Sauna Talks
In spite of all the time I’ve spent in Women’s Studies classrooms, my knowledge of “Oh, this probably isn’t a space where queer people are welcome” sometimes falls short. In my attempts to be better to myself, I’ve started going to the gym: swimming regularly, falling into a morning stretching routine, and sitting in the sauna. That last one has been a grand time. No sarcasm - it’s been really pretty great. Though I identify as genderqueer, I normally fall into the realm of “artsy-looking stoner gay boy with an aristocratic face.” Imagine that as best you can?When I slack on the eyebrow grooming and lose the sing-songy vocal inflections I can bear some form of straight masculinity, which I have employed in the heteronormative temple that is the gym. I don’t even know if I totally straight pass. I probably don’t, but I’ve managed to calmly engage in conversation with sweaty straight boys in their underwear and it has actually been enjoyable. Who would have thought?
There’s another element in this whole sauna experience: an older man I’ll call H to preserve a level of confidentiality. I’d guess H is in his late sixties to early seventies. Multiple days a week he’s at the gym’s sauna for, I would guess, hour and a half sessions at a time. I happened upon him after one of my swims, and he struck up a conversation. I was surprised. Given that it was my first time at the sauna, I didn’t know the mores of that space, so I went in there planning to just be quiet and eat my protein snack. Why would any nearly naked straight guy want to shoot the shit drenched in sweat? Startling me, H asked me about my major, my post-graduation plans, and my life in general. It was really a nice time, if a little jarring. H is a pleasant guy.
H is also very, very queer. Ostensibly queer, at least to me. I was lucky to be able to speak to him initially one-on-one, queer-on-queer, without any straight boys in the sauna. I asked him, rather rudely and with ageist pretensions, “So this is what you do? You just go to the sauna and talk to the young guys who come in?” I forget his complicated response but it reduced down to “Yes.” That is what he does.
We launched into topics of his life. We didn’t talk much about him, but he very somberly admitted that he spent his career in law. I got the impression that law was more of a breadwinning career than a vocational career, but I could be wrong on that one. Whether or not he still practices is beyond me, but he also said that he was affiliated with the University for some time. His eyes opened widely and brightly – almost like marbles – at many moments when we spoke about my life and interests. Because I feel so embittered about my major, a tad fatalistic about my future, and otherwise critical of what’s around me, he remarked that I was “remarkably cynical for my age.” I took it as a compliment, frankly.
I left that first conversation with H feeling jilted – like I was an anomaly in his sauna equation. I imagine I was; straight boys probably don’t provide conversations like the one we had. We discussed racial and gender politics, messed up academic policies of the University, my emerging drag artistry… a lot of stuff. Continuing to go to the sauna, I learned more and more about what H does. Soon enough, I wasn’t the only person in the wooden hot box with him. Once other guys were with us, I learned H’s archetypal conversation. I learned what he’s used to and what makes his eyes sit calmly within his sockets.
H starts his conversations in basically the same fashion each time. He simply asks the names of who’s in the sauna. Once they reply, he asks what their majors are and the conversation naturally ensues. The sauna is beyond homoerotic; out of the two ledges in there, everyone sits on the upper to avoid any suggestion that they’re looking at someone else’s crotch. Everyone’s looking at everyone’s crotch! It’s a crotch fest! Crotchety central! In fact, no one would dare sit on the lower ledge except for H, who simply kept talking without giving a damn. His speech was almost a harangue – a flowery, grandiloquent string of imagery. He would say things like, “oh, your words burn like molten wax!” in reply to things these fraternity brother straight boys would say. That was one thing that stuck out in my mind, but his vernacular was always so… glittery. It was not at all heteromasculine, but because he was old, bright, and awkward, no one pointed out the blatant sexual deviance evident within his personality. I thought to myself, “Do these boys ever engage in such poetic conversation outside of this space? Shit.” No one ever dared to breathe a mention of homosexuality in what was clearly a very homoerotic space. It created some hilarious tension.
I soon delighted in going to the sauna to observe the group discussions. Every single straight boy who left that wooden box of homoerotic dry heat seemed to legitimately enjoy H’s company and conversation. I’m also certain they attributed H to be gay and found his mannerisms just the slightest bit off. Their reactions were priceless, particularly those from boys who had just met H. One guy was a corn-fed, Louisiana boy who told us in a mild Southern accent about his super-regimented schedule. Evidently, this boy plans out every day from when he wakes up till when he sleeps to the precise hour – from work to recreation. When talking to H, he constantly said, “yes, sir.” I found it kind of adorable, honestly. Clearly coming from a conservative background, he felt uneasy around H and me, but H made him feel at ease, like being a queer old man at a university sauna is some sort of practiced art for him. I imagine it is. H really isn’t a creep – not at all. Even while lifting his waist towel to dry his forehead, it just comes off like he’s drying his forehead – not like he’s trying to expose his crotch. It’s astounding how rehearsed he is, really.
After a few group chats, I finally had an opportunity to talk to H alone again. It was a brief conversation in which I merely asked once more, though paraphrased, why he does what he does and what his motivations are. He smiled wryly and replied, “I’m reliving my youth,” and then this old law guy in the sauna really made sense to me. Given that H most certainly grew up when homosexuality was classified as a sociopathic personality disorder, I imagine that much of his sexual desire was repressed. If he achieved so much in law, he was likely closeted or even had a beard for a number of years. To be doing this now – to be talking to young, twenty something straight men in the sauna – makes total sense. I thought about all the pain and strife H must have endured over decades of his life. It’s not even about being sexually invasive or suggestive with these men. He’s hardly flirtatious; it’s about having the option to engender a simple chat. While in his early twenties, H couldn’t flirt with young men and say flowery expressions like “Oh, gag me with a spoon!” without some level of intense backlash. Now, he can. Granted, it’s in this bizarre situation that culture has allowed him at a university sauna of all places, but he’s happy.
He’s happy. And because he’s happy, I get to observe gender dynamically forming around me in a hot, sweaty wooden box!
Oh, gender. You’re… you’re a weird one.
- Eddie