I left the bar, hoping to find a lean twink, but instead entered a dark maze of long hallways leading to more doors-one of them was open, revealing a fat hairy dude lying on a bed jacking off to porn that sounded like Tim Allen screaming at his kids on Home Improvement. I passed a man who could have been his clone in the bar that was playing VH1 Classic on a plasma TV, but he looked past my male gaze to assign his male gaze to someone else’s bum. I ran downstairs in nothing but a towel and flip-flops to search for his equivalent. A gorgeous jock putting on a wifebeater caught my attention-as did the drop of semen resting above his lip. I looked at the dozen naked men in front of orange lockers. I had entered a reality similar to the gay pornos I watched as a teen-men gathered here to have sex with other men they didn’t even know-and I felt my nervousness evaporate. Strangers looking for cocks to suck surrounded me. While the twink sang “How Deep is Your Love” and sprayed disinfectant over any surface he could find, I looked around the room at grown men removing their suits and young guys slipping out of their sweaty boxers. He presented me with flip-flops and led me into a locker room blasting the Bee Gees. Once I handed over the paperwork, an Asian twink in a tank top approached me from across the lobby. The club returns the card to the patron when he leaves. Each member receives a card and must turn in the card upon entrance. The contract stipulated that to enter any Roman gay club, men must pay a membership fee and agree to keep the identities of the patrons a secret. The website said the club only cost 13 euros, but I handed him cash, anyway in return, he gave me a pile of paper thicker than the documents I had presented to enter Italy. He looked at Tarzan as if I had said I were Amanda Knox visiting Rome to murder a few sodomites. Inside, I joined the line behind businessmen in suits carrying backpacks-the postwork closet-case crowd was just arriving, I guess-and examined the portrait behind the receptionist of two gay men jerking each other off in an empty disco, until the receptionist shouted at me in Italian. A Tarzan look-alike wearing nothing but a white towel appeared and gave me a once-over-to see if I was hot enough, maybe?-then opened the front door. Luckily, the sex club, as well as the Vatican-owned apartments, were located in Salustiano, a nice (read: bourgie) area that didn’t seem like it would hold any insane gays.Īfter a few minutes of procrastination, I swallowed my fear and buzzed the Multiclub’s entrance. We ran out of the building after 20 minutes because a guy claiming to be Gloria Estefan’s “background dancer” shoved Diva D, naked, into a locker. The last time I had been in a bathhouse was my senior year of high school, when my friend Diva D and I went to one in Miami.
While women are guilty of avoiding things, including sex, because of their weight, men, according to Cox, will still want to have sex no matter how self-conscious they are about their body.Naturally, when I visited Rome recently, the Multiclub was on my sightseeing list, though I was a little nervous. How we view our bodies takes a huge toll in how we live our lives, even in regards to sex. We feel far more comfortable with flab because it's less threatening." A he-man's discipline highlights our lack of it, making us feel even more acutely self-conscious of our own body flaws than usual. Says Cox, "Seventy-four percent of women in the survey said they'd feel self-conscious taking their clothes off in front of a perfectly toned man.
I beg to differ, but as one without any schooling in the way of being a sexpert, I'll keep my thoughts on how women might just prefer humor and substance, as opposed to chiseled abs, to myself. not so perfect? According to sexpert Tracey Cox, women are scared that they can't live up to the perfect abs of a perfect man, so we go for the chubby guys instead. But why is this the case? Why is it that when it comes to the real world, the one we want to be with is, well.