Continued from The Bathhouse: Part 3
The water sounds fill the reception area of the bathhouse, echoing from the floor below where a hundred semi-nude bodies splash and drip sweat and wipe their brows. As my boyfriend checks us in, I feel nervous. I glance around, half expecting to see the man with the shaved head standing in a corner with dark eyes fixed on me. The results of this cursory investigation are unsatisfactory. He’s probably downstairs, I think, while simultaneously attempting to convince myself that I am not here for him, that I will have a perfectly transcendant experience either way. The Courtesan blows a kiss at me and winks, amused. I feel fidgety. I run my thumbs up and down my backpack straps.
“Something of value?” asks the man behind the desk, holding out an empty metal tray. I stare dumbly at him for a moment, then recall that in order to get a key to a locker I need to exchange one of my own possessions. Otherwise I would continue using the locker for the rest of my life to foster a colony of guinea pigs. Or something like that.
My mind blanks. I don’t have my phone or my wallet on me. I glance down at the watch on my wrist. It cost $10 at Wal-Mart, not exactly a high monetary value, but having purchased it in Hawaii for a sailing trip it has sentimental value. How tenderly the man with the shaved head had slipped it onto my wrist, how carefully he had tightened the strap, as if my skin might tear. My heart flutters at the memory, shooting tiny pink tendrils of anticipation into my nervous system like a miniature lightning strike. I quickly tear off the Velcro strap and drop it into the metal tray.
“Alright. You’re number one-fourteen,” he says, sliding the tray into a port on the wall to his right. He secures the tray behind a small door like a post office box then locks it with a key dangling from a plastic bungee, which he hands to me.
“You’re all set,” the man says. “Enjoy.” Something about his tone startles me - a subtle knowing lilt. My eyes snap to his of their own accord. He is wearing a half-smile and soft eyes, the practiced expression of a Customer Service Professional. Nonthreatening. Impeccably neutral. I’m sure he just means the whole out-of-body experience we’re all having here, I think, and return his smile.
“Thanks!” I say brightly, but as my boyfriend and I move away from the reception desk, an undercurrent of suspicion resurfaces. How many of the employees here know of my little indiscretion the other day? I imagine the man with the shaved head going around high-fiving everyone after our tryst, and heat floods my cheeks. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? I ask The Courtesan, panic rising. She shakes her head firmly, sending flecks of light from her golden earrings to dance on the surface of the pool. I think she’s right. He seemed more the type to revel quietly in his conquest than to celebrate openly, but he is still a stranger. I can’t trust him. Yet, I have already decided to do just that. Attempting to reconcile my rational and emotional minds is like trying to force two pieces of broken glass to mend by rubbing them against each other: pointless and a little painful. My boyfriend gives my arm a squeeze and I look up to find his crinkling eyes. I can’t help but smile back.
“You getting nervous?” he murmurs conspiratorially, drawing out the last word and nudging me with his elbow.
“Um, yes,” I reply under my breath.
“Hey,” he says seriously. “It doesn’t matter, right? We’re going to have a great time no matter what. Worst case, we have an extremely relaxing time.”
“I like those odds,” I reply, nodding. “You’re the best.” He grins and pecks me on the cheek.
“Meet you here after,” he says.
“Yep, see you in a few.”
We part ways to enter the gender-separated locker rooms. I push open the door to the women’s changing room and turn the corner. Two women are brushing their hair and chatting in front of the mirror. I nod to them and they smile back.
“Hi!” they chorus, before returning their attention to each other. I find my locker and open the door.
“I swear, every time I leave here I forget something,” says the shorter of the two, a petite woman with almond eyes and smooth skin. “Bathhouse brain!” They laugh. I can’t help smiling too. I sit on the bench in front of my locker to remove my shoes and pull off my shirt.
“Ohmygod I know,” says the other, a thick brunette with dark eyes and a straight Italian-looking nose. She has the build of a crossfitter. I remove my jeans, and bundle them with my shirt into my backpack. “I can’t make any other plans on bathhouse days, I am so out of it,” she continues. The other nods.
“You ever get any of the treatments?” asks the petite one. My ears perk up. I rummage through my backpack for nothing in particular.
“Nah, they’re so expensive,” replies the Italian. Accurate. “Plus, I dunno, I get weird vibes,” she adds in an apologetic tone. Yikes, I think, heat flooding my face and neck. The first woman nods in agreement.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” she says.
I groan inwardly. I must be the only woman alive who’s take on a “weird vibe” is, “this is hot.” The Courtesan raises an eyebrow. ”Besides you,” I amend, and she smiles in a pleased sort of way.
”Although I don’t know why you would take pride in that.” She looks at me patronizingly.
”And I don’t know why you wouldn’t. It’s literally the definition of kinky,” she retorts.
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