The Wool Street Journal: Episode III: The Thumbpire Strikes Back

A one month dating anniversary, thus doubling the previous attempt was a good cause indeed for me to pack up me togs, Jess her bathing suit, take the Friday off and make our merry way to the Russian and Turkish Bath House in the Lower East Side.

Both being New York bath house virgins, we spent the first twenty minutes completely confused. One of these New York places where you have to be in the know already. Don’t dare ask what to do. You’ll end up looking more foolish than George Bush attempting to coordinate a national disaster recovery program.

After being directed in to the changing rooms, I was greeted by a muscle bound, 6 foot Russian Adonis with his Foxton Straits around his ankles. Contrary to popular belief (it was my god damn thin green tie in my mouth in that photo, Ant!!!) I tend to get a little shaky around nude foreign men. Retiring post haste to my designated locker with a plethora of male appendage insecurities swimming around my head, I happened upon yet another naked male piling his clothes in to my locker. I checked my key number again in the vain hope I had mistaken the number 15 for 24, (must… resist…. Michael… Jackson jokes…) as if there is one thing less appealing than simply holding a casual conversation with a nude foreign man, it’s getting in to a proverbial head to head with him. (A tie Ant, a god damn tie!). After some cock and balls story (slowly warming up on putting pun to paper again, butt bare with me) from this guy that he had been given the wrong key by the staff, I was now really quiet flustered by this experience and completely oblivious to the fact I had met two of three nemesis’s of the day, yes, three within 5 minutes which is really quite saying something for me.

Time for a nice relaxing steam room. Meet up with young Jess outside in her bathing suit and immediately rue not bringing a camera.

Make our way downstairs under the streets of New York and you are transported back in time with stone steam rooms and tiled floors. Things are most certainly looking up and we pile into the first steam room together. It’s tough to breath but nothing compared to the cardiac arrest that follows upon hearing “Huller…your time first with steam room?”

I immediately put a phallus to the voice; me ole Russian buddy from upstairs, who Jess so lovingly refers to as Ivan Draco, (Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV, although Cocky IV seems more appropriate after the locker room experience) Turns out he’s ever so nice and comes in with Jess and I to the steam room and explains in perfect English the way everything works, spending equal amounts of time with us both and I really start feeling quite comfortable about this whole bath house experience.

The above paragraph is a complete and utter lie.

The steam room has apparently worked so effectively that I have actually evaporated completely as Ivan makes it clear who the centre of attention is. Highlight for me in the first steam room? Definitely his demonstration of how to activate the cold shower to Jessica. Complicated stuff there comrade. You stand under the shower head and pull on the cord hanging from the roof to release water that sensually trickles all over your body that houses more rippling abdominal muscles than there are breakaway Baltic States. I get it. I get it.

After trying more steam rooms, with the Bolshevik (who has obviously forgotten the true meaning of Communism) constantly in tow, I have now officially expended more sweat and mental anguish in a bath house than when I was sweat 16 in Japan, and strolled gingerly into a Yoda sized steam cocoon, with my English teacher Chris Shorter and my Japanese teacher’s son, Matthew Barnacott, who go from stark raving mad to stark raving naked within 15 seconds.

Time to get some air out on the sundeck, soak up the rays, drink a few lagers and regather my thoughts, or as Jess calls them, male ego. What a bizarre feeling lying outside on a small wooden deck in the heart of Manhattan, with about 4 or 5 other people beside you, mainly men, who consider this their form of exercise.

“Hey Marty, that steam room really had me going today boss. I really toughed it out”

“I hear ya big guy. I’m now steaming 120F”

Aside from a few more pest appearances from Ivan and the guy who stole my locker who is still desperate for me to believe his initial story, the deck proves itself to be surprisingly relaxing.

Here’s a little tidbit from the bath house website

“The best part is that you never have to feel rushed to make massage appointment”

Another complete lie. Men accosting you left, right and centre, eager to solicit their hands upon your (read: girlfriend’s) body, so I’m completely flattered when one man does approach me whilst Jess is off in the steam rooms again. His name is Vladimir and he has a handshake so firm I choose to believe it has settled a thousand foreign disputes at the United Nations. I’m booked in for 4.00pm. Time to find Jess and tell her the good news.

Downstairs, Jess is explaining to two female masseuses how she didn’t realize there were females working and that she had already booked in for sea-salt scrub with one of the males. No prizes for guessing who with. No worries, I inform her that I have found someone with a remarkably strong handshake and that I’m pretty sure I’m going to get the best massage I’ve experienced.

I’m lead to a dingy room, decorated with what appears to be Vladimir’s clothing and a few objects that resemble sexual aids and am asked to take my pants off. I find myself removing my togs instantly. I’m still puzzled as to what part of my brain was not working when that decision was made. I’m asked to sit on the side of the table, as naked as a Jay bird and Vladimir walks behind me and begins to give me a reverse bear hug, lifting me a foot in the air. Lying now, head down on the table, Vladimir continues his offensive. The man has thumbs that feel three inches wide. These can’t be real thumbs I immediately think. Attachments. His thumbs have been replaced after Chernobyl.

I am wincing with pain. He is treating each muscle in my back like Chechan rebels and I am beginning to seriously doubt my ability to survive a further 25 minutes. Someone is looking out for me as Vladimir announces “I must go toilet”. I welcome the break and reflect that the clothes beneath the table must in fact be clients who were having the exact same thought I am having right now. “Escape while you can Waterhouse. Spare the clothes, just get the goddamn hell outta there while there is still some energy left in your muscles”.

My clothing theory is strengthened by the fact that he returns within, no joke, 15 seconds. He has learnt over the years that people escape hence his toilet routine has been finely tuned. I start imagining his maniacal, contemptuous laughter in the toilet, as he spits on the “EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS” sign in frustration as he struggles to zip up his fly on account of his steroid thumbs.

Also not helping right now is the thought of Jessica having her body scrubbed down by Ivan, as he whispers sweet pigeon English nothings into her ear.

Vladimir’s cell phone rings. He informs me it is his mother and he takes the call. I am lying naked, ass up, in front of a Russian man I have just met who is charging me money as he takes a call from his mother. This is fast becoming one of the strangest days of my life.

Back to the torture and as he tries to coax me in to upsizing my massage from 30 to 45 minutes, (really?!) he becomes very chatty, particularly so as he starts grabbing each toe and pulling them to make them crack. Strange relaxation technique indeed. He questions me as to where I am from, and then asks what the capitol of New Zealand is.

“Ahhh. Wellington. We make you strong to fly to Wellington!”

I am both confused and frightened by this remark.

Thud. Although I cannot see him, the sound is unmistakable. I know he is now straddling me from behind MY behind on the table. What the deuce is coming next? Shouldn’t have asked. He proceeds to grab my hands, pulls them back rapidly, which starts lifting me from the waist up into the air.

He starts shouting “FLY MR WELLINGTON!!!! FLY!!!!” over and over, as he continues to lift me in the air. All I really want to do by now is “CRY MR WELLINGTON!!! CRY!!!”

Once the ordeal is finally over, with Vlads having coaxed an extra $15 from my pocket through simply waving his thumbs in front of my face when I didn’t tip enough, I decide to take in another steam room to try and sweat out my anxiety.

In a room with one other man, when who should enter but Vladimir looking for more thumb-bait.

I cannot bring myself to look at him in the eye. The man beside me laughs as Vladimir leaves.

“What is so funny?” I ask.

“Oh, we call him ‘One Time Walter’. Once people have one massage with him they never go back”