Tuesday 15 September 2015

Erotic Flash Fiction: A gay sauna in London (pt 1)

The techno remix of Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You" blaring out of the cheap tiny speaker above my locker was a not a good omen for a night at the sauna. As it turned out, the locker room was empty, the showers were empty, the steam room was empty. And the Jacuzzi was empty too. I splashed in, nevertheless, and sat on my own. Tired and stressed, I welcomed the bubbles in the whirlpool. Soon I was joined by an "older" gentleman - though probably younger than me - whom I found unambiguously unattractive. To my relief, he sat at a distance from me. We ignored each other. 

Another man joined us in a moment. He was younger, slightly hairy, with a fashionably beard.  I found this one more attractive, especially when he  took off his towel to enter the water. But I was dismayed when, with no hesitation, the younger man sat as close as he could to the older gentleman, without even looking at me. The men’s face expressions clearly indicated that something was happening under the bubbles. Something that was making the older gentleman uncomfortable; so uncomfortable, in fact, that he left the Jacuzzi almost immediately. The younger gentleman kept ignoring me.  To express my disapproval, I stampeded out of the Jacuzzi. 

On my way to the dry sauna, I bumped into the third  customer of the night, an exotic creature I would have never expected to find at this establishment. Long black hair and high heels, stockings, black shiny knickers and a feathery bolero falling over the pale flat chest, she batted her long eyelids seductively at me with a shy tilt of the head as she walked past. 

Up and down the corridor to the dry sauna, marched an athletic man in red Speedos. He stopped opposite the facility and looked through the little square window on the door. The corridor was dark and the light coming from inside the sauna made it look as though he had the face of a scary monster, grotesque and distorted. Or was he wearing something over his head? As he stepped back and my eyes got accustomed to the poor lighting, it became obvious that he was wearing a Mexican wrestler's mask. Red. Matching his Speedos. He approached me, stared at me and asked mysteriously: 

'Is that Turkish?' 

I shrugged. 

'Or Swedish?'  

I made a mental note: it was early October. April 1st was long past and we were more than three weeks away from Halloween. 

'Or is it a Finnish sauna?' he continued. 

He was serious. I shrugged again and entered the sauna. Luckily, he didn't follow.

Monday 14 September 2015

Erotic Flash Fiction: September in Chicago IL

Chicago IL, September 1995:

What Didier heard the young super-model – Cindy Crawford? Elle Macpherson? – say on TV, while he was changing in his hotel room, puzzled by the legal jargon in the ominous police notice in his pocket, shattered but safe: “In Europe everybody is naked! On the seaside in Italy and Spain. In France! People just don’t bother with swimming costumes. They’re all nude! Everywhere!”

What the blond police officer shouted, an hour earlier, inside the constricted lift, as Didier and all the others queued in our way out of the station house, causing the scraggy inmate in front of Didier to chuckle with knowing approval:  “Mind who’s behind you. Watch your asshole! It’s tight in here.”

What Didier thought the Puerto Rican police officer had said while he was taking his finger prints, joking in Spanglish about the beaches, the ‘playas’, ‘les plages’:  “The bitches! You like the bitches in France?”

What Didier thought to himself as he stood unable to pee into a toilet bowl in full view of the dodgy looking inmate in the second cell he was put at the police station:  “This rough guy is probably thinking I am gay.”

What his mixed-race companion inside the first police cell said after Didier explained to him why he was there: “For that kind of thing you go to San Francisco, buddie! You don’t do that here in Chicago!”

What the fat police officer handcuffing him in Grant Park said as he found a copy of Burroughs’ “The Naked Lunch” in Didier’s belongings:  “Just because the book says ‘naked’, you gotta get naked?”

What Didier thought earlier in the day when he saw the huge police car driving across the lawn, flashing lights on and sirens at full volume, speeding to reach him at the park spot where he was lying naked, face down, reading, in a sunny afternoon: This is just like a Hollywood movie!”