numazu

Afternoon Interlude: Gotta Stick to What Works
Something I notice about Thermas Barcelona is just the sheer size of it. Maybe it wasn’t full, which made it feel bigger, but either way, it’s easy to disappear in this place without any effort. The free cabins are useful for that, sure, but there are also plenty of nooks and crannies tucked just out of sight—away from the bar, for example.

Because this sauna basically runs 24/7, those hidden spots become prime real estate for certain “homeless” boys—guys who don’t really have anywhere to go, especially when they first arrive in Barcelona. I’m sure that after a few €50 sessions with clients, those unhoused boys can start putting something together with their life and actually rebuild.
I’ve seen this phenomenon everywhere, but especially in Colombia. Venezuelan boys—young enough, hot enough, hung enough or bootylicious enough—flee their country’s impossible economy and try to start over in Colombia. Colombia has its own thing going on with webcam studios—Chaturbate, LiveJasmin, OnlyFans—all of it feeding into what’s basically a decentralized porn industry studio system. These "studios" are usually headquartered in residential houses, with bedrooms converted into sex sets that double as actual bedrooms to sleep in when not in use. A lot of these boys, broke when they arrive, end up sleeping there until they can save enough for a place of their own.
Brazil has a version of this too. Some saunas, or even some homes owned by sauna managers and owners, act like halfway houses for boys coming out of favelas or other Brazilian states. Some saunas even advertise this setup as a way to attract fresh meat.
Pedro—my ex-Brazilian—took advantage of this at Thermas.
As I settle back at the bar, waiting for my cum to regenerate and enjoying a well-earned drink, a boy-next-door type waves at me from across the room to get my attention. He’s decent-looking—not stunning like some of the others, but not bad. OK body—not fat, not ripped, no abs, but serviceable. He’s got a beard, which works for me. Overall, pleasant enough.
I wave him over. He asks if he can get a drink—I nod and motion to the bartender. Whisky, straight. He pulls up a stool close to mine and sits.
We start talking. His Spanish is decent, and he tries some English, not very successfully, but he keeps trying. Then he starts his pitch—shows me his cock (not huge, not small). I tell him no, but I appreciate the offer. We keep chatting, and I find out he’s Romanian.
That catches my attention. I’ve never knowingly been with a Romanian before.
He picks up on that slight shift in interest and tries again. I say no again—this time softer. He’s actually kind of endearing. Could be fun. But there are a lot of other options here—guys with more to offer: better looks, bigger cocks, the usual. I’m just not in the mood for him.
Then comes the final move—the sob story. He says he’s homeless, arrived a month ago, couldn’t find regular work, so now he’s here. Doesn’t have enough money to go back to Romania, so he’s trying to save up for a ticket.
I ask if he’s staying with friends. He says no—he sleeps in the sauna.

I ask if management allows that. He says it’s informal. Most of the time, they don’t mind.
But not all the time. On Saturdays—today—the boys have to leave at 10 PM and can’t come back until noon Sunday. That’s when the sauna flips into a regular gay party space—DJ, drugs, sex, the whole thing, within the sauna confines.
So I ask him where he goes.
He says other saunas—Sauna Casanova or Sauna Bruc. Both within walking distance. I didn’t even realize there were other spots like this in Barcelona. He says they’re not really “boy saunas,” but he still manages to get business there.
Times are hard. You adapt.
I tell him I appreciate the company, but he should probably get to work before they’re kicked out at 10. It’s already 6 PM. He looks disappointed.
Maybe another time, I’d have the headspace for him. But right now, I’m hunting for something else.
I turn my attention back to the bar and notice two boys standing over a client they clearly know. One’s very twinky—not my type. The other, though—more twunk. Great Latin face, smooth muscle, not bulky but clearly worked, insane abs, great ass. No beard, but it works. He’s wearing white underwear instead of a towel, which already sets him apart.

Maybe I was staring, because he suddenly hugs the client, gives him a deep kiss, and then makes his way straight to me.
Argentinian. 25. Magnetic as hell.
He knows exactly how to present himself—angles, posture, timing. No hesitation with contact. He gets close immediately, touching me, stroking my neck, then kisses me without asking.
Deep. Slow. Intense. One of those full-on, French kisses that just keeps going longer than you expect—and longer than you probably deserve.
Okay. So this is how Latinos kiss.
There’s nothing else like it. Not here.
He asks about my preferences—I don’t even think he listens to the answer. Just smiles and says, “I do it all.”
And yeah—he means it. He’s already grinding against me where I’m sitting.
I finish my drink fast. At that point, my dick has already made the decision.
He asks if I want a free cabin or a paid room. I know about the paid rooms but haven’t tried them yet. Figured—why not now, why not with him?
We head upstairs to reception. I ask for a room with a private shower. The receptionist hands me a key. The Argentinian grabs it, checks it, and leads me back down.
The room is tucked away in one of the hidden corridors. Decent size. This one has a dungeon setup and a sling.
Maybe he plans to use everything?



And then the deed. No exaggeration—he delivers. Fully. Kisses like it matters, sucks like it’s his last meal, gives it like a madman, takes it like a champ. No clock-watching. Orders drinks mid-session. Even pauses for conversation before switching things up—like an intermission before the next act.
Five stars. Easily one of the best I’ve had—and that’s saying something.
Latinos just know what they’re doing.
One thing I really appreciated about the private room: the en-suite shower. Makes a huge difference when you’re switching roles and need a quick reset mid-session.
I give him €100. Honestly, I should’ve given more.
He came, so technically the rate was fair. But still—I like rewarding performance. Good attitude, good energy, good delivery. Same way I treat my employees back home.
And that kind of generosity? It tends to come back tenfold the next time.
Next: a threesome, if you can believe it.

Afternoon Interlude: Gotta Stick to What Works
Something I notice about Thermas Barcelona is just the sheer size of it. Maybe it wasn’t full, which made it feel bigger, but either way, it’s easy to disappear in this place without any effort. The free cabins are useful for that, sure, but there are also plenty of nooks and crannies tucked just out of sight—away from the bar, for example.

Because this sauna basically runs 24/7, those hidden spots become prime real estate for certain “homeless” boys—guys who don’t really have anywhere to go, especially when they first arrive in Barcelona. I’m sure that after a few €50 sessions with clients, those unhoused boys can start putting something together with their life and actually rebuild.
I’ve seen this phenomenon everywhere, but especially in Colombia. Venezuelan boys—young enough, hot enough, hung enough or bootylicious enough—flee their country’s impossible economy and try to start over in Colombia. Colombia has its own thing going on with webcam studios—Chaturbate, LiveJasmin, OnlyFans—all of it feeding into what’s basically a decentralized porn industry studio system. These "studios" are usually headquartered in residential houses, with bedrooms converted into sex sets that double as actual bedrooms to sleep in when not in use. A lot of these boys, broke when they arrive, end up sleeping there until they can save enough for a place of their own.
Brazil has a version of this too. Some saunas, or even some homes owned by sauna managers and owners, act like halfway houses for boys coming out of favelas or other Brazilian states. Some saunas even advertise this setup as a way to attract fresh meat.
Pedro—my ex-Brazilian—took advantage of this at Thermas.
As I settle back at the bar, waiting for my cum to regenerate and enjoying a well-earned drink, a boy-next-door type waves at me from across the room to get my attention. He’s decent-looking—not stunning like some of the others, but not bad. OK body—not fat, not ripped, no abs, but serviceable. He’s got a beard, which works for me. Overall, pleasant enough.
I wave him over. He asks if he can get a drink—I nod and motion to the bartender. Whisky, straight. He pulls up a stool close to mine and sits.
We start talking. His Spanish is decent, and he tries some English, not very successfully, but he keeps trying. Then he starts his pitch—shows me his cock (not huge, not small). I tell him no, but I appreciate the offer. We keep chatting, and I find out he’s Romanian.
That catches my attention. I’ve never knowingly been with a Romanian before.
He picks up on that slight shift in interest and tries again. I say no again—this time softer. He’s actually kind of endearing. Could be fun. But there are a lot of other options here—guys with more to offer: better looks, bigger cocks, the usual. I’m just not in the mood for him.
Then comes the final move—the sob story. He says he’s homeless, arrived a month ago, couldn’t find regular work, so now he’s here. Doesn’t have enough money to go back to Romania, so he’s trying to save up for a ticket.
I ask if he’s staying with friends. He says no—he sleeps in the sauna.

I ask if management allows that. He says it’s informal. Most of the time, they don’t mind.
But not all the time. On Saturdays—today—the boys have to leave at 10 PM and can’t come back until noon Sunday. That’s when the sauna flips into a regular gay party space—DJ, drugs, sex, the whole thing, within the sauna confines.
So I ask him where he goes.
He says other saunas—Sauna Casanova or Sauna Bruc. Both within walking distance. I didn’t even realize there were other spots like this in Barcelona. He says they’re not really “boy saunas,” but he still manages to get business there.
Times are hard. You adapt.
I tell him I appreciate the company, but he should probably get to work before they’re kicked out at 10. It’s already 6 PM. He looks disappointed.
Maybe another time, I’d have the headspace for him. But right now, I’m hunting for something else.
I turn my attention back to the bar and notice two boys standing over a client they clearly know. One’s very twinky—not my type. The other, though—more twunk. Great Latin face, smooth muscle, not bulky but clearly worked, insane abs, great ass. No beard, but it works. He’s wearing white underwear instead of a towel, which already sets him apart.

Maybe I was staring, because he suddenly hugs the client, gives him a deep kiss, and then makes his way straight to me.
Argentinian. 25. Magnetic as hell.
He knows exactly how to present himself—angles, posture, timing. No hesitation with contact. He gets close immediately, touching me, stroking my neck, then kisses me without asking.
Deep. Slow. Intense. One of those full-on, French kisses that just keeps going longer than you expect—and longer than you probably deserve.
Okay. So this is how Latinos kiss.
There’s nothing else like it. Not here.
He asks about my preferences—I don’t even think he listens to the answer. Just smiles and says, “I do it all.”
And yeah—he means it. He’s already grinding against me where I’m sitting.
I finish my drink fast. At that point, my dick has already made the decision.
He asks if I want a free cabin or a paid room. I know about the paid rooms but haven’t tried them yet. Figured—why not now, why not with him?
We head upstairs to reception. I ask for a room with a private shower. The receptionist hands me a key. The Argentinian grabs it, checks it, and leads me back down.
The room is tucked away in one of the hidden corridors. Decent size. This one has a dungeon setup and a sling.
Maybe he plans to use everything?



And then the deed. No exaggeration—he delivers. Fully. Kisses like it matters, sucks like it’s his last meal, gives it like a madman, takes it like a champ. No clock-watching. Orders drinks mid-session. Even pauses for conversation before switching things up—like an intermission before the next act.
Five stars. Easily one of the best I’ve had—and that’s saying something.
Latinos just know what they’re doing.
One thing I really appreciated about the private room: the en-suite shower. Makes a huge difference when you’re switching roles and need a quick reset mid-session.
I give him €100. Honestly, I should’ve given more.
He came, so technically the rate was fair. But still—I like rewarding performance. Good attitude, good energy, good delivery. Same way I treat my employees back home.
And that kind of generosity? It tends to come back tenfold the next time.
Next: a threesome, if you can believe it.

The Afternoon: Not all that glitters is gold
So, I was still fresh client meat for these boys, as I noticed more guys coming up to me that  I hadn’t seen last night. As I waited for Mike the Russian, three boys came up to me to make their sales pitch.
The first one was a cute, fit, slim-ish Colombian. His pitch to me was pretty good—he spoke English, got really close so I could feel his smooth skin against mine, and went in for a very deep kiss that almost had me… until I remembered my goal was just inches away, and I was willing to wait.
The second one was a Greek guy—bearded, light brown hair, white skin, and a pretty lean body with abs. He seemed chill and not too pushy, and his dick, when he showed it to me, was pretty big. But he said he didn’t kiss, so I had to pass for now.
There was a third guy—another Colombian—tall, muscular, bearded, some tattoos, fairly handsome. I was about to talk to him when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the client with the Russian had stood up and started to leave. I shifted my focus back to Mike to see how he was.

After a few sentences in Spanish, Mike the Russian switched to English—broken but intelligible, definitely good enough for what I needed to know from him. He asked where I was from, probably the most commonly asked question at the sauna—asked by both the boys and the clients, to each other and to everyone else. A truly international sauna, probably dominated by Latinos (Brazil and Colombia for sure), but with guys from all over Europe and South America. This trip, I still had to meet boys from Asia, North America, or even Australia. Seems like something I should do further research on.
Some more small talk from the Russian—when I got here, how my trip was, when I was leaving Barcelona. As we traded sentences, I couldn’t help but notice how cute he was. Definitely no older than 22—really young—with the boyish voice to match. Gray or green eyes, sandy blonde hair, a boyish haircut. When he smiled, it really showed how young he was.
I got down to brass tacks, asking what he did behind closed doors. Only top, kissed a bit, promised a good time. Easy sell. I knew I was getting him even before he turned my way. The beauty of it? Dirt cheap to try—50 euros.
He asked for a Red Bull, which seems like the drink of choice for the boys. And the place had really picked up in the last hour. Lots of guys milling around, clients coming and going. Saturday afternoon seems like a good time to be here. I’ve heard the place is open 24 hours. I’m sure it’s not this crowded in the wee hours of the morning, but it’s nice to have options it being open at those hours, something you can't say about the Brazil saunas. It could even double as a love hotel if you think about it— for 24 euros each.

As he finished his Red Bull, I let him know I was ready. He grabbed some condoms and lube, and off we went. We found a free cabin on the second floor, and he quickly undressed, showing a decent-sized penis—not like the monsters I’d seen earlier, but with him it was the whole package that counted. He kissed me—slightly tepid, not like how the Latinos do it. Just a tad disappointing but what can you do.
Some foreplay, more kisses. Soon enough, the condom and lube came out—his signal he was ready. After some success topping me, he pulled out, and like on cue that it was time for me to finish, and  I did—pretty plentiful, I might add, and even he was impressed— but of course with some help from him. Overall, decent lay. Great visuals—watching him thrust, kiss my body, use his dick—it was hot. Maybe lacking a bit of passion, but I guess that was his schtick.
But, not bad for 50 euros. A guy like this would cost more on apps or sites. This sauna gives you a chance to sample all sorts without breaking the bank. I imagine you could dangle more cash at the boy and get a better performance. If I were really into him, maybe I would have—but this trip was about sampling what the sauna had to offer, so it was time to move on.
I showered with him—seemed like the custom—exchanged a bit more small talk, then we headed back up to the locker area. I grabbed 50 euros from my wallet, handed it to him, and he was on his way. Later, I noticed he had changed into his street clothes and left soon after. It was only 5:45 PM. I guess he’d made enough for the day. I wondered how much a full night with him would cost. As I watched that teen heartthrob walk out, I figured I’d never know.

I headed back down a floor and checked out the labyrinth—clients and boys milling around. Then I heard my name again.
“Numazu!” some dark, muscular figure called out.
I couldn’t see clearly—the lighting on this floor wasn’t great for faces, only for penises—so I motioned for him to follow me down to the bar.
He followed. When I turned around at the bar, I saw him clearly. Brazilian, for sure—a mountain of a man. Big muscles, probably juiced to hell, bearded, and handsome. I didn’t recognize him, but he might’ve been a hire at Lagoa or 117 at some point. I feel like I’ve fucked a thousand Brazilians by now.
We sat down, and he explained how we knew each other. Said we met around 2018 or 2019— and he’s been in Barcelona for five years. Claimed we hooked up at least four or five times in Lagoa. Said I even bought him dinner once. I felt bad—I still couldn’t remember. You’d think I would remember a muscle-bound cutie like him, but I didn’t.
After some reminiscing about Brazil and his life in Barcelona (better money, better quality of life), he turned the nostalgia into a business pitch. Asked if we could do it again, lifting his towel to remind me what I liked. Big cock—already hard, pointed right at me.
I told him I had just finished, so maybe later, if at all. After a few more tries, he gave up, wished me well, and went back upstairs to find someone more willing.  Again, if it was any other day I would have had him, but I was in Europe, trying out this sauna. If I wanted Brazilians I would go to Brazil. Here, he would have to wait in line with all the other nationalities that were on display here.
After he left I wondered if I really spend too much time in rent boy spaces. It's one thing to visit a rent boy establishment everyday while you're on vacay, it's another thing to be recognized by not just one, but two rent boys you fucked 8500 km from where you are. I don't know if I should be proud or ashamed. Most probably both.
At the bar, I ordered my usual—Jack and Diet—and sat there, quietly toasting myself to my top-notch promiscuity and hedonism. There are no prizes for that, no trophies to be had, only the trophy boys that were for the picking here at Thermas.
Next up: two more encounters to talk about.

The day after: Choices, choices
I don’t think I even set an alarm to wake up today. The point of me spending these two days in Barcelona is to adjust to Europe time before my impending work trip. And since I’ve been to Barcelona a few times before, there was no need for me to go out and tour the city. These two days were only for rest and relaxation—and to me, this means spending some time checking out the lay of the land, so to speak.
I look at the time—it’s about 11:30 AM. Not a bad time to wake up and still have time to have a quick bite to eat and maybe check out the gym in this hotel. I take a quick shower, notice my first hickey right away—it’s up near my right nipple, red and bruised, probably the Moroccan’s fault. I should be expecting a few of those before the weekend is done.
I head off in the direction of the mall Arenas Barcelona, which has been a staple for me through the years, to find a bite to eat or get some last-minute clothes or kicks. On the way, I find a pretty crowded coffee shop (Morrow Coffee) and decide to get my bite there:

I of course open up Grindr while I enjoy this latte. Some unopened messages from yesterday. I answer some and survey the current grid. Lots of hotties on display for sure. I get a ping from this random guy (cute-ish, Spaniard, says he is 25) who was pushing some gay tour around the bars of Barcelona. I didn’t need a tour of the clubs, as I have been to them many times before, but this would be useful for someone who needs to be oriented on the offerings of Barcelona nightlife.

It’s a shame that the guy was selling tours and not himself. I would buy what he’s selling if that were the case.
As I head back to my hotel, I give Pedro a cursory “Oi” and ask how he was. Unprompted, he tells me about his immediate plans. He tells me that he will be going to Thermas soon at 1 PM because he feels that there will be a better chance he would get clients earlier than later.

This was a little bit earlier than what is common knowledge on the sites—that 4 PM–8 PM are prime boy times. As I get back to my hotel room, it is 12:45 PM. Should I head over to the sauna now, or should I check out the gym here? The buying clothes thing was just an excuse.
**Decision #1: I go to the gym**
Sex tourism is a marathon, not a sprint. And thus, with any physical activity, one must stretch first to last longer and to enjoy the activity better. So I opt for the gym. I told you I have stayed in this hotel before, but have not visited the gym at all, and thinking that this is a supposed gay hotel, the gym should be decent, right?

Wrong. The gym was tiny. I guess that’s why they call it a “fitness center,” because this was not enough for any serious workout. Still, I had my mind set on working up a sweat, so I try my best to get it on the treadmill and push some weights and the chest machine they had.
While I was working out, I got into an interesting convo on Grindr with a 35-year-old Spanish guy. He was tall (over 6 feet), with long light-brown hair, and cute. He seems eager to meet, and was conversing with me in English, so intentions were communicated fairly clearly on both sides. My fear in communicating in a foreign tongue that I have some fluency in—but am still subject to local lingo blind spots—is that things might be interpreted or communicated somewhat incorrectly, resulting in confusion upon meeting. It still beats using a translator, though, where translations can sometimes be even more confusing because Google Translate does not pick up on context well.
As I finish up my workout, it is looking like this Grindr guy wants to meet. We have already exchanged photos of body parts, clear face pics, as well as us picking off the menu of gay sex options we were willing to partake in and which ones we enjoyed. There was a desire to meet on both sides. I had another decision to make: go to the sauna now, where there are apparently boys coming this early, or hook up with this Grindr guy?
**Decision #2: I hook up with Grindr guy**
Yes, I am potentially giving up one less orgasm, one less boy to hire from the sauna. But old habits die hard, and I quickly give him my address and room number, and a time to meet. He lived close by and was willing to travel, so I told him I would meet him in 30 minutes. I go back down to my room, tidy up the place for my gentleman caller, take a very, very thorough shower, and wait for him to let me know that he is in the lobby.
I get the message from Grindr at 30 minutes, on the dot. I do love a punctual Spaniard. I head down to the lobby and see him sitting on a reception chair. He sees me and stands up. Yes, he is tall. Yes, he is photo-accurate, if a little bit tanner than what I expected. I can see the possibilities right away. And my dick responds right away to the hug he automatically gives me, followed by kisses on both cheeks. This was a proper hello for sure.
What follows, of course, is only for the four walls of my hotel room to attest to. Suffice it to say that it was worth sacrificing some boy time for some local time, for sure.
Anyway, after some post-coital convo about Barcelona, my next trip, and his work, he takes a quick shower and goes on his way. No more hug before leaving, which is fine. I tidy up the bed, take another very thorough shower, and am ready for the sauna.
Shit, it was almost 3:30 PM, and I am going to need something to eat before the sauna. I could not eat anything big, oily, or starchy that will sit in my stomach for hours and impede my enjoyment at the sauna. After a quick search on Google Maps, I find Café Paradero, which had fairly healthy options to choose from. It was just a 5-minute walk from the hotel, so I hoofed it there to get my lunch.

I got the acai bowl, which was exactly what I needed at this time. I was able to down that bowl in record time. I headed back to the hotel to brush my teeth (you can’t be too clean in these scenarios), and then was finally on my way to Thermas.

It was 4:30 PM by the time I got to the reception area at Thermas. There were considerably more people on this Saturday afternoon than just hours before. Indeed, Saturday afternoon is one of the good times to go to Thermas. I changed into my towel and saw more clients as well changing and accessing their locker rooms.
As I was about to head down to the bar area, I see Pedro, in his street clothes, emerging from the boy’s locker room. He sees me and heads over to give me a hug.
“Coming or going?” I ask.
“Going, I’m afraid. Sorry I can’t hang out today. One of my regulars really wanted me to be with him. I really wish you had told me you were coming, and I would have been able to hang out more.”
“It’s okay. You have to earn money, right? I hope to see you on the next trip.”
We exchange more small talk, but it was obvious he needed to leave. He gives me a final deep kiss, then goes through the door, and he’s gone.
I head down to the bar area to get my first drink of the day. I think I earned it because I’ve already done a lot for the day. I see that the bar area also has way more people than before. All the chairs were occupied when I got there, but I sat down immediately when one chair became open. I ask for my usual Jack and Diet and survey the field.
Looking around, I would say that there were two boys for every client on this floor. I see some clients sitting with two boys wrapped around them. I see a couple of clients who looked like they were boys, but soon were joined by an obvious boy, and I deduced they were a couple who played with boys in the sauna.

I notice one client who was speaking to this boy. The boy had his back turned to me, but I could tell he was a stunner. He had well-arranged hair, broad shoulders, and blemish-free white skin. He was clearly gym-built, but not overly so, which was just perfect for me.
They were speaking in another language. Perhaps Russian? I could be wrong, but both seemed to be talking as if it was their mother tongue.
I catch a glimpse of the boy’s face. He seemed really young, maybe early 20s. Definitely white, so my Russian guess might be correct. Ukrainian? A possibility. I have zero radar when it comes to Slavic boys—I cannot tell them apart. I’ll need to get familiar, obviously.
I was in no pressure. I had all afternoon. I kind of wanted to see what the deal was with this kid, but he was busy. Should I go upstairs to see if there were more choices to be had? Or should I wait for him to be available? Some other clients were eyeing him too. Seems like a popular boy.
**Decision #3: I wait for this boy to be available**
I was already within handshake distance. I could have tried to talk to him, but I waited, taking small sips of my drink. Some boys came up to me and tried to seduce me, but at this point I was only interested in one thing. I was patient and not in a hurry.
After what I think was 30 minutes, the client finally left. Did he go just to pee? I didn’t hesitate. I gave the boy an “hola” and a light tap on the shoulder. He turned around.
Wow—this boy is cuuuttteeeeee.
He gave a little smile and met my hand for a handshake.
“My name is Mike—and yours?”
Well, Mike the Russian, i thought, let’s see if we can make this work.
More with Mike and the rest of the boys, next.

Hey guys, I’m back to writing trip reports—at least this one time. For those unfamiliar, my writing style is different, so if the majority isn’t receptive, I’d be more than happy to delete this post.
I just wanted to write this trip report about my first time visiting Thermas Sauna in Barcelona. For those who know me, even just here, it might be a surprise that I haven’t been to Thermas before this trip. I’m frankly surprised myself, as I’ve been to Barcelona six times before for “normal” gay activities, as well as to get on a cruise ship two of those times. Those other trips were (sadly?) rent-boy free and were either with my boyfriend at the time or with friends, and I just used Grindr with some success.
I finally decided to make a Thermas run because I had a weeklong work trip to a city in Europe that wasn’t exactly a hotbed of gay/rent-boy activity. I figured that going to Thermas before would help me get this horny energy out of my system. Even if it’s only for two nights, it’ll give me a chance to deal with some jet lag and rest before the work trip, at the very least.
Night 1: Am I in Brazil?
Well, my first night was off to an ominous start, with my flight delayed by 5 hours, meaning my 2 PM arrival became 7:20 PM. I’d heard the best time to visit Thermas is between 4 PM and 8 PM, when most of the boys are there. With my delay, I’d likely arrive after those prime rent-boy hours. Still, hope springs eternal, and the chance to discover something new—after probably more than 50 trips to Brazil—had me excited. I’ve always had luck in Barcelona, whether it’s on Grindr or with a boyfriend, so a sauna visit should be a positive experience too.  And since this is a Friday night, I am hoping that the weekend will bring in the numbers.
After almost a 20-minute wait in line at immigration, where I spent a total of 15 seconds with an officer (no words exchanged), I finally reached baggage claim. Another potential wait: the baggage claim in Barcelona airport show an estimated time for when bags will arrive, and mine said it would be another 30 minutes. At this point, it was 8:40 PM, so I sat down on one of the benches and opened Grindr, since there wasn’t much else to do.
Opening Grindr at an airport is always a futile endeavor. You usually get guys transiting through, so there’s no real chance of a meaningful connection. Sure, I’ve talked to guys before who were interested in meeting at their or my gate, but after 15+ hours of travel, I prefer to wait and get a shower at my hotel before heading to the sauna.
I started chatting with a couple of guys who seemed interesting and responded to a few pings. Then I received a message from a photo-less guy with promising stats. His status said “for right now,” so I figured, why not answer?

Oh no, I’ve been spotted. And just as I finished reading that, the bags started arriving on the belt. And as luck would have it, my bags were among the first to come out. Should I respond? Should I get my bags? He clearly knows where I am. I quickly grabbed my bags and checked the time: it was 9:05 PM. A quick calculation meant I’d be in my hotel room by 9:30 PM, take a quick shower, and could still be at the sauna before 10 PM. Maybe there would still be some guys there? Or should I wait for this guy who’s semi-stalking me?
What would you have done?
The uncertainty of not knowing if this guy was my type, combined with how gross I probably looked after hours of transcontinental travel from the USA to Europe, made the idea of meeting this guy less appealing. But maybe it would still be a dud and the sauna would be empty at this hour. I took my chances. I bee-lined to the “Nada que declarar” door and was through quickly. I hit up an ING Bank ATM by the arrivals gate and got 300 euros for the sauna.
Just to be polite, I replied to my Grindr stalker, letting him know I had already exited baggage claim. After that no more messages from Señor Stalker. The Uber ride to my hotel was 40 bucks, and within 5 minutes, I was on my way. As expected, Grindr pings kept coming through on the way to the hotel. This was the Barcelona I knew. It should be a good trip.
For the hotel, I chose the safe bet: Axel Two Barcelona, an advertised gay hotel. I’d stayed there once before with a boyfriend, and the hotel was a 6-minute walk to the sauna. It was a bit more expensive than closer hotels, but I figured, at least for this trip, tried and true would work. I checked in with two friendly receptionists, both gay, who were efficient and had me up to my room in under 5 minutes. I checked Grindr again and saw the same two reception guys now in my feed. Of course they were there. I wondered if I could message them on Grindr if I had a problem with my room or needed room service.

A quick but thorough shower got me out the door just before 10 PM. I pulled up Google Maps to plot my route to the sauna, then set off for the brief 6 minute walk. Early spring in Barcelona made it a very comfortable walk in just a light jacket. I must admit, I was excited, but also a little nervous. This would be the first time I was going to a boy sauna/bar outside Brazil since 2019, when I last went to Gigolo Erotic House in Bogotá.

When I reached the street where the sauna was supposed to be, I didn’t see any signage at first—probably because I was so eager to get to the location I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. I stopped when I passed an ATM, reversed course, and looked more closely at the doors and signs.

As I headed back, I see an open door to a room with some stacked towels on a table and two attractive-ish boys talking rapidly in Spanish. The more muscular one noticed me and shouted “la puerta,” pointing to his right. Thanks for the assist! He turned out to be the bartender at the sauna. Anyway, I found the main door to the sauna and saw the receptionist through the window. He gave me a quick once-over, buzzed me in, and motioned for me to open the door and let myself in.
He quickly asked for the entrance fee (24 euros?), which I paid with a quick swipe of Apple Pay. Then he asked me something else in Spanish, and luckily, I caught the tail-end of it, which I understood as “zapatillas.” He was asking if I needed slippers, and I gave my most authoritative “Sí!” He then asked me something else, which I assumed was to ask for my size, so I told him in Spanish, guessing my European shoe size which i knew was close to the Brazilian shoe size, which I knew fairly well. I understand Spanish pretty well and speak it at an intermediate level, but as with Portuguese, it always takes me half a day of hearing and speaking it to get back into it, especially after a long stay in the mono-lingual USA. Plus, I was tired. Plus I was horny.
The receptionist handed me a locker key, similar to the system in Brazil, and pointed me toward the locker room, which was directly ahead. From where I stood, I could see five people: three of them were obviously boys—2 Latino-looking, fit with abs, and one muscular white tall guy. The other two were clients, just heading into the locker room. Oh good, there were still people here at 10:20 PM on a Friday night.

 

I found my locker and saw three clients changing into their street clothes. I hoped this wasn’t a sign that people were leaving in droves. There were two towels in the locker. I took off all my clothes, put them in the locker, and wrapped a towel around my waist. I made sure I had my 300 euros so I could pay, grabbed my cellphone out of habit, and locked the locker.
I stepped out of the locker room and looked around. Where do I go? One of the boys sitting on a ledge in the center of the reception area pointed to the dark room, which, upon closer inspection, had stairs leading further down. “Abajo,” he said, pointing down. He instantly clocked me as a newbie. He rose and went down the stairs, so I followed.
The floor below was a dimly lit area, with some people milling about in towels. The boy continued further down to another lower level, and I followed him. After a short narrow corridor, the space opened up. I saw a jacuzzi, a pool, and a bar area. I counted five people sitting at the bar. This was promising. I plopped down in a vacant seat.

The boy who had guided me down wasn’t really a “boy.” He was a full-grown man—probably in his 30s, with fairly big build but not overly gymmed out body and white-adjacent, possibly Arab, looks. He rattled off the usual Spanish introductions: “Where are you from?” “When did you arrive?” and “Is this your first time here at the sauna?”
 
And then at the corner of my eye, a tall fit bearded guy appeared. I was still talking to my man-guide when I heard a familiar voice. “Numazu, what are you doing here?” in English. I recognized who it was even before I took a good look at the guy. It was indeed a familiar friendly face. It was this boy from Brazil who I first met in 2020. To be honest, he was not just any boy. He is an ex-”boyfriend”, and we “dated” for a good part of the pandemic in 2020-2021, just right after Brazil opened up after its lockdown. 
My man-guide slowly backed away, sensing a shift in my focus. The Brazilian, who I will call Pedro, got really close to me and stared at my face. He was clearly thinking, probably with a mix of surprise that he saw me here, but also on how to approach me. After a beat, he hugged me, and then again another tighter hug. He then kissed me, tentative at first, and then deeply after he knew he could. And then, out of old habit, he scooped me up and lifted me for one of those body hugs he used to give me when we were together.  
Pedro sat next to me, clearly excited that I was there. “This is why you suddenly disappeared,” I said, as there was a time two years ago that Pedro frequented Lagoa in Sao Paulo almost every day. We were pretty civil at that point after a crappy break up, and the relationship had been over for 3 years, and all the reasons why we broke up were just a distant memory, and we were just friends. And then one day I stopped seeing him at Lagoa. I didn’t even worry about it, it's just one of those things that happen in the background that you realize for half a second but never think about until you forget it eventually, only to resurface and make sense at this moment.
We got caught up on our lives. His main thing was that the Brazil sauna scene was not giving him the resources he needed to survive. He decided to try Europe with a client helping him to get there. He quickly found a good life for him, traveling all over Europe, using Barcelona as his base, and Zurich as well, and traveling with clients who met him in the saunas back to those client’s home towns. He said he has never seen this much money in his life, and he has saved a tidy sum just living this life.  Europe has been kind to him.
Just to give a description. Pedro is in his late 20s or early 30s. Tall and bearded, has a lean muscular body that has almost zero fat. He has a sweet face, and I know he kisses very passionately, though he does dole his kisses out pretty judiciously to those who can pay for it. But being Brazilian, his show stopper is his cock. Let’s just say it is long and thick, more than a mouthful, and a challenge to all but the seasoned ones among us. I got interested in him because he was a sex maniac, but I “dated” him because deep down he is a pussycat. 
My man guide was still close by, probably trying to listen to our conversation, which was a mix of Portuguese, English and Spanish. I nodded to the man-guide and he asked me if I was Brazilian. Pedro quickly interjected and proclaimed that, almost proudly, that I was his ex-boyfriend. I told man-guide I was American, but Brazil was a second home. There was another handsome boy seated close by, who was built like Pedro but with more Arab looks. Later I would find out that he was from Morocco. I would eventually see 5 more boys still in the sauna who were actively looking as well through the course of this night.  So clearly I had options, even at this hour. 
I ordered a Jack and diet. Pedro ordered a vodka red bull. I was surprised. He used to not drink but now he clearly does. “Europe has changed me, and I can show you how much if you let me.” I reminded him “You used to be different before you met me, so I changed you too.”  Which was true. I met Pedro at the Sauna Boa Vista in Recife. Back then he was just this naive kid who was dirt poor, who slept on the beach, and has never left Recife. Me, being the great corruptor that I am, introduced him to Rio de Janeiro, and then Sao Paulo, and he got a taste of city life and ways, and more money than he had ever seen in his life up to that point. And look at him now.
Next up: my time with Pedro, and two other boys. Spoiler Alert: I left the sauna at 2:30 AM.

@Latbear4blk that is Renan Kalany. I talked about him I think on a separate thread but I can repeat what I said. He is (was?) an OnlyFans and Instagram content creator that I had the chance to meet in 2019? during the New Year in Santos, São Paulo. He was a friend of a friend and a referral and he stayed with me (and friends) for about a week.
He is a super sweetheart and it’s a shame I’ve lost contact with him during the pandemic and not sure what happened to him if he is still out there and available, though to be honest I have not tried to look or ask.
Some pics to show who he is, and an x pic that I blurred. His x pics are readily available online.



Just a note: I’ve never seen him at the saunas in Brazil. I’ve discovered through the years that referrals have been always the best times I’ve had in Brazil vs the ones I picked for myself. Probably because these referrals have been curated by people who know me or at least know what I like, and they have a wider network of friends and acquaintances to choose from.
Im not knocking on the saunas tho. Im always there, everyday, whenever im in Brazil (and not working).
Thanks @pylonguy71! I wish I had more time to do these as I am constantly on trips, but I figured I can do this one that is a fairly short trip. This was only a 2-3 night trip but as you can see how verbose I can be when it comes to trip reports. I’m glad you like it! At least someone does 🙂 
 

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

Afternoon Interlude: Gotta Stick to What Works
Something I notice about Thermas Barcelona is just the sheer size of it. Maybe it wasn’t full, which made it feel bigger, but either way, it’s easy to disappear in this place without any effort. The free cabins are useful for that, sure, but there are also plenty of nooks and crannies tucked just out of sight—away from the bar, for example.

Because this sauna basically runs 24/7, those hidden spots become prime real estate for certain “homeless” boys—guys who don’t really have anywhere to go, especially when they first arrive in Barcelona. I’m sure that after a few €50 sessions with clients, those unhoused boys can start putting something together with their life and actually rebuild.
I’ve seen this phenomenon everywhere, but especially in Colombia. Venezuelan boys—young enough, hot enough, hung enough or bootylicious enough—flee their country’s impossible economy and try to start over in Colombia. Colombia has its own thing going on with webcam studios—Chaturbate, LiveJasmin, OnlyFans—all of it feeding into what’s basically a decentralized porn industry studio system. These "studios" are usually headquartered in residential houses, with bedrooms converted into sex sets that double as actual bedrooms to sleep in when not in use. A lot of these boys, broke when they arrive, end up sleeping there until they can save enough for a place of their own.
Brazil has a version of this too. Some saunas, or even some homes owned by sauna managers and owners, act like halfway houses for boys coming out of favelas or other Brazilian states. Some saunas even advertise this setup as a way to attract fresh meat.
Pedro—my ex-Brazilian—took advantage of this at Thermas.
As I settle back at the bar, waiting for my cum to regenerate and enjoying a well-earned drink, a boy-next-door type waves at me from across the room to get my attention. He’s decent-looking—not stunning like some of the others, but not bad. OK body—not fat, not ripped, no abs, but serviceable. He’s got a beard, which works for me. Overall, pleasant enough.
I wave him over. He asks if he can get a drink—I nod and motion to the bartender. Whisky, straight. He pulls up a stool close to mine and sits.
We start talking. His Spanish is decent, and he tries some English, not very successfully, but he keeps trying. Then he starts his pitch—shows me his cock (not huge, not small). I tell him no, but I appreciate the offer. We keep chatting, and I find out he’s Romanian.
That catches my attention. I’ve never knowingly been with a Romanian before.
He picks up on that slight shift in interest and tries again. I say no again—this time softer. He’s actually kind of endearing. Could be fun. But there are a lot of other options here—guys with more to offer: better looks, bigger cocks, the usual. I’m just not in the mood for him.
Then comes the final move—the sob story. He says he’s homeless, arrived a month ago, couldn’t find regular work, so now he’s here. Doesn’t have enough money to go back to Romania, so he’s trying to save up for a ticket.
I ask if he’s staying with friends. He says no—he sleeps in the sauna.

I ask if management allows that. He says it’s informal. Most of the time, they don’t mind.
But not all the time. On Saturdays—today—the boys have to leave at 10 PM and can’t come back until noon Sunday. That’s when the sauna flips into a regular gay party space—DJ, drugs, sex, the whole thing, within the sauna confines.
So I ask him where he goes.
He says other saunas—Sauna Casanova or Sauna Bruc. Both within walking distance. I didn’t even realize there were other spots like this in Barcelona. He says they’re not really “boy saunas,” but he still manages to get business there.
Times are hard. You adapt.
I tell him I appreciate the company, but he should probably get to work before they’re kicked out at 10. It’s already 6 PM. He looks disappointed.
Maybe another time, I’d have the headspace for him. But right now, I’m hunting for something else.
I turn my attention back to the bar and notice two boys standing over a client they clearly know. One’s very twinky—not my type. The other, though—more twunk. Great Latin face, smooth muscle, not bulky but clearly worked, insane abs, great ass. No beard, but it works. He’s wearing white underwear instead of a towel, which already sets him apart.

Maybe I was staring, because he suddenly hugs the client, gives him a deep kiss, and then makes his way straight to me.
Argentinian. 25. Magnetic as hell.
He knows exactly how to present himself—angles, posture, timing. No hesitation with contact. He gets close immediately, touching me, stroking my neck, then kisses me without asking.
Deep. Slow. Intense. One of those full-on, French kisses that just keeps going longer than you expect—and longer than you probably deserve.
Okay. So this is how Latinos kiss.
There’s nothing else like it. Not here.
He asks about my preferences—I don’t even think he listens to the answer. Just smiles and says, “I do it all.”
And yeah—he means it. He’s already grinding against me where I’m sitting.
I finish my drink fast. At that point, my dick has already made the decision.
He asks if I want a free cabin or a paid room. I know about the paid rooms but haven’t tried them yet. Figured—why not now, why not with him?
We head upstairs to reception. I ask for a room with a private shower. The receptionist hands me a key. The Argentinian grabs it, checks it, and leads me back down.
The room is tucked away in one of the hidden corridors. Decent size. This one has a dungeon setup and a sling.
Maybe he plans to use everything?



And then the deed. No exaggeration—he delivers. Fully. Kisses like it matters, sucks like it’s his last meal, gives it like a madman, takes it like a champ. No clock-watching. Orders drinks mid-session. Even pauses for conversation before switching things up—like an intermission before the next act.
Five stars. Easily one of the best I’ve had—and that’s saying something.
Latinos just know what they’re doing.
One thing I really appreciated about the private room: the en-suite shower. Makes a huge difference when you’re switching roles and need a quick reset mid-session.
I give him €100. Honestly, I should’ve given more.
He came, so technically the rate was fair. But still—I like rewarding performance. Good attitude, good energy, good delivery. Same way I treat my employees back home.
And that kind of generosity? It tends to come back tenfold the next time.
Next: a threesome, if you can believe it.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

Afternoon Interlude: Gotta Stick to What Works
Something I notice about Thermas Barcelona is just the sheer size of it. Maybe it wasn’t full, which made it feel bigger, but either way, it’s easy to disappear in this place without any effort. The free cabins are useful for that, sure, but there are also plenty of nooks and crannies tucked just out of sight—away from the bar, for example.

Because this sauna basically runs 24/7, those hidden spots become prime real estate for certain “homeless” boys—guys who don’t really have anywhere to go, especially when they first arrive in Barcelona. I’m sure that after a few €50 sessions with clients, those unhoused boys can start putting something together with their life and actually rebuild.
I’ve seen this phenomenon everywhere, but especially in Colombia. Venezuelan boys—young enough, hot enough, hung enough or bootylicious enough—flee their country’s impossible economy and try to start over in Colombia. Colombia has its own thing going on with webcam studios—Chaturbate, LiveJasmin, OnlyFans—all of it feeding into what’s basically a decentralized porn industry studio system. These "studios" are usually headquartered in residential houses, with bedrooms converted into sex sets that double as actual bedrooms to sleep in when not in use. A lot of these boys, broke when they arrive, end up sleeping there until they can save enough for a place of their own.
Brazil has a version of this too. Some saunas, or even some homes owned by sauna managers and owners, act like halfway houses for boys coming out of favelas or other Brazilian states. Some saunas even advertise this setup as a way to attract fresh meat.
Pedro—my ex-Brazilian—took advantage of this at Thermas.
As I settle back at the bar, waiting for my cum to regenerate and enjoying a well-earned drink, a boy-next-door type waves at me from across the room to get my attention. He’s decent-looking—not stunning like some of the others, but not bad. OK body—not fat, not ripped, no abs, but serviceable. He’s got a beard, which works for me. Overall, pleasant enough.
I wave him over. He asks if he can get a drink—I nod and motion to the bartender. Whisky, straight. He pulls up a stool close to mine and sits.
We start talking. His Spanish is decent, and he tries some English, not very successfully, but he keeps trying. Then he starts his pitch—shows me his cock (not huge, not small). I tell him no, but I appreciate the offer. We keep chatting, and I find out he’s Romanian.
That catches my attention. I’ve never knowingly been with a Romanian before.
He picks up on that slight shift in interest and tries again. I say no again—this time softer. He’s actually kind of endearing. Could be fun. But there are a lot of other options here—guys with more to offer: better looks, bigger cocks, the usual. I’m just not in the mood for him.
Then comes the final move—the sob story. He says he’s homeless, arrived a month ago, couldn’t find regular work, so now he’s here. Doesn’t have enough money to go back to Romania, so he’s trying to save up for a ticket.
I ask if he’s staying with friends. He says no—he sleeps in the sauna.

I ask if management allows that. He says it’s informal. Most of the time, they don’t mind.
But not all the time. On Saturdays—today—the boys have to leave at 10 PM and can’t come back until noon Sunday. That’s when the sauna flips into a regular gay party space—DJ, drugs, sex, the whole thing, within the sauna confines.
So I ask him where he goes.
He says other saunas—Sauna Casanova or Sauna Bruc. Both within walking distance. I didn’t even realize there were other spots like this in Barcelona. He says they’re not really “boy saunas,” but he still manages to get business there.
Times are hard. You adapt.
I tell him I appreciate the company, but he should probably get to work before they’re kicked out at 10. It’s already 6 PM. He looks disappointed.
Maybe another time, I’d have the headspace for him. But right now, I’m hunting for something else.
I turn my attention back to the bar and notice two boys standing over a client they clearly know. One’s very twinky—not my type. The other, though—more twunk. Great Latin face, smooth muscle, not bulky but clearly worked, insane abs, great ass. No beard, but it works. He’s wearing white underwear instead of a towel, which already sets him apart.

Maybe I was staring, because he suddenly hugs the client, gives him a deep kiss, and then makes his way straight to me.
Argentinian. 25. Magnetic as hell.
He knows exactly how to present himself—angles, posture, timing. No hesitation with contact. He gets close immediately, touching me, stroking my neck, then kisses me without asking.
Deep. Slow. Intense. One of those full-on, French kisses that just keeps going longer than you expect—and longer than you probably deserve.
Okay. So this is how Latinos kiss.
There’s nothing else like it. Not here.
He asks about my preferences—I don’t even think he listens to the answer. Just smiles and says, “I do it all.”
And yeah—he means it. He’s already grinding against me where I’m sitting.
I finish my drink fast. At that point, my dick has already made the decision.
He asks if I want a free cabin or a paid room. I know about the paid rooms but haven’t tried them yet. Figured—why not now, why not with him?
We head upstairs to reception. I ask for a room with a private shower. The receptionist hands me a key. The Argentinian grabs it, checks it, and leads me back down.
The room is tucked away in one of the hidden corridors. Decent size. This one has a dungeon setup and a sling.
Maybe he plans to use everything?



And then the deed. No exaggeration—he delivers. Fully. Kisses like it matters, sucks like it’s his last meal, gives it like a madman, takes it like a champ. No clock-watching. Orders drinks mid-session. Even pauses for conversation before switching things up—like an intermission before the next act.
Five stars. Easily one of the best I’ve had—and that’s saying something.
Latinos just know what they’re doing.
One thing I really appreciated about the private room: the en-suite shower. Makes a huge difference when you’re switching roles and need a quick reset mid-session.
I give him €100. Honestly, I should’ve given more.
He came, so technically the rate was fair. But still—I like rewarding performance. Good attitude, good energy, good delivery. Same way I treat my employees back home.
And that kind of generosity? It tends to come back tenfold the next time.
Next: a threesome, if you can believe it.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

Afternoon Interlude: Gotta Stick to What Works
Something I notice about Thermas Barcelona is just the sheer size of it. Maybe it wasn’t full, which made it feel bigger, but either way, it’s easy to disappear in this place without any effort. The free cabins are useful for that, sure, but there are also plenty of nooks and crannies tucked just out of sight—away from the bar, for example.

Because this sauna basically runs 24/7, those hidden spots become prime real estate for certain “homeless” boys—guys who don’t really have anywhere to go, especially when they first arrive in Barcelona. I’m sure that after a few €50 sessions with clients, those unhoused boys can start putting something together with their life and actually rebuild.
I’ve seen this phenomenon everywhere, but especially in Colombia. Venezuelan boys—young enough, hot enough, hung enough or bootylicious enough—flee their country’s impossible economy and try to start over in Colombia. Colombia has its own thing going on with webcam studios—Chaturbate, LiveJasmin, OnlyFans—all of it feeding into what’s basically a decentralized porn industry studio system. These "studios" are usually headquartered in residential houses, with bedrooms converted into sex sets that double as actual bedrooms to sleep in when not in use. A lot of these boys, broke when they arrive, end up sleeping there until they can save enough for a place of their own.
Brazil has a version of this too. Some saunas, or even some homes owned by sauna managers and owners, act like halfway houses for boys coming out of favelas or other Brazilian states. Some saunas even advertise this setup as a way to attract fresh meat.
Pedro—my ex-Brazilian—took advantage of this at Thermas.
As I settle back at the bar, waiting for my cum to regenerate and enjoying a well-earned drink, a boy-next-door type waves at me from across the room to get my attention. He’s decent-looking—not stunning like some of the others, but not bad. OK body—not fat, not ripped, no abs, but serviceable. He’s got a beard, which works for me. Overall, pleasant enough.
I wave him over. He asks if he can get a drink—I nod and motion to the bartender. Whisky, straight. He pulls up a stool close to mine and sits.
We start talking. His Spanish is decent, and he tries some English, not very successfully, but he keeps trying. Then he starts his pitch—shows me his cock (not huge, not small). I tell him no, but I appreciate the offer. We keep chatting, and I find out he’s Romanian.
That catches my attention. I’ve never knowingly been with a Romanian before.
He picks up on that slight shift in interest and tries again. I say no again—this time softer. He’s actually kind of endearing. Could be fun. But there are a lot of other options here—guys with more to offer: better looks, bigger cocks, the usual. I’m just not in the mood for him.
Then comes the final move—the sob story. He says he’s homeless, arrived a month ago, couldn’t find regular work, so now he’s here. Doesn’t have enough money to go back to Romania, so he’s trying to save up for a ticket.
I ask if he’s staying with friends. He says no—he sleeps in the sauna.

I ask if management allows that. He says it’s informal. Most of the time, they don’t mind.
But not all the time. On Saturdays—today—the boys have to leave at 10 PM and can’t come back until noon Sunday. That’s when the sauna flips into a regular gay party space—DJ, drugs, sex, the whole thing, within the sauna confines.
So I ask him where he goes.
He says other saunas—Sauna Casanova or Sauna Bruc. Both within walking distance. I didn’t even realize there were other spots like this in Barcelona. He says they’re not really “boy saunas,” but he still manages to get business there.
Times are hard. You adapt.
I tell him I appreciate the company, but he should probably get to work before they’re kicked out at 10. It’s already 6 PM. He looks disappointed.
Maybe another time, I’d have the headspace for him. But right now, I’m hunting for something else.
I turn my attention back to the bar and notice two boys standing over a client they clearly know. One’s very twinky—not my type. The other, though—more twunk. Great Latin face, smooth muscle, not bulky but clearly worked, insane abs, great ass. No beard, but it works. He’s wearing white underwear instead of a towel, which already sets him apart.

Maybe I was staring, because he suddenly hugs the client, gives him a deep kiss, and then makes his way straight to me.
Argentinian. 25. Magnetic as hell.
He knows exactly how to present himself—angles, posture, timing. No hesitation with contact. He gets close immediately, touching me, stroking my neck, then kisses me without asking.
Deep. Slow. Intense. One of those full-on, French kisses that just keeps going longer than you expect—and longer than you probably deserve.
Okay. So this is how Latinos kiss.
There’s nothing else like it. Not here.
He asks about my preferences—I don’t even think he listens to the answer. Just smiles and says, “I do it all.”
And yeah—he means it. He’s already grinding against me where I’m sitting.
I finish my drink fast. At that point, my dick has already made the decision.
He asks if I want a free cabin or a paid room. I know about the paid rooms but haven’t tried them yet. Figured—why not now, why not with him?
We head upstairs to reception. I ask for a room with a private shower. The receptionist hands me a key. The Argentinian grabs it, checks it, and leads me back down.
The room is tucked away in one of the hidden corridors. Decent size. This one has a dungeon setup and a sling.
Maybe he plans to use everything?



And then the deed. No exaggeration—he delivers. Fully. Kisses like it matters, sucks like it’s his last meal, gives it like a madman, takes it like a champ. No clock-watching. Orders drinks mid-session. Even pauses for conversation before switching things up—like an intermission before the next act.
Five stars. Easily one of the best I’ve had—and that’s saying something.
Latinos just know what they’re doing.
One thing I really appreciated about the private room: the en-suite shower. Makes a huge difference when you’re switching roles and need a quick reset mid-session.
I give him €100. Honestly, I should’ve given more.
He came, so technically the rate was fair. But still—I like rewarding performance. Good attitude, good energy, good delivery. Same way I treat my employees back home.
And that kind of generosity? It tends to come back tenfold the next time.
Next: a threesome, if you can believe it.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

Like I told you many times before, I did not fly thousands of miles to fraternize with gringos. I'm kind of kidding but it's kind of true. While it is nice to catch up with friends with like-minded people, once a handsome plops his giant penis on our table, you know where my attention is going to.
Still, hoping to see you soon, even if I know you are also circling the globe as I am.
So true. Free sex options is still much more plentiful as well thank goodness.
And I eventually discovered that most of the rooms did not have an en-suite shower, which was strange to me.
I didn't get his name, and as this is my second day I have no idea if he was new or not. My guess is not, since he did seem overly familiar with some clients. I am thinking he is very popular.
As it is well known here I am iffy with recommending specific guys for people to try out. I've tried this a few times and both times the clients have come back to me saying " well I thought he would do this," or "he's not worth what you paid him." My advice is always YMMV (your mileage may vary), and you and I are different and the boy will treat you differently than I so to avoid this I try to avoid recommendations. If I know you personally and know how your are and like, and I see you at the sauna then I could make a better recommendation, and I do, for people I know.
I met another Argentinian in the sauna during this trip, so there are at least two that I know. 
Scouring this forum and COM my understanding was 50 is the base and 100 is for cumming. I meant to do increases in multiple of 10s (60, 70, 80), but didn't plan well and all my ATM withdrawal spat out was euros in only 50 note increments.  I'll keep in mind to get smaller bills going forward.
Having said that, the subject of pay is a fairly controversial one here in the forums. Of course the majority would want the rates to be as low as can be. I support that as well, and would not want to spoil it for everyone. I think tho that my extra 30 measly euros paid to one boy would not spoil the whole market. The market would regulate itself if the majority still pays the understood rate. Point taken tho, and will look to balance what my wallet can afford with what the market is accustomed to.
Though, the lower pay does manifest itself it other ways. There is a reason that the quality of boys in the Brazil saunas have seen a drop off on boy quality through the years. And I have heard that Thermas is not immune to this as well. The online market (through rentmen, Hunqz, garotocomlocal), seems to pay more than in the saunas, and you have to cover this disparity with volume of clients, which you sometimes get at the saunas. At some point the higher quality boys will give up on the saunas and focus on where the money is. There are other factors for this of course - for example, sauna rejection is a constant humiliation ritual for the boys, some boys can't post their ads online because of familial or public fears, the annoyance of receiving endless messages from clients online that don't follow through - but generally the boys follow where the most money is. I like going to saunas because it is an overall experience you are signing up for, and to me the sex act seems to be more of an afterthought - albeit a very important one, so i will keep going to them.

The evening hour: Is three truly a crowd?
I’ve talked about this topic many times over. Who doesn’t want an orgy where you’re the center of attention? I’ve had my fair share of threesomes in the past—free guys, free-and-paid combos, and all paid. To some limited success, sadly. There is always going to be some politics behind every threesome, no matter how understanding everyone thinks they are about each other’s roles. The politics of being the third wheel in a boyfriend sandwich, for example, risks having pre-existing drama between the pair play out in the scene. Pairing two rent boys together, without knowing if they play well with each other, risks frustration—with you having to commandeer the whole situation just to guarantee yourself your intended result.

Unless you have three utterly versatile individuals, or an overly active top with two bottoms eager to please and be pleased, there’s always some element of taking direction from someone in the trio—or a turn-taking aspect to the scene. What if one person is getting all the attention from another? Sometimes the third gets left out and has to awkwardly wait their turn. Threesomes seem excellent on paper—the promise of more bodies, more cocks, more orgasms—but the reality, at least for me, doesn’t deliver as well as a focused, direct, and deep connection with one individual.
Which is not to say I don’t like threesomes. I do, and I usually welcome the opportunity when it presents itself, but it’s rare that I seek it out. It’s always someone on Grindr, for example—after messaging me and agreeing to meet—who then asks if I want to add a third, usually someone specific they already have in mind. Oftentimes, that person can’t host, and I can, so they conveniently use my place for their orgy needs. If the offer sounds fishy or the third is fugly, then I won’t go through with it. But in the rare times that everything checks out, I find that saying yes more often than not turns out to be fun.
With rent boys, I definitely never seek out a threesome. I like to discover these treasures one cock at a time, and with a threesome you tend to get limbs tangled up—hardly intimate. When it does happen, it’s usually with a boy I’ve known before. He already knows my wants and needs, and when he—or we—invite a third, it’s done with full consultation between both parties, not just me, the paying one. Usually, my rent boy friend preps the third beforehand so everything runs smoothly.

So here I am. It’s almost 8 PM at Thermas, minding my own business, drinking my fourth Jack and Diet of the day. I know I’ve already come three times today—once with the Spaniard at the hotel, and twice with Thermas boys. Three is usually my limit before I call it a day. But at 8 PM, I’m not ready to leave yet. It still feels too early to call it a night.
I notice the sauna has considerably emptied out after 8 PM. That seems to be the unofficial cutoff for most punters and boys here. Still, there are a few lingering—mostly Europeans, some Latinos—hanging around the bar. Man-guide, the Albanian who was my first lay here yesterday, is sitting close-ish to me, watching football on TV. He turns, stands up, hugs me, and asks how I’m doing.
We get into a conversation for a bit before he offers his services again. I decline, saying I’m tired and just hanging out. Still, I’m reminded he has the exact look I go for but rarely find: working-class type, fit but not overly roided or gym-obsessed—just naturally built from good genes and real physical work. Tall, bearded, nice gray eyes. He reminds me of every hot dad I see at Disneyland. Fertile dad energy. And he still holds the award for thickest cock out of everyone I’ve been with so far in Barcelona.
“Do you still not kiss?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He confirms—no kissing, no sucking.
But then he proposes a threesome. He says he’ll find a boy who can do the kissing and sucking for him. He leans in close, grabs me, and whispers the rest of his pitch—this boy will be gorgeous, have a great ass for us to fuck, and will kiss me and suck both of us. He delivers it slowly, deliberately. I can feel his hot breath in my ear.
And somehow, it’s working.
I tell him maybe—it depends on the boy. I have to like him. He stands up, tells me to wait, and bolts upstairs.
He comes back with an even taller guy. Early to mid-20s. Smooth babyface, lean, well-built body. Alabaster white skin that practically begs to be touched. He’s wearing shorts and shoes but no shirt—probably on his way out when the Albanian intercepted him. He sits next to me, shakes my hand, asks my name and where I’m from.

“Good looking, yes?” the Albanian says.
I silently agree.
Turns out the guy is Colombian, which I wouldn’t have guessed. He speaks English, which helps. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d just take him for myself. But here we are.
We head up to reception. The Colombian goes to change into a towel. I book the suite with the shower again—might as well do it right.

All three of us head down. Door closes. Locks. The Albanian pulls out a fistful of condoms and lube packets, tossing them on the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Then he starts giving instructions—who’s topping (us), who’s bottoming (him), what I like. He asks the Colombian if he’s on PrEP. He nods. That answers that.
The Colombian hops in the shower.
While we wait, the Albanian takes off my towel and tells me to lie down. No oils, just a quick, rough massage—enough to get things going. It works.
The Colombian comes back, and while I’m facing down, he starts touching my ass. More instructions from the Albanian, and soon enough, the Colombian is rimming me. Then sucking. Then the Colombian sucks both of us.
The Albanian has me sit up and tells the Colombian to kiss me. Finally. He lubes me up, then the Colombian. Before long, he tells the Colombian to sit on me—and he does, confidently, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This goes on for a while, with the Albanian calling every shot—including mine. It’s a bit weird, honestly. Takes away some spontaneity. But the Colombian is fully game.
I finish with the Colombian sucking me off while the Albanian fucks him from behind. The visual alone is worth it—straight out of a porno. After a few more thrusts, the Albanian pulls out, aims, and finishes across my chest.
A successful threesome—with a touch of Albanian control freak energy.
I shower in the suite. When I come out, they’re casually talking football like nothing just happened. We leave the room grinning.
Worth it.
I pull out 150 euros—everything I have left from my withdrawal yesterday. 100 to the Albanian, the mastermind. 50 to the Colombian. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.
Next up: Sunday funday.

Like I told you many times before, I did not fly thousands of miles to fraternize with gringos. I'm kind of kidding but it's kind of true. While it is nice to catch up with friends with like-minded people, once a handsome plops his giant penis on our table, you know where my attention is going to.
Still, hoping to see you soon, even if I know you are also circling the globe as I am.
So true. Free sex options is still much more plentiful as well thank goodness.
And I eventually discovered that most of the rooms did not have an en-suite shower, which was strange to me.
I didn't get his name, and as this is my second day I have no idea if he was new or not. My guess is not, since he did seem overly familiar with some clients. I am thinking he is very popular.
As it is well known here I am iffy with recommending specific guys for people to try out. I've tried this a few times and both times the clients have come back to me saying " well I thought he would do this," or "he's not worth what you paid him." My advice is always YMMV (your mileage may vary), and you and I are different and the boy will treat you differently than I so to avoid this I try to avoid recommendations. If I know you personally and know how your are and like, and I see you at the sauna then I could make a better recommendation, and I do, for people I know.
I met another Argentinian in the sauna during this trip, so there are at least two that I know. 
Scouring this forum and COM my understanding was 50 is the base and 100 is for cumming. I meant to do increases in multiple of 10s (60, 70, 80), but didn't plan well and all my ATM withdrawal spat out was euros in only 50 note increments.  I'll keep in mind to get smaller bills going forward.
Having said that, the subject of pay is a fairly controversial one here in the forums. Of course the majority would want the rates to be as low as can be. I support that as well, and would not want to spoil it for everyone. I think tho that my extra 30 measly euros paid to one boy would not spoil the whole market. The market would regulate itself if the majority still pays the understood rate. Point taken tho, and will look to balance what my wallet can afford with what the market is accustomed to.
Though, the lower pay does manifest itself it other ways. There is a reason that the quality of boys in the Brazil saunas have seen a drop off on boy quality through the years. And I have heard that Thermas is not immune to this as well. The online market (through rentmen, Hunqz, garotocomlocal), seems to pay more than in the saunas, and you have to cover this disparity with volume of clients, which you sometimes get at the saunas. At some point the higher quality boys will give up on the saunas and focus on where the money is. There are other factors for this of course - for example, sauna rejection is a constant humiliation ritual for the boys, some boys can't post their ads online because of familial or public fears, the annoyance of receiving endless messages from clients online that don't follow through - but generally the boys follow where the most money is. I like going to saunas because it is an overall experience you are signing up for, and to me the sex act seems to be more of an afterthought - albeit a very important one, so i will keep going to them.

Like I told you many times before, I did not fly thousands of miles to fraternize with gringos. I'm kind of kidding but it's kind of true. While it is nice to catch up with friends with like-minded people, once a handsome plops his giant penis on our table, you know where my attention is going to.
Still, hoping to see you soon, even if I know you are also circling the globe as I am.
So true. Free sex options is still much more plentiful as well thank goodness.
And I eventually discovered that most of the rooms did not have an en-suite shower, which was strange to me.
I didn't get his name, and as this is my second day I have no idea if he was new or not. My guess is not, since he did seem overly familiar with some clients. I am thinking he is very popular.
As it is well known here I am iffy with recommending specific guys for people to try out. I've tried this a few times and both times the clients have come back to me saying " well I thought he would do this," or "he's not worth what you paid him." My advice is always YMMV (your mileage may vary), and you and I are different and the boy will treat you differently than I so to avoid this I try to avoid recommendations. If I know you personally and know how your are and like, and I see you at the sauna then I could make a better recommendation, and I do, for people I know.
I met another Argentinian in the sauna during this trip, so there are at least two that I know. 
Scouring this forum and COM my understanding was 50 is the base and 100 is for cumming. I meant to do increases in multiple of 10s (60, 70, 80), but didn't plan well and all my ATM withdrawal spat out was euros in only 50 note increments.  I'll keep in mind to get smaller bills going forward.
Having said that, the subject of pay is a fairly controversial one here in the forums. Of course the majority would want the rates to be as low as can be. I support that as well, and would not want to spoil it for everyone. I think tho that my extra 30 measly euros paid to one boy would not spoil the whole market. The market would regulate itself if the majority still pays the understood rate. Point taken tho, and will look to balance what my wallet can afford with what the market is accustomed to.
Though, the lower pay does manifest itself it other ways. There is a reason that the quality of boys in the Brazil saunas have seen a drop off on boy quality through the years. And I have heard that Thermas is not immune to this as well. The online market (through rentmen, Hunqz, garotocomlocal), seems to pay more than in the saunas, and you have to cover this disparity with volume of clients, which you sometimes get at the saunas. At some point the higher quality boys will give up on the saunas and focus on where the money is. There are other factors for this of course - for example, sauna rejection is a constant humiliation ritual for the boys, some boys can't post their ads online because of familial or public fears, the annoyance of receiving endless messages from clients online that don't follow through - but generally the boys follow where the most money is. I like going to saunas because it is an overall experience you are signing up for, and to me the sex act seems to be more of an afterthought - albeit a very important one, so i will keep going to them.

Afternoon Interlude: Gotta Stick to What Works
Something I notice about Thermas Barcelona is just the sheer size of it. Maybe it wasn’t full, which made it feel bigger, but either way, it’s easy to disappear in this place without any effort. The free cabins are useful for that, sure, but there are also plenty of nooks and crannies tucked just out of sight—away from the bar, for example.

Because this sauna basically runs 24/7, those hidden spots become prime real estate for certain “homeless” boys—guys who don’t really have anywhere to go, especially when they first arrive in Barcelona. I’m sure that after a few €50 sessions with clients, those unhoused boys can start putting something together with their life and actually rebuild.
I’ve seen this phenomenon everywhere, but especially in Colombia. Venezuelan boys—young enough, hot enough, hung enough or bootylicious enough—flee their country’s impossible economy and try to start over in Colombia. Colombia has its own thing going on with webcam studios—Chaturbate, LiveJasmin, OnlyFans—all of it feeding into what’s basically a decentralized porn industry studio system. These "studios" are usually headquartered in residential houses, with bedrooms converted into sex sets that double as actual bedrooms to sleep in when not in use. A lot of these boys, broke when they arrive, end up sleeping there until they can save enough for a place of their own.
Brazil has a version of this too. Some saunas, or even some homes owned by sauna managers and owners, act like halfway houses for boys coming out of favelas or other Brazilian states. Some saunas even advertise this setup as a way to attract fresh meat.
Pedro—my ex-Brazilian—took advantage of this at Thermas.
As I settle back at the bar, waiting for my cum to regenerate and enjoying a well-earned drink, a boy-next-door type waves at me from across the room to get my attention. He’s decent-looking—not stunning like some of the others, but not bad. OK body—not fat, not ripped, no abs, but serviceable. He’s got a beard, which works for me. Overall, pleasant enough.
I wave him over. He asks if he can get a drink—I nod and motion to the bartender. Whisky, straight. He pulls up a stool close to mine and sits.
We start talking. His Spanish is decent, and he tries some English, not very successfully, but he keeps trying. Then he starts his pitch—shows me his cock (not huge, not small). I tell him no, but I appreciate the offer. We keep chatting, and I find out he’s Romanian.
That catches my attention. I’ve never knowingly been with a Romanian before.
He picks up on that slight shift in interest and tries again. I say no again—this time softer. He’s actually kind of endearing. Could be fun. But there are a lot of other options here—guys with more to offer: better looks, bigger cocks, the usual. I’m just not in the mood for him.
Then comes the final move—the sob story. He says he’s homeless, arrived a month ago, couldn’t find regular work, so now he’s here. Doesn’t have enough money to go back to Romania, so he’s trying to save up for a ticket.
I ask if he’s staying with friends. He says no—he sleeps in the sauna.

I ask if management allows that. He says it’s informal. Most of the time, they don’t mind.
But not all the time. On Saturdays—today—the boys have to leave at 10 PM and can’t come back until noon Sunday. That’s when the sauna flips into a regular gay party space—DJ, drugs, sex, the whole thing, within the sauna confines.
So I ask him where he goes.
He says other saunas—Sauna Casanova or Sauna Bruc. Both within walking distance. I didn’t even realize there were other spots like this in Barcelona. He says they’re not really “boy saunas,” but he still manages to get business there.
Times are hard. You adapt.
I tell him I appreciate the company, but he should probably get to work before they’re kicked out at 10. It’s already 6 PM. He looks disappointed.
Maybe another time, I’d have the headspace for him. But right now, I’m hunting for something else.
I turn my attention back to the bar and notice two boys standing over a client they clearly know. One’s very twinky—not my type. The other, though—more twunk. Great Latin face, smooth muscle, not bulky but clearly worked, insane abs, great ass. No beard, but it works. He’s wearing white underwear instead of a towel, which already sets him apart.

Maybe I was staring, because he suddenly hugs the client, gives him a deep kiss, and then makes his way straight to me.
Argentinian. 25. Magnetic as hell.
He knows exactly how to present himself—angles, posture, timing. No hesitation with contact. He gets close immediately, touching me, stroking my neck, then kisses me without asking.
Deep. Slow. Intense. One of those full-on, French kisses that just keeps going longer than you expect—and longer than you probably deserve.
Okay. So this is how Latinos kiss.
There’s nothing else like it. Not here.
He asks about my preferences—I don’t even think he listens to the answer. Just smiles and says, “I do it all.”
And yeah—he means it. He’s already grinding against me where I’m sitting.
I finish my drink fast. At that point, my dick has already made the decision.
He asks if I want a free cabin or a paid room. I know about the paid rooms but haven’t tried them yet. Figured—why not now, why not with him?
We head upstairs to reception. I ask for a room with a private shower. The receptionist hands me a key. The Argentinian grabs it, checks it, and leads me back down.
The room is tucked away in one of the hidden corridors. Decent size. This one has a dungeon setup and a sling.
Maybe he plans to use everything?



And then the deed. No exaggeration—he delivers. Fully. Kisses like it matters, sucks like it’s his last meal, gives it like a madman, takes it like a champ. No clock-watching. Orders drinks mid-session. Even pauses for conversation before switching things up—like an intermission before the next act.
Five stars. Easily one of the best I’ve had—and that’s saying something.
Latinos just know what they’re doing.
One thing I really appreciated about the private room: the en-suite shower. Makes a huge difference when you’re switching roles and need a quick reset mid-session.
I give him €100. Honestly, I should’ve given more.
He came, so technically the rate was fair. But still—I like rewarding performance. Good attitude, good energy, good delivery. Same way I treat my employees back home.
And that kind of generosity? It tends to come back tenfold the next time.
Next: a threesome, if you can believe it.

Afternoon Interlude: Gotta Stick to What Works
Something I notice about Thermas Barcelona is just the sheer size of it. Maybe it wasn’t full, which made it feel bigger, but either way, it’s easy to disappear in this place without any effort. The free cabins are useful for that, sure, but there are also plenty of nooks and crannies tucked just out of sight—away from the bar, for example.

Because this sauna basically runs 24/7, those hidden spots become prime real estate for certain “homeless” boys—guys who don’t really have anywhere to go, especially when they first arrive in Barcelona. I’m sure that after a few €50 sessions with clients, those unhoused boys can start putting something together with their life and actually rebuild.
I’ve seen this phenomenon everywhere, but especially in Colombia. Venezuelan boys—young enough, hot enough, hung enough or bootylicious enough—flee their country’s impossible economy and try to start over in Colombia. Colombia has its own thing going on with webcam studios—Chaturbate, LiveJasmin, OnlyFans—all of it feeding into what’s basically a decentralized porn industry studio system. These "studios" are usually headquartered in residential houses, with bedrooms converted into sex sets that double as actual bedrooms to sleep in when not in use. A lot of these boys, broke when they arrive, end up sleeping there until they can save enough for a place of their own.
Brazil has a version of this too. Some saunas, or even some homes owned by sauna managers and owners, act like halfway houses for boys coming out of favelas or other Brazilian states. Some saunas even advertise this setup as a way to attract fresh meat.
Pedro—my ex-Brazilian—took advantage of this at Thermas.
As I settle back at the bar, waiting for my cum to regenerate and enjoying a well-earned drink, a boy-next-door type waves at me from across the room to get my attention. He’s decent-looking—not stunning like some of the others, but not bad. OK body—not fat, not ripped, no abs, but serviceable. He’s got a beard, which works for me. Overall, pleasant enough.
I wave him over. He asks if he can get a drink—I nod and motion to the bartender. Whisky, straight. He pulls up a stool close to mine and sits.
We start talking. His Spanish is decent, and he tries some English, not very successfully, but he keeps trying. Then he starts his pitch—shows me his cock (not huge, not small). I tell him no, but I appreciate the offer. We keep chatting, and I find out he’s Romanian.
That catches my attention. I’ve never knowingly been with a Romanian before.
He picks up on that slight shift in interest and tries again. I say no again—this time softer. He’s actually kind of endearing. Could be fun. But there are a lot of other options here—guys with more to offer: better looks, bigger cocks, the usual. I’m just not in the mood for him.
Then comes the final move—the sob story. He says he’s homeless, arrived a month ago, couldn’t find regular work, so now he’s here. Doesn’t have enough money to go back to Romania, so he’s trying to save up for a ticket.
I ask if he’s staying with friends. He says no—he sleeps in the sauna.

I ask if management allows that. He says it’s informal. Most of the time, they don’t mind.
But not all the time. On Saturdays—today—the boys have to leave at 10 PM and can’t come back until noon Sunday. That’s when the sauna flips into a regular gay party space—DJ, drugs, sex, the whole thing, within the sauna confines.
So I ask him where he goes.
He says other saunas—Sauna Casanova or Sauna Bruc. Both within walking distance. I didn’t even realize there were other spots like this in Barcelona. He says they’re not really “boy saunas,” but he still manages to get business there.
Times are hard. You adapt.
I tell him I appreciate the company, but he should probably get to work before they’re kicked out at 10. It’s already 6 PM. He looks disappointed.
Maybe another time, I’d have the headspace for him. But right now, I’m hunting for something else.
I turn my attention back to the bar and notice two boys standing over a client they clearly know. One’s very twinky—not my type. The other, though—more twunk. Great Latin face, smooth muscle, not bulky but clearly worked, insane abs, great ass. No beard, but it works. He’s wearing white underwear instead of a towel, which already sets him apart.

Maybe I was staring, because he suddenly hugs the client, gives him a deep kiss, and then makes his way straight to me.
Argentinian. 25. Magnetic as hell.
He knows exactly how to present himself—angles, posture, timing. No hesitation with contact. He gets close immediately, touching me, stroking my neck, then kisses me without asking.
Deep. Slow. Intense. One of those full-on, French kisses that just keeps going longer than you expect—and longer than you probably deserve.
Okay. So this is how Latinos kiss.
There’s nothing else like it. Not here.
He asks about my preferences—I don’t even think he listens to the answer. Just smiles and says, “I do it all.”
And yeah—he means it. He’s already grinding against me where I’m sitting.
I finish my drink fast. At that point, my dick has already made the decision.
He asks if I want a free cabin or a paid room. I know about the paid rooms but haven’t tried them yet. Figured—why not now, why not with him?
We head upstairs to reception. I ask for a room with a private shower. The receptionist hands me a key. The Argentinian grabs it, checks it, and leads me back down.
The room is tucked away in one of the hidden corridors. Decent size. This one has a dungeon setup and a sling.
Maybe he plans to use everything?



And then the deed. No exaggeration—he delivers. Fully. Kisses like it matters, sucks like it’s his last meal, gives it like a madman, takes it like a champ. No clock-watching. Orders drinks mid-session. Even pauses for conversation before switching things up—like an intermission before the next act.
Five stars. Easily one of the best I’ve had—and that’s saying something.
Latinos just know what they’re doing.
One thing I really appreciated about the private room: the en-suite shower. Makes a huge difference when you’re switching roles and need a quick reset mid-session.
I give him €100. Honestly, I should’ve given more.
He came, so technically the rate was fair. But still—I like rewarding performance. Good attitude, good energy, good delivery. Same way I treat my employees back home.
And that kind of generosity? It tends to come back tenfold the next time.
Next: a threesome, if you can believe it.