It's just after midnight.
In these early morning hours, a definitive chill is detectable throughout the spring air. As the rest of the city bustles with the activities of drunken debauchery, and rowdy, jubuliant celebrations, just a few mere streets away, resides a solitude that only comes with the absence of life and light. Located in an obscure section of town, and on the outskirts of the entertainment district stands a weather-stained, one-story brick structure. So non-descript and delapidated, that one could easily pass it by. Were it not for the frequent and inexplicable comings and goings of it's denizens. A complete contrast to the nature of its surroundings entirely.
Covertly, I enter the stainless steel doors, and am followed in by a gush of cool breeze. A sign, withered and yellow with age, simply reads, "Men Only". The only indicator, as to what I might encounter, in this decrepit, run-down establishment of ages past.
Behind the grimy front window of the admissions desk, sits an elderly man. Silver haired, with wrinkles etched inch deep onto his face, he appears as acient as the structure itself. No eye contact is made, as he issues me a towel, linen, and locker key. Before entering the main bunking area, I pause momentarily, to peer into the erie depths of the basement. Referring back to previously read rumors and speculations, I take special note: This where the infamous "Orgy Room" would have existed, many years ago. A clandestine meeting place, for the indiscriminate swapping of disease and skin. Long since boarded up, it's sordid tales and social secrets, will forever remain the stuff of gossip and legend. Only to be spoken about, in the hushed tones of inhebraited bar conversation. The names of the deceased, and the subsequent disease that killed them, but a fleeting footnote in the club's haunted history.
Beyond the entrance, lies an even more disheartening site to behold.
The communal bunk area, is a hodgepodge of strewn, lifeless bodies, and cracked leather cots. Lined row upon row, this is where the truly destitute reside. Slumbering in their underwear, and clutching what megar valuables they have left, their only source of bedding, is what is issued them at the door. A well-worn, bleached cotton blanket. For which they are very thankful, and make well use of, in the frigid winter evenings. A skid row ensemble. Decked out, in the rancid remnants of thrift store rags, and gaurdingly sleeping with one eye open. Meals consist of whatever their scant change will allow them from the club's snack bar. Which is usually potato chips, candy bars, or an assortment of other non-perishable items. Surely a feast fit for a popper. Not a king.
Secluded in the extreme bowls of the building, are the steams and showers. A voyeur's paradise, much of the covert cruising takes place here. The after effects can be observed at every glance, and in all areas of this glorified meat market. Spent condom wrappers litter the bathroom stalls, and the shadowy, recesses of the change room. Tiny soap bars, used as makeshift lubricant, are strewn along the upper tiers of the sauna. Left out to be found by innocent bystanders, they are a seedy testament to the club's true nature, and the gritty, underground subculture to which it plays host. The perpetual sanitizing by the staff, and the constant flow of water does nothing to scrub away the prevalent scent of semen. A prime reason one must be very observant of where they choose to walk and sit, in this testosterone-fueled fortress.
Soon the sun will rise. For some of the building's inhabitants, it will begin a new day in their lives.
For others, it will end one.
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