested, “and leave quickly if we have to.”
He thought that was funny.
We talked some more as we walked to the cemetery. He let slip that he helped in the care of two children, but they weren’t his. I couldn’t tell if he was lying or not, if he was actually married. He seemed very straight. He asked if I was single, he asked about my partner, he complimented my gray hair, my age (“40 is a great age”, to which I said “yes, it is.”) I wish I had asked how old he was – I think he was in his late 20s, early 30s. He asked if I went to any gay clubs – Soho, Vauxhall – and I said I didn’t.
A woman walked out of the cemetery’s south entrance as we reached it – she looked like a crack addict. Away from the streets, in the darkness of the cemetery, the temperature suddenly dropped. There was nobody else around; we were all alone.
We went through the gates and found a spot behind a bench, underneath a large tree. He seemed so straight to me, I didn’t dare lean forward and kiss him. But he then surprised me by moving in for a kiss, licking my tongue, then brushing my stubble with his hands, as we unbuckled and jerked off together.
“Do you want me to blow you?” I asked.
“Yeah, suck me off.”
We took turns sucking each other, kissing and jerking off. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. He was incredibly hot and sweet. Finally, he shot his cum; I swallowed some of it and got my stubble all covered with his cream. He tasted really good. I then held on to his tight ass as I jerked off. He was impressed with the big load I shot on the grass (and he was even happier I didn’t hit his shoes.)
We walked back to Mile End Road together and he asked if I wanted to swap numbers. I said “sure.” I sent him a text saying “hey” and he confirmed receipt. He said he believed things happened for a reason, shook my hand and we said goodbye.
When I got home, I texted him: “It was good meeting you mate. If you ever want company on a walk, drop me a line! Enjoy the weekend.” I didn’t get a response.
He was the kind of Eastend lad that you might walk by and notice working in a house, coming out of a white van, and think to yourself that he’s quite good-looking, but that he’s for sure straight and you should probably look away. You’d never suspect he was interested in guys.
Thinking back on our conversation, I remembered the look of surprise on his face when I told him he was good-looking. He said he didn’t feel it. I stressed again that he was good-looking and he was taken aback by it. It made me think of how fragile the male ego is and how we guys so easily assume things about people when the truth is quite different. We also probably don’t realise that people’s perceptions of us are very different from how we feel inside.