He passes me a towel and I ask for poppers too. Fuck! I notice the walls and desks are crudely painted black, the countertop red - whore-red.

What freaks me out more is that they take my picture and they want details: my name, my birthday - they have my picture. I have to pay extra, but it's a one off payment and I'm here now anyway.

When I walk down the stairs there's a desk and the tall, muscled man, fit with an 'I could fuck you three ways from Sunday and not be out of breath' grin on his face asks me if I'm a member. The clientele are a mix of young muscle pups, skinny queens, ageing queers and everything in between. well, I'm not sure what it's there for - I imagine they let anyone in, in fact my later visits would confirm this. There's a camera, so staff can see who's there in case. My fingers were trembling, but I pressed it. You enter the building down some stairs and come to a door with a buzzer. Basement in Manchester is hidden down a backstreet, Tariff Street, in the city's Northern Quarter. That was scarier than taking it raw, I don't know why. Terrified someone would see me and recognize me. I was nervous even just entering the sauna.

I'd always wanted it, but had never given in, too scared of the consequences. It dates back to 2006 when I still lived in Manchester, UK and had visited a gay bathhouse there for the first time. This story is true and, if you like it, I'll post more.