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I can keep at least one of your body parts warm. 😈

Can someone please encourage the owner or workers to turn up the heat just a bit this cold winter?

@viking8x6 was super quick to respond and made two small tweaks to my original text and it has been reposted on the thread. It was nuanced and he helped me make sure I was doing the right thing! 🙂

Agreed. All hotels in Chelsea and into midtown are blatantly racist and biased towards black men. Every time I've tried to enter a hotel lobby in these areas I'm scowled at and questioned by the front desk staff as if another homeless black man has just emerged from the subway...

I redacted the detail for discussion with the OP in a private message. The short answer here is Read the Rules - which are in the topic linked below (as well as separate detailed posts about specific rules, which are linked from there). These are the same rules that the moderation staff checks when we have to make a judgment call. If you are not sure whether a particular post complies with the rules, or for some reason you feel you need to push the boundaries to express yourself appropriately, the correct procedure is to do your best, make your post, and then report your own post - in the body of the post ask a moderator to review it. This notifies the moderation staff so they can work with you to get it sorted out appropriately.

Hawks is closed. I haven’t been to Entourage since Hawks closed. There has usually been a fairly active crowd when I’ve been to Entourage. I’ve also been there in the afternoon, and it wasn’t bad. As far as I know, Entourage is the only bathhouse left. Please correct me if I’m wrong.

I don’t see anything. You may have your answer. Lol

Mt. Morris Turkish Baths Harlem, New York City Between the 1920s and 2003, when it was closed by New York City officials, the Mt. Morris Baths was an important social center for gay African-American men and one of the longest operating bathhouses in New York City. [think before following links] https://www.nyclgbtsites.org/site/mt-morris-baths/

My first was Slammmer Club LA. It was pretty surreal because I had only heard stories about sex clubs

Moderator here. Welcome to BZ, @RogerPoz448! There aren't really any private forums here. A few of the forums (mostly the Backroom) are only visible to registered Members. You should be able to see those now. Everything else is (literally) visible to anyone on the internet. So, don't post things here that you wouldn't want your grandma to see... Though she probably wouldn't be reading this (though you never know). Getting banned or kicked off is actually pretty difficult. You can generally avoid it by following the Rules: TL;DR: Don't post Backroom stuff (HIV fetish and drugs) in other places; don't post straight/bi/transfem stuff except in designated areas; don't post scat, snuff, harmful things, or underage erotic stuff ANYWHERE on the site. Don't abuse other members. ...oh, and that's one delicious profile pic you have there! Woof!

@BlindRawFucker1 and @Labtmguy is the Las Vegas bathhouse experience kind of variable based on who is in town? I've been to Hawks a few times, and every time seemed completely different. That said I never struck out completely there.

In all probability, I've probably fucked you in Denver. I typically was at DSC or Midtown Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday afternoon, and usually once or twice during the week from 2000 to 2007. I rarely had a slow night, and while I didn't always manage to bottom, I don't think I ever left without finding a hole to fuck.

That's a nice fat dick, I go to CLUB PHILLY plenty of cock

Nobody has mentioned that he was openly touching your fucked hole. It should be expected that you should touch his dick directly, not through a towel. Don’t worry about it.

I'm with the "you did nothing wrong" crowd. I think it's regrettable that you inadvertently pushed his boundaries, but I can't think of any way you could have guessed that he had them at that particular point. I find it rather surprising that someone with a boundary there would be at a bathhouse in the first place (I'd expect it at a mall bathroom, more like), but hey - kids these days!

1998 - The Club in New Orleans a few blocks from Bourbon St. I was in town for a convention. Been to several since but most of them are gone (2 in Denver) since Covid.

I get the fact that it may have been his 1st time, I've definitely been there done that. However, it is both a very different time and place than the ones I learned the ropes in. My cruising style has been pissing off guys here for 19 years now (actually if you include visits before moving here it is more like 25 years). This kid is mostly likely a native and doesn't yet know that their is a less inhibited world of casual gay sex out there, that he's never had an opportunity to witness. I don't feel like I handled it correctly, but also don't know what I could have done differently.

I don’t drink. I’ve only been to one bar in my life. And I’m 38 in February.

You did nothing wrong, he just wasn't ready to be a part of what was going on. That's young guys for you, they don't have the experience to be comfortable with acting on their desires.

For me it's been 50 years of taking loads. There was an interruption in the early 80's until the 90's when I went back to bareback, sick of condoms and hungry for cum in my hole. This was a common question in the 90's together with "Can I cum inside?" Not all bottoms allowed it and some would get angry. I really liked the enthusiastic reaction of the guy fucking me bareback when I responded "Go deep when you shoot your load".

So it’s official. Two decades of bareback sex and taking loads started in January of 2006. I’ve taken raw on a few occasions prior. Mainly in the late 90s am it started once at the fire island nice beach of all places. Then once in a county park and a couple of times with an handsome Asian guy. We bagged it but I let him after the condom broke. No never came in me. Then 2000 I bottomed for a guy who broke the condom and came all over my ass. He said he might have gotten some inside me and btw he was hiv positive and didn’t start ART yet. Yikes! I ended seeing a specialist in NYC and did PEP for a month. In cash. It was super expensive and I was scared beyond belief. I bagged it the next 5 years. With the right top, cock size and lube it was great. But that was rare. It usually hurt like hell or I was paranoid the condom would break. Then I started reading about how barebacking is getting popular and you could sero-sort. The seed was planted. So 2005 comes and I’m having guys tease me before strapping up or have them pull out and blow all over my ass and it was hot. I loved the way it felt. Sometimes I’d just get dressed and not clean up just t soak my clothes for the trip home. Then Jan 2 2026 came along. I thought we were open at work but we were closed. Stupid me went in for nothing. So on the way home I stopped at an adult theater that was open in the morning. There were just me and like 2 other guys. This older guy was rock hard (Viagra) and was after me so we go into a dark corner and he has me blow him. As I’m blowing him he puts me in a headlock of sorts and a bottle of rush under my nose. I fought it at first but then it hit and bam, hooked just like that. Eventually he starts playing with my ass which felt really good from the poppers. So he’s living me up and starting to push in when I realize he’s not wrapped. So right then and there I said fuck it, I’m playing bare. I told him to pull out when he was close. He never came but the damage was done. I’m doing raw now on. So for the next few weeks I do just that. But the anxiety was getting to me. Then in another, much smaller adult, theater I watched this guy that I’ve seen around and jerked off with and blew a little playing with this other guy. He gets the other guy completely nude on the couch and fucks him raw. I never knew he did that so it was hot. When he was ready he said to the bottom “on you or in you?” The bottom said in and he breeded him. By their expressions it was so natural and stress free. The top wake t to use the bathroom while the bottom got dressed. We were the only 3 in the place. I asked him are you worried and he said no. He said the top said he’s neg and eventually it’s going to happen anyway and might as well enjoy it. That stuck with me. Reminds me of that Grateful Dead song. So, bottom leaves and the top comes back in and we make small talk and he’s hard again so blow him a little then drop my pants and get in the couch doggy. He jumps right up and lines me up with his spit and plunges in raw. It was amazing. The poppers and this weight off my shoulders was like gone. He’s getting close and I’m really close. On you or in you he says. I hesitate and he’s ready to blow and I chicken out at the last second and say on so he blows all over my gaping hole. I come instantly. He apologized saying he started to show as I said “on” so I got a little inside. I said no worries since my hole was drenched anyway and next time you don’t have to pull out or ask. I go back the next day at the same time and he’s there. I ask was the place busy and he said not at all and that he was hoping I’d show. We wast no time getting at it and I’m in position again and he’s close and asks again “on or in?” I reply in and never ask again and he bred me. It felt so good, natural and right. I was never going back after that. That late afternoon he bred me 2 more times. He fucked me at least 2 or more times a week for the next year before he found out he had it. I didn’t and still don’t. We still play to this day though the loads are less with age. In fact he was in me last week. I had taken a load from another guy we both knew and he’s like let me stir it up and tear you up. So I’ve been playing raw and being bred ever since. Have I had bagged since? Of course. I’m not turning down a good time and usually they dude leaves the bag and I still get the load. I’m a totally too. My body count could fill up a broadway theater and my load count would be a 2 or 3 night engagement. People say I’m nice looking but I don’t think so. People do say they love breeding my hole and I finally figured out that’s why I’ve been put on this earth. So for the last year I’ve been upping the ante and this year is no exception. At some point soon I’m going to slow down. I also want to breed a little more often and even though I know I’m gay, I started off life straight ish and have been with a few, very few women. I never bred one in the ass though so I hope I could experience that someday. And soon after that just stop. It’s been a good run being a free use cum dump bottom. A lot of good guys I’ve known never got the chance to be to be their true selves or even just be because of hiv. So that’s my story if you hung around this long, thanks for reading this. It’s my validation for now that I did do this and I do exist. If we hooked up on purpose or anonymously thanks for the ride.

[think before following links] https://www.attitude.co.uk/news/world/harry-potters-matthew-lewis-is-attitudes-new-cover-guy-284729/ unlike transphobe J.K., I am not horrified by Lewis and the hair he sports on his chin. Very hot.

Thought I'd post here since there isn't a Columbus thread. Willing bottom here looking for as many loads as I can get. Willing to travel (within reason).

The loss of Joshua still cut deep, even two years on. It was a crisp February day in the Rockies—perfect blue sky, fresh powder that sparkled like diamonds. We’d driven up for a spontaneous weekend, just the two of us. Joshua was fearless on skis, always chasing the best lines. While I nursed a coffee in the lodge, he kissed me quick—tongue teasing my bottom lip—and said, “One more run. Be back before you finish that.” He never came down. A hidden tree well, high-speed impact, catastrophic head trauma. Instant. No chance to say goodbye. The patrol found him buried in snow; the hospital confirmed what I already knew in my gut. I sat in that hallway clutching his wedding band, the world reduced to white noise and the smell of antiseptic. Sarah was my first call. Joshua’s ride-or-die lesbian best friend since their university days—loud, fiercely loyal, the one who’d tease him about his flannel obsession and drag us to every queer event in Toronto. She drove through the night, arrived at dawn, and became my anchor. She handled the calls, the paperwork, the funeral when I couldn’t string sentences together. And when the first shock wore off and the long, grinding grief set in, she stayed—bringing food, forcing me to shower, holding me while I sobbed on the bathroom floor. She saw the parts I tried to hide: the way my body shut down completely for the first year—no erections, no fantasies, no interest in touching myself or anyone else. My cock stayed soft, my hole untouched, desire buried under layers of guilt and emptiness. By the second year, frustration crept in like a thief. Random hard-ons that led nowhere, failed jerk-off sessions that ended in tears because every stroke felt like betrayal, a couple of Grindr attempts where I couldn’t even get it up because another man’s hands on me made my stomach churn with shame. I’d come home alone, balls aching, cock leaking uselessly, hole clenching around nothing, and curse myself for still having a body that wanted. Sarah heard it all over late-night coffees and tear-soaked texts. “You’re not betraying him by wanting to feel good again,” she’d say quietly. “Joshua loved you alive, Moshin. He’d hate seeing you punish yourself for having a libido. Pleasure isn’t disloyalty—it’s survival.” She started nudging me toward the gym more intentionally. “You’re still going late nights. That’s good. But maybe let someone see you there. Not to replace him—just to be looked at again. To feel desired without the guilt crashing in.” She’d noticed Tim when he transferred in—29, built like he lived under the barbell, quiet confidence, no drama. Single, grounded, and—importantly—aware of loss without turning it into his whole personality. After watching me finish a set of hip thrusts one night—ass flexing hard under the lights, sweat running down my smooth back, face flushed in a way that wasn’t just cardio—she decided. “Moshin,” she said, catching me at the water fountain, “there’s someone new on the desk tonight. Tim. He’s good. Let him look at you. Let yourself be seen. You deserve to feel eyes on your body again without it meaning you’re forgetting Joshua.” She walked me over. Tim looked up, eyes steady and warm. Sarah made the introduction: “Tim, Moshin. He and Joshua were basically gym royalty here. Joshua was my best friend. Moshin’s been carrying a lot.” Tim extended his hand. “I’m sorry about Joshua. Sounds like he was one of the good ones. Glad you’re still here killing it.” His gaze lingered—on my sweat-damp tank clinging to my nipples, on the way my shorts hugged the firm swell of my bubble butt—for half a second longer than polite. It was the first time in two years a man’s eyes on me made my cock twitch instead of my stomach turn. That was the beginning of the slow burn. Tim never rushed. He noticed everything: the sweat tracing my spine after sprints, the way my shorts rode up during squats exposing the smooth dip where thigh met ass, the hitch in my breath when he stood close to spot me—his chest brushing my back, forearms flexing, crotch grazing the top of my crack for one heartbeat too long. He’d text after shifts: “Kept replaying those hip thrusts. Your ass bouncing like that. Fuck.” “Could smell how turned on you were tonight. You were leaking through your shorts.” “Been hard since you walked in. Thinking about bending you over and sliding in raw.” I’d read them in the dark, legs spread, hand wrapped around my cock—stroking slow while I pictured him: thick, veined, uncut head pushing past my rim, stretching me open after two years of nothing. I’d edge for hours, balls heavy and aching, pre-cum pooling on my stomach, then stop just before I came because spilling without him inside me felt wrong. Sarah watched the whole transformation. “You’re practically humping the air when he’s around,” she’d text. “I’ve seen you go from numb to this dripping, desperate mess. Let him fuck the grief out of you. You’ve earned it.” The night it broke was biblical rain—sheets hammering the windows, thunder rolling through the empty gym. I’d pushed myself to destruction: heavy deadlifts, ass-to-grass squats, hip thrusts that made my glutes burn and my hole throb. By the time I staggered to the desk, I was drenched—tank transparent over my nipples, shorts dark with sweat and the obvious wet spot at the front where I’d been leaking for an hour straight. Tim didn’t speak. Just stared, pupils blown, throat working. Then, voice barely audible: “Tanning room. Now.” I followed, cock straining, pre-cum soaking my jock. Door locked. Warm amber light bathed us like oil. He slammed me against the wall, mouth crashing into mine, beard scraping my smooth jaw raw, tongue fucking deep while his hands yanked my tank up and over my head. He palmed my ass hard, fingers digging into the firm meat, spreading me through the soaked fabric. “Been dying to get my tongue in this hole,” he growled, dropping to his knees and ripping my shorts and jock down. My cock sprang free—dark, flushed, dripping thick strings of pre-cum. He ignored it. Buried his face between my cheeks. Hot, wet tongue lapping flat over my pucker, circling, then spearing inside. I cried out, hips bucking back onto his mouth. He ate me ravenously—sucking, licking, groaning into my ass, beard burning the tender skin until I was shaking, sobbing his name, pre-cum dripping steadily onto the floor in long strands. He stood, clothes shed in seconds. His cock was obscene—heavy, thick, veins bulging, foreskin pulled halfway back, swollen head glistening and angry red. “First dick in two years,” he rasped, stroking himself once, pre-cum webbing between fist and slit. “Gonna wreck this tight little ass. Make you remember what it feels like to be filled and bred.” Lube poured over three thick fingers—no preamble—breaching me, scissoring wide, curling hard against my prostate until my knees buckled and I begged, “Please—Tim—fuck—need your cock—” He lined up. Blunt head kissed my rim. Pushed. The stretch was brutal, glorious—raw, burning, perfect. Inch after thick inch splitting me open, filling the hollow ache that had haunted me for years. I keened, forehead pressed to the warm vinyl bed, ass high, hole fluttering helplessly around his girth. He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls flush against me, and held still—letting me feel every throbbing vein, every heartbeat buried inside. Then he fucked me. Slow at first—long, dragging strokes that dragged over my prostate with every pass. My bubble butt jiggled with each deep thrust; his hands gripped my waist hard enough to bruise. “So fucking tight—sucking me in like you were made for my cock,” he panted, pace building, hips snapping, skin slapping skin in wet, filthy rhythm. He reached around, wrapped a rough fist around my leaking shaft—stroking fast, twisting at the head, thumbing the slit smeared with pre-cum. “Come on my dick. Show me how bad you needed to be bred after all this time.” I shattered—back arching, hole clamping vise-tight around him, cock erupting in thick, endless ropes across the bed, vision flashing white as two years of pent-up release tore through me in shuddering, sobbing waves. Tim snarled, thrusts turning erratic, then slammed home and came—hot, flooding pulses painting my insides, breeding me deep while I trembled and milked every last drop from him. He didn’t pull out right away. He eased us both down onto the tanning bed, rolling so I was sprawled across his chest, his softening cock still buried inside me, cum slowly leaking out around the base and down my inner thigh. His arms wrapped around me—strong, grounding. One hand stroked lazy circles over my sweat-slick back; the other carded through my damp hair. His lips brushed my temple, soft now. “You okay?” he murmured, voice wrecked. I nodded against his neck, throat tight. “Haven’t… felt anything… like that in so long.” He tightened his hold. “You’re safe here. With me. Whenever you need it.” We stayed tangled until the rain slowed, bodies cooling, his cum still warm inside me, leaking in slow, sticky trails. He finally eased out with a soft groan, both of us wincing at the loss, then pulled me back against his chest. We didn’t dress immediately. Just skin on skin. His hand resting possessively over my softening cock, thumb brushing idly over the head, smearing the last drops of my release. Sarah came in for her morning shift around 6 a.m. The gym was still quiet, rain reduced to drizzle. She was restocking towels when Tim walked out of the back hallway—hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, a faint hickey blooming under his collar. He caught her eye, gave a small, knowing smirk, and jerked his head toward the tanning room hallway. She raised an eyebrow. “You good?” He shrugged, casual. “Moshin stayed late. We… talked.” Sarah’s gaze flicked to the hallway, then back to him. She saw the flush still on his neck, the way he walked with that post-fuck looseness. Then she looked at the tanning room door—slightly ajar, light still on. She didn’t ask for details. Just nodded once, slow and satisfied. “He needed that.” Tim met her eyes. “Yeah. He did.” She texted me later that morning while I was still in bed, ass deliciously sore, Tim’s cum dried on my thigh: “Saw Tim this morning. Looked like he’d had a very productive night. You good?” I smiled into my pillow, typed back with shaking fingers: “Yeah. Really fucking good.” She sent one emoji—a simple fire—and nothing else. She’d watched me crawl through the dark. She’d nudged me toward the light. And now, for the first time in two years, I wasn’t walking alone. -‐--‐--‐--‐----------------------------------- As always my stories are based on true events. Names remain the same. I add erotica for readers to enjoy the event. Dedicated in love to all those who saw their loved ones just dropping dead during the AIDS crisis. To anyone still here, chest tight, eyes burning: If you’re reading this with your hand pressed over the hole where your person used to live… I see you. Two years (or five, or a lifetime) of waking to cold sheets, flinching at “touch,” choking on guilt the second desire stirs—you’re not broken. You’re carrying a love so big it carved you hollow. Joshua didn’t leave a manual for this. He just left. And for too long I thought wanting again meant murdering the only man who ever made me feel whole. But Sarah was right: living isn’t betrayal. Letting someone see the scars grief tattooed on your soul, letting them press their mouth to the places that still bleed, letting your body remember how to shake, leak, clench, and come undone… that’s not replacement. That’s the last stubborn proof that your heart refused to stop when you begged it to. If this story cracked your ribs open—if it made you ache for the day your own door locks, for the night someone looks at you like you’re still worth fucking, still worth filling, still worth the mess of tears and cum and whispered names—hold that ache like a fragile thing. It’s not disloyalty. It’s the avalanche’s aftermath: proof the snow can melt, the sun can touch skin again, and the body can still arch and sob and spill under someone else’s weight. When your moment comes—rough or tender, raw or slow—let it wreck you. Let it rebuild you. Let yourself cry while you come. Let yourself whisper his name and someone else’s in the same ragged breath. You’re allowed. And if these words made tears slip down your face in the dark… good. That means you’re still alive enough to feel the whole goddamn thing. That means you’re still here. And right now—that’s more than enough.