The Cellar

Part of the reason my recent trip to Toronto wasn’t an outright fuckfest is that I was traveling with a few other people—friends who were also there for Toronto Pride. My propensity to flirt with both sexes and pick up guys isn’t exactly unknown to them. When I would announce that I was going to take the evening to myself, it was a bit like watching an old VH-1 Pop-up Video bit in which over each of their would appear a little thought balloon with the word Slut! in the middle.

I’m not the kind of guy who throws his sexual conquests in the faces of others, however. (I just blog about them for thousands worldwide to read.) So even if I’m not as completely on the down-low as I’d like to believe, I’m also not the sort who stands at the dinner table and announces, “Well, chums, I beg your pardon, but I’ve got some boyhole to split.”

One of the friends I’ve mentioned before in here, whom I’ll call Matt, is a little more aware of my sexual adventures than the others. Early on in the vacation he asked if I’d take him with me to one of Toronto’s bathhouses. On our last night, I took him aside after dinner and said, “You know, if you want to do the baths still, tonight’s got to be the night. Are you in?”

He was. He wanted to do Steamworks, where I generally have a good time and thought that he would enjoy himself. After dinner and dessert, when we finally separated ourselves from our other two friends, he began to chicken out. “Steamworks is going to be filled with muscle guys who won’t want to pay attention to me,” he said. “Plus we’ll have to buy a membership. That adds up.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do The Cellar instead. It’s cheaper, and there’s no membership.”

“I don’t think I’ll like the Cellar,” he said.

“You liked the last time you were here.”

“I’ve never been there.”

I almost stopped in the street to stare. “You went to it twice,” I reminded him. “You went once by yourself, and then went back the next night with me because you liked it so much.”

“No I didn’t.”

I could have argued it with him, because I knew I was one hundred percent right, but I didn’t. Instead we opened the almost invisible black door on Wellesley (honestly, you’d never know it was there unless you were aiming for it—it’s like searching for Platform 9 3/4 for the train to Hogwarts) and clomped down to the basement, where the guy behind the cage asked Matt if he’d ever visited there before.

“No,” said Matt.

“Yes, he has,” I assured him.

The poor guy didn’t know who to believe, so he went through his whole spiel about the facilities. Then he buzzed us in.

“Oh,” said Matt, the moment we were through the door and standing in a dark hallway lined with lockers. “Now I remember.”

Doofus.

The night’s encounters can be summed up in roughly three acts.



Act I: The Free-for-All

After I’d removed my clothing and changed into some cheap flip-flops from my bag (Matt: “It’s like you came prepared or something!” Me: “Um, yes.”), I made a circuit around the bathhouse. The Cellar is known not for its amenities, exactly, but for the dimness of the lights within. Save for the showers, everything is dark. The rooms are murky pits where it’s hard to see anything more than vague and indefinite shapes. The hallways can be almost completely black. In the center of the facility is a small set of gloryhole booths in which it’s possible to slip into the darkness and seem little more than a shadow yourself. I noticed there were several guys watching the film in the movie theater, a few more in various rooms, sprawled on their beds, and several milling around just as I was.

I also noticed, after a few minutes, that I’d developed something of a trail of men behind me. I was like the Pied Piper of The Cellar, playing the skin flute and beckoning all the men within hearing to follow my path into the darkness. I paused in the darkest of the hallways, completely enveloped in the darkness, and leaned against the walls.

I didn’t have long to wait. I felt an invisible hand on my face, and a pair of lips on mine. Someone with a goatee and a shaved head was kissing me softly, and gently, and with a lot of passion. He moved slightly as someone else knelt down on the floor to remove my towel and take my dick in his mouth.

Within a few seconds I had more men crowding in on me. A few were handling my dick while the unseen cocksucker continued to service it; someone played with my hole. There was a mouth on one nipple, and then another mouth on the other. I was being attacked by hungry carnivores. I saw Matt turn the corner and see me at the center of it all, then adjust his towel and walk away.

Conceited as it sounds, the phenomenon of being beset upon in a bathhouse like this isn’t novel to me. It’s not because I’m particularly attractive or have the best body. I have no illusions of being a stud. It was simply because I was the fresh meat, and because I let myself be approachable. So many guys in the baths spend a lot of time stalking around, arms crossed, not doing anything. I tend to walk in and let possibilities happen. When the action starts, it cascades. Men cluster up and join in. All it takes is one person for all that to happen. I’m absolutely willing to be that person.

All during the free-for-all, guys were coming and going, joining in. Men took turns on my dick, but I was too given over to the pleasure of it all to keep track of how many, or who. The guy I was most into was the bald guy; eventually I pulled my dick out of some cocksucker’s mouth and knelt down on the ground to suck the man who’d been kissing me so passionately and well. He groaned with delight as he face-fucked me with his uncut dick. I stroked the sides of his balls and tickled his asshole until he came, long and hard, in my mouth. Then he pulled me up to my feet, shoved me against the wall, and plunged his tongue in my mouth, sharing the last traces of his own sperm with me.

Afterward, he did something unexpected. He turned me around, pressed me against the wall again, and covered my neck and shoulders with the lightest of kisses. Then he did the same to my chest, my chin, the front of my neck and shoulders, my cheeks, my forehead, and my nose. The little touches of his lips against my skin were so soft and sweet that I shivered in delight. It was ironic, I thought, that I’d visited one of the sleazier baths in Toronto simply for the pleasure of butterfly kisses on my skin. But it was the nicest moment of all the sex I had while I was there.



After that liberating experience, though, I had a frustrating encounter with Matt. I walked out of the dark hallway to find him putting on his clothes in the locker room. “Are you going?” I asked.

“There’s no reason for me to stay here.” He slammed his locker shut and tossed his shoes on the floor. “Not if you’re going to take all the guys.”

There wasn’t a lot I could really do to counter the pissy mood. I tried pointing out that the only reason I’d had ‘all the guys’ on me was because I’d been receptive to playing. I also pointed out that if he’d, oh, stood beside me instead of walking away in a huff, he could’ve shared in the bounty. In the end, though, he walked out somewhat angry at me, and I let him go. It’s not my job to babysit and handhold.



Act II: The Asian Bottom

I’d noticed the Asian bottom in his room when I’d passed earlier in the evening. He was short, and lean, and lightly muscular. His left arm was completely covered with a sleeve of tattoos, and hung over the side of the bed where he lay face down, pointing at the door. Even in the dark I could tell he was good looking. I paused in the opening of his room. He beckoned me in, and I removed my towel.

Almost instantly his mouth was on my dick. He sucked badly, and with too much teeth, but it wasn’t bad enough to make me pull out. Besides, it wasn’t his mouth I intended to stay in for very long. Within moments, he was on his knees, pointing his boy-like ass at my dick. I slid in.

“I love your big white dick in me,” he gasped with a little bit of an accent. I’d barely touched bottom, though, when suddenly his body began to quiver. Little droplets of cum sprayed against the wall as he shot without warning. “Fuck yes,” he said, immediately hopping off me and handing me my towel.

The total amount of time I was in him: maybe all of thirty seconds. At least he had fun.



Act III: The Man from Montreal

He could have been French, actually. All I knew is that he was a fucking hot little slab of manflesh covered in muscle, sporting a bald head and a tattoo shaped like a barcode imprinted at the back of his neck. Unlike everyone else in the facility, he’d shunned a towel and walked and lounged around completely naked, save for a metal cockring, a pair of heavy black workboots, and some thick brown socks poking out of their tops.

The Man from Montreal been part of the group play in the back hallway, and was probably the hottest guy in the entire bathhouse, but I hadn’t gotten a chance to get any one-on-one time with him until later in the evening. I saw him stare at me as I passed through the movie room on the way back from the showers; he followed me to the warren of gloryholes. Once I’d slipped into the shadows, he sank down to his knees and began sucking my dick.

He was one of the noisiest suckers I’ve ever encountered. Every time my knob reached the back of his throat, he’d gag and choke and sputter, spraying spit all over my pubes and nuts. When I reached down to play with his eraser-like nipples, he groaned and began beating furiously at his cock. And when I squeezed his nipples and simultaneously began to fuck his mouth, he was in heaven. “Harder!” he said, in a heavy French accent. I savaged his nips, squeezing them so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d burst, much less bruised. “Harder!”

He didn’t last long under the nipple torture. When he came, it was so violently that he fell against me and pushed me into the opposite partition, hard; the entire gloryhole booth structure shuddered from the impact. He remained on all fours for a moment, then struggled up to his feet. His sweaty arms clasped around my neck for the briefest of moments as he clung to me, his smooth head on my chest. Then he said, “Messy!” and vanished.

I thought it was to clean up. Then I realized he’d actually been thanking me, in French.

Even though I hadn’t shot the entire time I was at The Cellar, it was late enough that I decided to head back to my hotel. I’d put back on my polo shirt and shorts when the Man from Montreal joined me at his own locker, almost right next to mine. In his baggy athletic clothing he looked even more Frenchified than he had naked. The little pair of rectangular black glasses he stuck on his face gave the impression that I could find him eating croissants and reading French literary theory at some outdoor cafe, during the daylight hours.

He followed me up the stairs, out of The Cellar, and into the muggy Toronto summer night. At the Wellesley stop light, he stood beside me with his hands in his pocket, looking somewhat sheepish. It seemed we were both headed in the same direction, and I thought he was perhaps a little embarrassed to be seen with me in the street’s lights.

At the subway stop I paused when he did. We faced each other a little awkwardly for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it, shook his head, and smiled. I smiled back at him. “Thanks. And have a nice night,” I told him in benediction, before entering the station, with its rush of noise and air from the speeding train below.

Then I watched him turn, wave, and continue his walk down the street.