Thermas Sauna in Barcelona Mini Trip Report

[numazu]

 

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.

[Keithambrose]

4 hours ago, numazu said:

 

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.

Good report!

[PeterRS]

Great Report, thank you!

[numazu]

Night 1.5: Late Night Cocks

“If I knew you were going to be here, I wouldn’t have made plans tonight,” Pedro said as we finished our drinks.

“Why is that? Are you going somewhere after this?”

He hesitated, then told the truth. “A client has booked me for the night, but I can cancel.”

I didn’t really ask him to stay with me—tempting as it was, since I was alone. But then again, my objective was to check out the trade in Thermas, not rekindle an old flame who had clearly moved on and built a busy life here.

He asked if it was my first time there, and I said yes. So he started telling me about the different parts of the sauna. He pointed to the nearby hot tub and pool and said we should try them. I said it was probably not a good idea. He laughed and said that was for the best, because he didn’t know how many of his “future children” had died in that hot tub. Knowing his sense of humor, I immediately understood—he had no idea how many times he had come in that bathtub. 

We went upstairs through a labyrinth of corridors, showers, and cabins where the action happens. He told me about some memorable experiences he’d had there. He chose one cabin that had ample room and said it was his favorite. In the beginning of his Europe career, he said, after his client left him to his own devices, he did not have a place to stay, so he had basically slept in the sauna, with some understanding with the staff, while starting his rent boy career in Europe. He has a place to stay nowadays, he added, though he kept the details vague. I suspected he might be staying with someone—maybe a client—in Barcelona. I didn’t pry; it didn’t matter to me.

 

He plopped himself onto the “bed” in the cabin, which was just a cushion with plastic/rubber lining for easy cleaning. He took off his towel, and his huge dick swung freely with his movements.

“Hey, can you squeeze my dick like you did before—the way I like it?”

I remembered it well. It was a maneuver I had used many times: to make him hard, to calm him down, or to immobilize him when he got manic, as he sometimes did.

I did what he asked, sitting in front of him and giving him a squeeze—softly at first, then as hard as I could, the way he liked it. He leaned forward and started kissing me. Familiar feelings came back. Yes, this was why I had been with him for almost a year.

After a few minutes, he pulled back. He reached into the small bag he was carrying and took out a joint.

“You smoke weed now?” I asked, surprised.

“I told you I’ve changed. I’m calmer, less angry—maybe more flexible.”

He said his first few weeks in the sauna had surprised him. It wasn’t like the saunas in Brazil. Here, people smoked in the cabins—weed, and other drugs too—and drug use was very rampant. He’d picked up the weed habit, but not the harder drugs.

“That’s probably for the best.”

He did seem like a changed man—for the better—which made it harder not to ask him to stay. But I tried to stay true to my objective: to try as much new dick as possible.

After some back and forth, he decided to leave for his client appointment. He said he was going to earn 300 euros to stay until 6 AM, but would rather cancel and stay with me. I suspected he was hoping I’d offer to cover the 300 so he could just hang out, but I didn’t take the bait. I told him that if he was available tomorrow, we could try to meet.

We exchanged numbers, and once he finished his joint, we left the cabin and went upstairs toward the lockers. On the way up, he kept saying he might just cancel and come back to my hotel, but I stayed firm and said no.

He went into the rent boy locker room and kept talking to me while getting dressed. When he was ready, he gave me a big hug, a deep kiss, and then left.

  

As I refocus, I see my previous man-guide sitting on the center benches there. “Habla mucho,” he said, pointing toward the door.

I laughed and agreed—Pedro was a chatterbox—and admitted I was actually glad he was gone. I told man-guide to come back down to the bar with me for another drink. He followed me, got a Red Bull, and I ordered another Jack and Coke. We started getting better acquainted.

I hadn’t gotten a good look at him earlier, but now I saw that he could very well be my first experience in the sauna. He was tall, with pale skin, somewhat Turkish-looking features, and close-cropped hair. He was handsome and carried himself in a very straight-presenting way. I learned he was from Albania. 

Without much prompting, he showed me his dick. It was soft, but clearly very thick. He said it would get even bigger in the cabin.

The one catch: he didn’t kiss. That’s usually a dealbreaker for me. But he had an easygoing manner, and his body—barrel-chested, not overly gym-built, with a light dusting of chest hair—was very appealing to me. I hesitated a bit, telling him how much I loved kissing and how hard it would be for me to get into it without that.

He said he understood, but promised a great time regardless—and that I wouldn’t have to pay if I wasn’t satisfied.

As part of his seduction, he pulled me closer and started massaging my shoulders, teasing my nipples—and that did the trick. I gave in and said, “Let’s go.” 

He grabbed condoms and lube from the bar and led me upstairs, choosing a free cabin.

Not going into detail, but he was a man of his word. He asked me to suck him, and his cock grew to its full size—thick, long, and heavy. I told him I’d never be able to take it, but he said to leave it to him. And I did—and he handled it like a professional, making it surprisingly comfortable.

He even gave me small pecks on the lips now and then, a concession knowing how much I liked kissing. Afterward he grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and cleaned me up.

I wasn’t sure how long the sex took us, but it felt like less than 30 minutes, though the buildup at the bar had felt longer. He led me to the showers, and we rinsed off together while chatting about my weekend plans.

 

 We dried ourselves and went back up to reception. He stepped into the bathroom in the middle of the floor to wait for payment, and I went to my locker to grab a 50-euro note. When I handed it to him, he hugged me and thanked me warmly.

I went back down to the bar for some water, trying to rehydrate after a pretty good experience. As I caught my breath, I reflected on what had just happened. Fifty euros felt a bit cheap for what I’d just gotten. I assumed they worked on volume, seeing multiple clients, before leaving. Still, it felt like I’d gotten away with something. I didn’t mind paying more—but not excessively—and I had expected that kind of experience in Europe to cost more than 50 euros.

As I cooled off with a glass of ice water, a tall, athletic, bearded man sat down next to me. It was 1:30 AM.

Was I up for more shenanigans tonight?

[Lucky]

Nice to see a thread by @numazu

[Taikonaut]

my favorite show is back