On Bathing - Dirty Water Dogs by Clancy Martin and Amie Barrodale
There’s a reason they have those dividers between urinals, these days.
There’s also a reason they now have windows into steam rooms.
Amie took the red-eye from Seattle; I was up at 4 to catch the 6 AM US Airways flight from Kansas City. We met at the baggage terminal at LaGuardia. I was expecting that we would go straight to our hotel and, well.
“Let’s go to Spa Castle,” Amie said. “It’s like five minutes from here.”
“That sounds like fun,” I said.
Amie ignores sarcasm so long as she’s told what she wants to hear. At Spa Castle, a five-story pink building in Queens that does indeed look like a castle—as conceived by a drunk Korean contractor on a very tight budget—there was a line of people, mostly women, waiting to get into the building.
“Let’s go to the hotel,” I said.
“We’re already here.”
The men are divided from the women. One more strike against Spa Castle, I thought. If I am going to have to spend my afternoon—first time I’ve seen my lover in ten days—at a spa, the least they could do is let us hang out together. Inside the men’s room, the signs are clearly displayed: You Must Be Naked To Enter The Spa (Korean characters below). Amie had signed me up for a scrub, and two large muscular handsome young Hispanic attendants addressed me: “You gotta strip down, man. There’s your locker. Take a shower. Then you get your scrub.”