To The Men Not Cruising In This Here Steam Room

Hello, men of Cobble Hill!

My name is Wade, and I write on behalf of the entire community of deviants who cruise the steam room here at our neighborhood New York Sports Club. We are a cohort of proud perverts. We bear boners! We wield wood! We publicly play with our peters! We are a supportive, fun-loving gang of guys getting each other off in the gym steam room. Hi!

We would like to facilitate open communication about our presence and actions. We find it necessary to do so following a tattling incident that spooked Steve and Solomon pretty well. We would like to establish our needs and expectations before another non-cruiser finds himself running for a manager after encountering a romp.

YES, what we do is “an offense punishable by contract termination,” but NO, the gym staff does not actually care. They know what we’re up to. Marlon doesn’t even bother to hit the gym floor for appearances anymore. He’s in and out in 40 minutes, leaving with a face red as Sedona shale. In fact, most other gym members know about our renegade escapades, but they respect us. They considerately leave us to our accommodations. We ask this of you, dear member, as well.

Our actions may seem lewd (to a prude!), but this is a lifestyle for us. We flock to the SR for relief from work, from arthritic knees, from wives and/or children. It is our home haunt; our secret sanctuary. Our community is non-judgemental and values discretion. Honestly, we don’t even really talk to each other at all, save for the occasional “somebody’s here” or “I’m gonna nut!” Our personal expression truly lies between mammalian grunts and rendered words.

But for whatever selfish reason, you come in and halt our hooplah. Your very presence upends our orgies. Your disengagement flushes us from our home, like a policeman intimidates thriving young dancers from a subway car. You debase us with sanctimonious slander. Shamefully, you invade our space, rendering the SR uncomfortable and unsafe to the hornballs with the dicks out.

We respectfully decline to apologize for our sexuality. Perhaps you’ve casually mistaken this New York Sports Club to be so cosmopolitan as a Crunch Fitness or Equinox. Sorry, men—if you’re looking for a room absent of pubes and proteins, you’re in the wrong spot. It will cost more than $30 a month for the gluttonous luxury of a clean steam room. As Evan says, it’s either splurge or splooge!

So to the men not cruising at this steam room: please stay out. You’ve scared away Patrick indefinitely and triggered Noam’s PTSD from his American Idol audition. You’ve done quite enough damage to our community and our safe space already. The Cobble Hill NYSC steam room is the only place where we can indulge—because I would never invite these creeps to my home.

The Men Cruising in This Here Steam Room
“Six-Inch” Steve, “Seven-Inch” Solomon, “Mushroom Head” Marlon, “Eight-Inch” Evan, “Piebald” Patrick, “Nine-Inch” Noam, and Wade