A Trip to the Banya

My friend Ed suggested one day recently that we go to the banya. Bath houses had always intrigued me since the days of living on East 10th St., a block from the Russian and Turkish bath house in the East Village, and so the chance to check out an old-school Russian banya was met with enthusiasm. After all, with as much as I've been drinking so far in 2007, I could use a good opportunity to sweat out some toxins.

Ed tells me to grab a towel and flip flops, as well as some basic toiletries. I ask him if I should bring a bathing suit, and he responds with open laughter. Nice. Should be an interesting day.

Ed's friend Guy also joins us. Guy is somewhat of a resident expert on the banya, and as he's someone who spent 20 years in a monastery before coming to Lviv, I'm immediately wondering why he's taken so much interest in anything not involving women, booze, or an online porn membership. He is carrying a bag full of tree branch bundles, and I write this off as more of his crazy god-stuff. Not that god is crazy, or that believing in an all-powerful being like him/her/my cock necessarily is, but carrying a bag full of kindling definitely borders on erratic behavior.

Once we arrive at the banya, I see some crusty old ladies out front selling the same bundles at 5 UAH each. For some reason, this gives me a little more faith in Guy's sanity, and yet a little less faith in my own. If Guy and these old ladies born in the late 1830s know something that I don't, then I seriously need to reassess the avenues I use to gain information, because clearly some things are slipping through the cracks.

Already self-conscious, we pay our way in, and Guy leads us up to the locker room. The door opens to reveal a long, slender room, with two long rows of poorly-kept dark blue lockers lining the walls. There are wooden benches running parallel, and a light gray floor in between. Sounds like any other locker room, doesn't it? Perhaps. Until you account for the overabundance of nude Ukrainian men.

Now, to this point in my life, I've seen probably about 20-30 cocks (including my own), and in most places outside of San Francisco, Chelsea, and my friend Brian's apartment, some would say thats about 19-29 too many. That figure quickly doubled in a matter of seconds.

In most locker rooms, you see men in various stages of undress, but the nice thing is, they are rarely naked for long. Somewhere between shedding their towel and replacing their underwear, you may happen around a corner and be met with an eyeful of rod, but in those extraordinary cases, you can usually erase such a damaging image with a decent lap dance at Scores after your acid bath. However, in this particular locker room, I am immediately met with about 20-30 wiggling weenies dancing beneath the overlapped waistlines of Ukrainian men ranging in age from their late 30s to early 200s. I've never been further from going gay in my life.

Upon this sight, Ed tells me the following:
"In the banya, there is only one rule. Don't make eye contact with anyone getting rooted from behind."

I don't necessarily fall for his joke, but regardless, I'm already concentrating my gaze around the room at roughly a meter above eye-level. I'm issued a key for a locker, and the disrobing begins. Now, as someone who is immensely comfortable with my sexuality, I'm nevertheless having a hard time ignoring the fact that I am undoubtedly the best looking man in the room. Granted, there are not many rooms of 30+ men in which I am able to say this, though this has never bothered me. On the contrary. At this particular moment, I am wishing this moment never took place. Or alternatively, this moment instead took place at a raving sex party in Brazil.

Quick aside: I have always said that if I'd ever go gay, it would be with myself. Ultimately, only I would ever be able to put up with me for the rest of our lives, and so if I were to ever meet me, I'd go so gay it would make Perez Hilton look embarrassingly hetero. And then we'd marry and have little baby Brians and drown any that lacked our searing wit and contempt for douchebags. In fact, meeting myself may be my only chance at true love.

Unfortunately, there were no smiling faces in this dreary room. Only sneering douchebags (I can only assume), probably upset that their abdomen has enveloped 30% of what used to be their already below-average cock. All that sala (raw pig fat) really has its consequences. And I know from experience, if yaknowhatimean.

I finally shed my layers and inhibitions and calmly hand my key back to the dungeonmaster. Carrying only a bar of soap and an ass pad (supplied by Guy, which is a questionable source at best), I march faux-confidently into the iniquitous nether regions of Ukraine's bastion of not-exactly-gayness. But a little-gayness will no doubt be present.

What I am met with is an orgy of prancing hairballs with disproportionate dangling light switches. There is no direction I can turn to that doesn't contain an eyeful of penis. I pause, but only enough to take a deep breath and plunge forward.

Have you noticed the use of imagery in this passage is almost entirely duplicitous? You can make an innuendo out of almost any sentence I've written. Play along at home! Or alternatively, don't.

I head towards the steam room, which is a tri-level wooden wet sauna (as opposed to dry - big difference), with the steam so thick, I can barely see a meter in front of me. This is definitely not a place where I would want to attempt the arms-outstretched-feeling technique of getting around. Lord knows what I'd wind up with a handful of. Probably boyfriend.

In any case, Guy hands me a wad of tree and I finally have the courage to ask what it's for. Apparently, the venik is meant to be lightly beaten on the body, by either yourself or a partner (the use of the word "partner" in this environment makes me more than a little squeamish). It is used to promote blood circulation, cleanse the skin (and hair) and release pleasant smells to aid your respiratory system. They are either of birch or oak, and I learn that mine is birch. Apparently, since my skin is normal (as opposed to dry or oily), birch is perfect for me. I'm touched that Guy would be so keen as to know my skin type ahead of time. Creeeeeeeeepy.......

The steam room is waaay hotter than any sauna I've ever been in. I'm sure the embers and coals were probably about the same temperature that I'm typically used to, but with all that exposed rod giving off heat as well, my unscientific best guestimate put the temperature at somewhere around 700 degrees Celsius hotter than your everyday average cockless sauna.

After about five minutes, my pores are exploding with as-yet unprocessed alcohol, and consequently, I am giving absolutely no thought to the men around me. Conversation is minimal, as even breathing is rather difficult, to say nothing of the energy it would take to actually lift my head. Ten minutes after that, and I am dragging my weary (yet still virgin) ass out of there completely spent. I leave for two reasons: A) I am unable to tolerate any more heat and B) I am physically incapable of fending off any frisky Ukrainians.

The next step is to wait a minute or two, and then dunk yourself in the ice pool. I wrote earlier how Jones and I had tried out the Turkish baths in Budapest, and how disappointing they were. The cold pools there were akin to a chilly shower, and the hot springs were not much more than your average shower on a cold day. Here at the banya, however, the ice pool is F.U.C.K.-I.N.G. C.O.L.D.!!!!! I would say that if people weren't continually dipping in and out of there, that the water would freeze solid in under an hour. It must have been at least 10% freon. And 80% river water from Pluto.

So, I enter the pool. Never in my life have I felt anything quite like the rapid retreat of my testicles into my greater abdomen. In under one second, I get the sensation that I may never have children, coupled with the much more pressing concern that I may never again experience an orgasm. It strikes me as odd that I'd be concerned with orgasms while in a pool of naked men, but I dismiss it as ball-chilling hysteria.

Frantically massaging the place my nuts used to be (also a curious action to engage in here), I get my first honest chance to peer around the room. Lining two walls are shower stalls, with soapy men lathering every crack and crevice. Not much unlike a locker room, and at this point, I'm becoming more comfortable with the sight of cock everywhere. Until, that is, I take note of the massage tables. YIKES.

There are four massage tables along the wall nearest the entrance (thus why I missed them on the way in), where naked men are on the receiving end of rather rigorous massages by... other naked men. The "masseuses" (aka fluffers) can only have their ages determined through the use of carbon dating. Their old withered hands are rubbing any and everywhere there may be a muscle, or at least where there is something that is commonly mistaken for one.

My question: why do THESE guys have to be naked??? No one has given me a satisfactory answer to this question as yet. Double YIKES.

At this point, I see Guy exiting the wet sauna heading to the ice pool. He's at about 9/9:30 with excitement, and for the first time, I think I understood how tough it must have been to live in a monastery for 20 years. Merely the sight of skin probably gets his roger up. This also explains why he's so knowledgeable about the banya in the first place. Now I'm officially uncomfortable.

However, knowing that the ice pool will cure his "problem" lickety-split, I rest easy. The ice pool by now is a calming reprieve from the heat of the sauna, and if you're able to ignore how many sweaty guys have dropped in and out of there, it's actually quite refreshing. Needless to say, a humble man the ice pool makes.

I repeat the procedure several times (hot/cold/hot/cold), giving my gonads time to recover each time the ice pool sent them packing for my lower intestine. Jesus, is that where they go?? Who knows? Who cares? Please come back!!!!

And let me say that the venik beating is indeed a powerful piece of the equation. With every whip to my back/thigh/chest/everywhere but my terrified genitals, I could feel a hot rush of blood to the surface, and a strange energy boost. Sort of like a Red Bull with the life cycle of a nitrous-oxide hit.

Once I call it quits, I walk back into the locker room with the confident stroll I wish I'd had earlier. Not because I'd conquered the banya, but more because with my genitals shrunken to a size that would make a Ken doll blush, I knew beyond any doubt that there was nothing sexual about the place whatsoever. Not that I ever thought there was, but with that much cock around, sometimes you just can't be sure.

Later that night, I was completely spent. The banya absolutely wipes you out for the rest of the day. It's a great workout for your heart, as I felt like I ran about 10 miles. Away from a starving cheetah.

By the way, I vehemently promise there will be a LOT less cock talk (does that rhyme?) in the next entry. Given the subject matter, I don't feel compelled to apologize, but I do feel compelled to download some porn. Lesbian porn.