Later, sitting in the lounge area - same men, same towels, but with smoking and less sex - I began doubting my choice of sexual venue. The episode spoiled whatever momentum my evening may have had. Whose poop was that? How did it get there? Should I go back and tell the guy I stepped in it? Did he know there was poop in his room? Was it his poop? Did he want me to step in it? Was it a poop trap?
As I negotiated the crusty terrain of the carpeted hallways, there occurred to me many questions. Lurching back and out of the room, I limped quickly in the direction of the wet area, walking on my heel, dirty toes splayed upwards. While I had hopes of more meaningful communication, my plan was cut short when I stepped forward and directly into the offending dung heap. I made the grim discovery while standing in the private room of another customer there, making small talk. Actually, more like a pile of poop, because it crept up between my toes for a horrific second before I realized what my bare feet had stumbled across. THE LAST TIME I went to the gay baths, some years ago, I stepped in poop.
