I’ve always been struck by the mostly silent language of cruising. For most of my life, men did too much talking, loud talking. If they weren’t talking with their fists against walls, heavy feet on creaky floors, then they were talking with words so heavy it bruised and bled. From what I knew about men, I expected my first visit to the gay bathhouse to be violent. I expected to be pushed out, ignored, hurt, like I so often was when I was surrounded by men. A men’s only bathhouse was at once intimidating and enticing. The company of men was not something I particularly enjoyed; most of my friends were girls, lesbian-leaning nonbinary people, the occasional nerdy fag. But, then again, being surrounded by naked men, sexy naked men that you were supposed to look at, not like in gym class where I buried my head in my locker until everyone had their clothes on.

At 18 years old, I expected to visit Hawk’s, just once, quench my curiosity, and never come back again. I’d go to this spa, soak in the hot tub, stare at some dick through the steam, and then head back out to wander around the sandy streets of Las Vegas like I always did. Instead, I was surprised. I was surprised by the silence, the quiet camaraderie punctuated by sexy ambient fuck-music. I was surprised by the head nods, the smiles, the proximity. Suddenly, manhood, this inscrutable puzzle I couldn’t figure out, this thing I abandoned for genderfuck queerness, for weird haircuts and makeup and denim booty shorts and femininity, suddenly I understood. Intuitively, I picked up the language.

There are mazes of private rooms, dimly lit that twist into dark corners of glory holes, of harnesses, of dark rooms lit by a low red light, where men find each other’s orbits and gently probe for consent, wordlessly. With a look, searching for a look back. With a gentle touch on the back, easily rebuked. I walked in laps around the labyrinth, passing strangers until they became familiar: the old white guy leaning against the wall; the chubby latino bottom waiting with his ass up in his room, door ajar; the muscular man with dark skin and shining abs sitting on the bench in his vibrant red jockstrap. I became familiar with this microneighborhood and with every new face that came in.

I learned that sometimes, a familiar face gives you a look that’s like What’s up? I’ve seen you around and I was wondering if you’d want to hang out for a bit (fuck)? and you can walk past them and turn your head over your shoulder and say, without a word, Let’s fuck.

It was at this bathhouse where men finally made sense.

It was also at this bathhouse, completely naked, where I realized I perhaps did not have to be a girl in my head, only when I played pretend. I could be a girl in the real world too, even without any clothes on, even without pink ribbons or eyeliner or floral skirts, or any of the usual decorations you put on the cake to say This one’s a girl.

I marched round this bathhouse with my towel wrapped loosely below my ass and my balls, advertising my body to the mirror room, then the wet room, and the lockers, thinking I was totally serving hot young boy thang when men would come up to me and whisper things like what’s up baby girl? I liked it when men whispered things like what’s up baby girl. I didn’t have to be a man at this men’s club.

*

In my most recent trip to Portland, I visited a gay bathhouse called Hawk’s, a different Hawk’s than the one I’d blossomed into a young woman at back in Vegas.

Of the sex clubs I could have chosen in Portland it seemed to have what I was looking for: a hot tub, a sauna, nostalgic familiarity, and a signal I’d be allowed in. There were a few non-wet sex clubs: the kind that look more like dance clubs, only with more upholstered benches and private rooms, and at least one other gay bathhouse that seemed to drive home the point that it was for men and men only. While I might have fit into the dry fuck clubs, one advertised their sci-fi themed costume nights going on all month and another seemed to be more for the kinds of girls who wear expensive dresses and expensive heels and the men who can afford to fuck them. To put it bluntly, they seemed a little too straight for me. I was too estrogenated and beautiful — my self esteem higher than that of the sad little fag I used to be — to allow myself to sneak into the overtly trans exclusionary bathhouse.

Hawk’s, in contrast, hosted a couple of bisexual nights a week. So I got on the hour-long bus ride from my digs to the outskirts of the city.

When I thought of a gay male space hosting a bi night, I expected to see a couple of trans girls, a trans guy, and a bunch of gay and bisexual cis men. Instead, I was surprised again, surprised to find it was incredibly gender diverse: cis women, trans dudes, straight dudes, gay dudes, cross dressers, and gender freaks. Cis men were not even the majority population.

This Hawk’s, unlike mine back in the desert, was smaller and well lit. There was an outdoor courtyard with chairs set up for a smoking circle. Upstairs, where I expected to find a dark, dreamlike maze of hallways, I instead found a short circular circuit that fed into a slightly larger room, small platforms on the ground topped with padded blue wrestling mats. Two people with vaginas getting penetrated by a line of horny people, one hungry bottom blowing someone else while they got plowed, and an audience of older white men watching and jerking off. The room, in my memory, was as bright as a classroom, which felt sort of harsh, lighting everyone up into distinct shapes, distinct identities. Everyone turned to me with friendly, mildly hungry smiles. I fled.

In the courtyard, I soaked in the hot tub, my go-to move when I’m feeling nervous at a bathhouse and want to acclimate. I want to sit in my warm perch, massaged by jets, and get a handle on the crowd, the dynamics, the language. I was shortly joined by a 62-year-old bisexual bear, a chubby white lady with very large breasts, and a bullish-looking middle eastern guy covered in tattoos. We all chatted, rather candidly (and platonically) about the weather, about the recent relocation of this Hawk’s, about the vibe. I learned they were all regulars, they liked the friendliness of the staff — the owner even hosts barbecues on Fourth of July right here in the courtyard!

This kind of diversity, this kind of chatter, was something I’d never experienced before in a bathhouse. It was, at once, incredible and comfortable and also completely unfamiliar. I was starting to feel more like I joined a nudist social club than a gay bathhouse. A place where everyone knew everyone else’s name…I was in an episode of ethically non-monogamous queer Cheers.

In the direct sunlight of the outdoor area and in the well lit cruising spaces, I felt exposed. Intellectually, I knew I was happy a place like this exists, happy for all the weirdos of all the genders to get to play and fuck and be merry in semi-public, happy for this sex-positive third place. The rest of me, the parts deep in my core and soul, missed the vibe of the bathhouses I’d been to before, spaces that were darker, seedier, that felt more like a secret, where I could cruise anonymously in the safety of the maze. Where I wasn’t anyone in particular and could be anyone I wanted.

It’s stupid. I still like going to gay bathhouses, but as I’ve grown from an androgynous gay boy to a proud transfemme, I can feel myself being pushed out from them. Many of my favorite bathhouses have rules against women — trans or cis — from entering. They are men’s social clubs, the rules like to remind me. I’ve never tried to go in with my new ID marked with an F instead of an M, but I’m told it really depends on the mood of whoever happens to be at the door, how militant they’re feeling about gender presentation. While some bathhouses are now explicitly inclusive of trans men, many of them require you to have an M on your ID, or ask that you come not looking like a woman: no eyeliner, no skirts, no feminine performance. Whatever the fuck that means.

I should have felt at peace, comfortable now in this openly welcoming, gender exclusive club. Not like my other experiences where I’ve gone essentially stealth, pretending to be a boy that looks like a girl that kind of looks like a boy. Even after I updated my legal name and gender on all my documents, I’ve put off updating my passport — partly because I haven’t been in the mood to take a passport photo in the seven or eight years since I began my transition, and partly because I’m afraid I’ll lose access to my beloved space forever. To my beloved bathhouses. I want to keep my key to entry, I want to not care about the pronouns in my bio, my real life as a trans girl, the rules at the sex clubs that say I’m not allowed. I want to keep my access to this space where I used to belong, where I know I’ll still belong once I get past the door.

This piece is part of UNDER COVER, an Autostraddle editorial series releasing in conjunction with For Them’s underwear drop.

Before you go! Autostraddle runs on the reader support of our AF+ Members. If this article meant something to you today — if it informed you or made you smile or feel seen, will you consider joining AF and supporting the people who make this queer media site possible?

Join AF+!