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

[12is12]

R u conversing there in english or espanol ?

[numazu]

34 minutes ago, 12is12 said:

R u conversing there in english or espanol ?

Apart from Pedro, who I spoke to mostly in Portugues and English, everyone else who wasn't Brasileiro I spoke to in Spanish primarily. There are boys who speak English with varying fluency as well.  But Spanish is preferred for sure, since there were many Colombianos, Argentinos, Dominicanos and others. Even the Eastern European ones, as most of them don't speak English, but they are speak Spanish, at least the ones I encountered this trip.

7 hours ago, Taikonaut said:

my favorite show is back

LOL, hilarious!

9 hours ago, Lucky said:

Nice to see a thread by @numazu

Thanks! I am glad to have the time to do this.

[numazu]

Night 1.75: The Nightcap

I felt really good. It was 1:30 AM, and any travel-related fatigue was long gone. I was over the hump. The time difference between home and here meant it was the middle of the afternoon in California. And there’s nothing like coming out of the afterglow of a good orgasm. Mission accomplished, I would say—especially considering that this was just a side trip within a larger Europe trip.

I was fully aware of how late it was, though. I had scoured trip reports and tips from this site and elsewhere online and was under the impression that the prime hours for boy hunting were 4 PM to 8 PM. On my way back from the lockers, I didn’t see much traffic, unlike an hour earlier. There were some clients and boys roaming around, but nothing really caught my eye. Plopping myself back down at the bar, I had to call for the bartender—who was in the back room, probably sleeping—for service. There was no one else in the bar area, nor in the pool or the nearby table-and-chair setup.

Oh well, I thought. This was a good start to my discovery of this sauna. As I downed my water and looked at my phone—debating whether to leave or go to the middle floor to see if any boys were still around—an angel suddenly appeared to save me from leaving.

He was tall, lean-muscular, with a healthy treasure trail from his belly button that disappeared into his low-slung towel. He seemed younger, maybe early 20s. He looked like a lighter-skinned Arab—someone who would fit in any sauna in Brazil, though perhaps a bit fairer than most.

He came up to me right away and offered his hand. “Hello, how are you?” he said in Spanish. I told him I was good. He pulled up a chair next to me and sat down, probably so he wouldn’t tower over me. I asked what he was still doing there so late. He said he had arrived late and that there weren’t many clients when he got there. He mentioned that he had seen me talking to the man-guide earlier and decided to stick around. He then asked whether I was more comfortable speaking in English or Spanish. I asked him the same, and he said he preferred Spanish but could try English. We stuck with Spanish.

I asked where he was from, and he said Morocco. I asked if there were many Moroccans working there. He said he knew of at least two others but hadn’t been there long enough to know more. I found the idea of a Moroccan working in a sauna interesting—even if Morocco is geographically close to Spain—and wondered about his status, whether he could work legally, and how long he could stay in Europe.

I had asked Pedro the same question earlier, and he said he traveled regularly to Switzerland and the U.K. to reset his EU stay clock.

But first things first—I’m a gentleman, so I offered him a drink. He chose a Red Bull, just like the man-guide before him—probably the drink of choice before every encounter. He offered a toast, and I clinked my water glass against his Red Bull. “Salud!” he said with a smile, then downed it.

I told him I had just had sex and needed a moment to feel “alive” again. He laughed and said he knew—he had spoken with the man-guide upstairs. Then he took my hand and placed it in front of his groin. I gave it a squeeze. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. The place was deserted, and the bartender had retreated back to his post. He opened his towel to show me what he had. It was a good size, soft, resting naturally on his balls. I gave it another squeeze, this time without the towel. He started to come alive. So did I.

I pulled back. “Do you kiss?” I asked.

He said yes. Again, he looked around, covered himself again with  his towel, then leaned in. It wasn’t a deep kiss, but he did open his mouth. He pulled back and smiled—very handsome. Not everyone kisses like Brazilians I guess, who use their tongue like it was panning for gold in your throat, but I figured he might do better in a more private setting.

We talked more—about Barcelona, Morocco, my trip to Casablanca in the past, and his hometown near Marrakech. I asked why he worked here. He said he was saving for school and to help his family. A familiar story.

At that point, no one else had come into the bar. No one else to choose from. And he was very attractive, sexy, and sweet enough to make another round worthwhile. I reached under his towel again, tugging lightly. He responded. At least he could get hard with my touch—promising.

I continued until he was fully hard. I pulled the towel aside and saw that he was indeed well-endowed—long, straight, and inviting. A few more strokes, and he said, “I can come for you.”

I've done enough research to I know the commonly understood pricing structure: 50 euros for 30 minutes, 100 if the guy finishes. I considered asking him to confirm but decided not to. I’d see how it played out.

“Vamos,” I said.

He stood, adjusted himself, grabbed condoms and lube, and led me upstairs to a cabin. Once inside, he dropped his towel and removed mine. He started by kissing me—more assertive this time. Still not Brazilian-level, but good. He had to crouch slightly to meet me.

“Do you take PrEP?” he asked.

I said yes and asked him the same. He nodded. That settled things. I guess bareback is in the menu tonight as it was earlier.

He stayed hard the entire time—probably thanks to youth. He was fairly passionate and finished as promised. I was satisfied—more so than the guy before.

Afterward, heading to the showers, I saw only three other people in the place. I couldn’t tell if they were clients or workers.

We both returned to the lockers. It was nearly 2:30 AM, so I changed to my street clothes since I don't think I'll be going for round 3.   I took out two 50-euro bills from my wallet. He was waiting in the bathroom near reception. I handed him the money, making sure he saw that it was 100 euros. He took it, gave me a hug and a goodbye kiss, and said he hoped to see me again. I said the same and told him I had a good time.

I handed my locker key to the receptionist and paid for my drinks. Outside, it was colder than earlier. Walking back to the hotel, I realized how hungry I was—I hadn’t eaten in about 11 hours since my layover in Frankfurt. Fortunately, several mercados and kebab shops were still open. I chose a kebab place just two minutes from the sauna.

A handsome young man—maybe Arabic or Indian—was behind the counter. I ordered a beef shawarma for 5 euros. As he prepared it, he asked if I wanted everything on it, pointing to the ingredients. While adding them, he looked at me and said, “China?”

I laughed—I’m used to that. In Brazil, they would say “Japa.” I said, “Sure!” and laughed. He laughed too. No reason to correct him. He was very handsome. I wondered if he knew about the rent-boy sauna nearby—he might earn a lot more slinging his meat at clients than slinging some shawarma meat on flatbread.

After paying with Apple Pay, I headed back to the hotel. I finished the shawarma even before arriving at the hotel - I was that hungry - and tossed the wrapper in a bin near the elevators. In my room, I took off my clothes, turned off the lights, and went straight to bed.

I fell asleep almost immediately—the weight of transcontinental travel, combined with the night’s activities, was enough to knock me out until morning.

Next: Barcelona—and the sauna—on a Saturday.

[floridarob]

On 3/20/2026 at 11:04 AM, numazu said:

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.

At this point in, I already had in my mind who it was , before the unveil,  lol
 

 

On 3/20/2026 at 11:04 AM, numazu said:

For those who know me, even just here, it might be a surprise that I haven’t been to Thermas before this trip.

Surprised.... I'm SHOCKED and still don't believe you 😆

 

 

On 3/21/2026 at 10:26 AM, numazu said:

I told him I’d never be able to take it,

Again... how many posters say this same thing....and then this 👇

 

 

On 3/21/2026 at 10:26 AM, numazu said:

And I did—and he handled it like a professional, making it surprisingly comfortable.

Comfortable.... there's one I hadn't heard before 😆




Nice to see you post again, especially after I had been told you never existed and was a figment of my imagination 🤷‍♂️ 

 

[forrestreid]

Great thread Numazu.

Really enjoy the way you integrate the pictures with the story.

Cannot wait to read about Saturday!

 

 

 

 

[Latbear4blk]

As always, I love your writing @numazu. I do notice you only write about your adventures in Latin countries. Did I miss the reports on your adventures in SE Asia?

[numazu]

1 hour ago, Latbear4blk said:

As always, I love your writing @numazu. I do notice you only write about your adventures in Latin countries. Did I miss the reports on your adventures in SE Asia?

Thanks @Latbear4blk. Re: only writing trip reports in Latin countries, not true entirely, though Latin countries are the most fun, i find, so there is a lot to write about.

And regarding my SE Asia trip reports, you can find some of my more popular posts in this link: https://www.gayguides.com/forum/3-gay-thailand/?sortby=views&sortdirection=desc . If you scroll down, my posts are the 5th, 6th, 17th and 22nd most viewed posts in the Gay Thailand section.  

For example, you can see my Thailand/Myanmar trip report here: https://www.gayguides.com/topic/10750-bangkokyangonbaganmandalay-trip-report-playing-with-fire/

I obviously have more countries under my belt, but I simply can/t write trip reports for all of them. However, I was in Budapest recently, And I am thinking or writing that one up.

9 hours ago, floridarob said:

Nice to see you post again, especially after I had been told you never existed and was a figment of my imagination 🤷‍♂️ 

I don't know how these people come up with these ideas. I am embarrassingly very much present in the Brazil saunas at least once a month, and increasingly at Thermas in Barcelona. You can see me in the flesh there.

[floridarob]

2 hours ago, numazu said:

You can see me in the flesh there.

Generic Asian flesh?

 

[Latbear4blk]

8 hours ago, numazu said:

And regarding my SE Asia trip reports, you can find some of my more popular posts in this link: https://www.gayguides.com/forum/3-gay-thailand/?sortby=views&sortdirection=desc . If you scroll down, my posts are the 5th, 6th, 17th and 22nd most viewed posts in the Gay Thailand section.  

I bet you I have even read them and my obsessed-with-Brazilian-guys-memory forgot about them. I will check them later. See you in Brazil!

[numazu]

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.