“If the Earth were a single state, Istanbul would be its capital,” Napoleon Bonaparte once said. I understand why: the fifteen-million-person city has culture, beauty, great food, nightlife, history, architecture, religion, and nature. Truly, it has everything you could want out of a city. But one thing it does not have: rights for LGBTQ people, which became apparent when hundreds of police officers in riot gear shut down the Pride parade (back when I was visiting in 2022) and arrested anyone wearing anything rainbow.
That’s why I was surprised to learn that there was an unofficial, underground gay hammam in one of the many hearts of the city. However, I wasn’t exactly sure what a gay hammam entailed. After all, a bunch of naked dudes sitting in a male-only sauna already seems pretty gay. Are guys just going to be blowing each other? Hot, but also, that may be a little too gay for Turkey.
We called beforehand to make sure this specific hammam would be able to accommodate us. Actually, my friend’s mom, who speaks Turkish, asked our waiter, who spoke Turkish fluently, to call the sauna to see if he could get us the best price. He said it’s 230 liras (roughly 13 USD) a person, and that includes two types of massages. This was about a fifth of the price of every other hammam I had researched.
Hidden in plain sight, the hammam was right off a major street with a small, broken-down sign. My friend Luke and I entered and walked down a spiral staircase into a humid room that reeked of dank cigarettes. I was aware that this was a gay hammam; he was not.
A lean fortysomething-year-old man with ample chest hair and cum gutters approached us, wearing nothing more than a skimpy towel around his waist. Quickly, he began speaking Turkish, but upon seeing our lost puppy faces, he surmised, “Americans?”
“Yes, we called,” I replied.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he said quickly in succession. He then began shouting at his coworkers, or I believe it was at them. It seemed like he was yelling into the void without anyone in particular listening. We were oblivious to what he was saying but knew it was about us, given his repeated use of “Americans.”
He ushered us to a small, private room to get changed and threw two towels at us before closing the door.
“I have no idea what the fuck is going on,” Luke laughed.
“Literally, zero idea,” I replied.
After getting butt-ass naked and wrapping the towels around ourselves, we went back downstairs. Luckily, Ahmet, our hammam Sherpa, was there to continue barking ambiguous instructions.
He gestured at us to follow and took us into the actual bathhouse portion of the hammam. We passed multiple rooms, but he gave us no tour. He simply took us to the steamy dome room with marble slabs to sit, separated by twelve sinks. Plastic dog water bowls were in each sink, though Luke and I didn’t know what they were for.
“Fifteen minutes. Do not move,” Ahmet said. Luke and I nodded.
Two other hirsute men sat in the sauna, draping their towels carelessly to their sides, revealing their large cocks and full bushes. (Turkish men, I quickly realized, do not trim.)
One of the men with big brown eyes, thick eyebrows, and Samsonian hair stared me down as he casually stretched his flaccid cock at the tip. I made eye contact for longer than I should have, and Luke noticed.
Despite his unfortunate straightness, Luke was used to my shenanigans and also the gay scene, so he asked if this was a gay hammam. I masterfully equivocated: “What? No, I don’t think so! I’m just so confused.”
“How are you confused? The answer is just yes or no.”
“Yeah, it’s just so weird,” I replied.
Before Luke could reply, we heard a crash against the marble. Samson had poured one of the dog bowls of water over his head.
“Well, that’s what it’s for,” Luke said.
Some men passed by the sauna, looked around to see who was inside, and then left, leading me to think that there was another room where more action was occurring.
“I’m going to take a look around,” I told Luke.
“But Ahmet told us to stay here,” Luke replied. “I fear his wrath!”
“You stay here—hold down the fort—I’ll take a look around.”
There was no rhyme or reason to the layout of the hammam; it was a labyrinth. The first room was just a smaller version of the larger dome room, but this room had a curtained-off section. Then there were squatty potties and a shower outside the dome room. Nestled next to the shower, nearly out of sight, was a room with a door. That was the only door I had seen in the entire hammam thus far.
I opened the door, and a gust of steam hit me in the face. When my eyes adapted to the darkness, I saw one hairy man blowing another hairy man while two gentlemen watched and vigorously jerked off. I turned around, shutting the door behind me.
Well, that answers that question, I thought to myself.
I returned to the main room to resume my schvitzing and await Ahmet. The moment I returned, Luke asked what my scouting had discovered. Before I could respond, Ahmet entered the sauna and bellowed, “You, come with me.” His commanding voice echoed throughout the dome.
We followed. “You, with him,” and Luke went off with another man. I was to follow Ahmet. He took me to the curtained room, which had one slab of marble.
“Lie down,” he said, and I did so on my stomach.
“No, flip,” he shouted, and I obliged. My wet towel loosely clung to my waist. He then pushed up the towel, tucking it behind my upper thighs so it was only covering my genitals. Just that touch of my upper thigh, so close to cock, made me pitch a very visible tent.
He began pouring warm water all over my body with the doggy bowls. He then soaked a large piece of cloth, lighter than a towel, in suds and proceeded to twist the fabric. His coiling method expanded the cloth with air into a balloon, and he then used the warm, soapy balloon to lather me.
My erection was rock hard at this point—so hard that it pushed the towel off of me. How could I not be erect with a hairy, half-naked man lathering me up, touching nearly every part of my body? He placed the towel back over my genitals, leading me to believe that this was not a happy ending establishment. Still, that didn’t stop my dick from throbbing, and with each pulse, I kept pushing the towel off of me. Eventually, Ahmet just removed the towel. Dare I say, my dick was just too mighty.
After the soapy massage, Ahmet briefly exfoliated me, and I felt as smooth as a baby’s tuchas.
“Okay!” he said, gesturing for me to get up. “Come this way.”
He pointed me upstairs, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do there. So I sat on a bench until a very, very attractive younger man, maybe in his late twenties, approached me. His body was that of a muscled Instagram gay. His hair was short, thick, and spiked—think 2000s boy band. He wore a gold chain around his neck, but it didn’t touch his skin. Instead, it gently rested on his lush chest hair. I then peered into his eyes—a deep hazel—and his long, feminine eyelashes contrasted with his more masculine physique. I was in love.
“Dry off more,” he said as he leaned over the rail, causing his biceps to flex naturally. He was smoking a cigarette, not a typical activity massage therapists partake in while inside the spa, but it didn’t bother me. On the contrary, it somehow made him cooler. And I am a child of the 90s; we loathe cigarette smokers, but Onan could do no wrong.
“Ready,” I said after drying myself. Onan gave me that infamous disapproving look Ryan Gosling gave Steve Carell in Crazy, Stupid, Love.
“No, dryer,” he said.
I wasn’t sure how much dryer I could get but kept at it. Three long minutes later, I asked, “Okay?” and he simply shook his head. I was rubbing myself raw at this point; nevertheless, I persisted. Eventually, Onan nodded in approval. I was dry enough.
He took me into a tiny room with a massage table but kept the door ajar, which I found strange. Perhaps it was to indicate this was not a happy ending establishment? But it really seemed like it was. And once he began massaging me, my suspicions grew. He wasn’t good, clearly untrained. This is usually the biggest tell that it’s a happy ending parlor. He also put his chest in my face, so his curls ever so gently brushed my cheeks. Looking up, I could see his cut jawline and long, muscular neck. When he rubbed oil on my body, various parts of his body would become more pronounced—his shoulders, biceps, triceps, chest, and abs. I darted my gaze, following each muscle as it engorged with blood.
Despite attempting to manifest that he would, without warning, sit on my face and suck my cock, he did not. In fact, he avoided my erect penis like the plague, so there I lay, dick hard and heavy, worried that if I didn’t cum soon, I would have to rush to the emergency room to get my blood drained.
But at long last, the massage ended. I saw through another ajar door that Luke was still in the middle of his massage. So, with time to spare, I decided to venture back to the dark room.
I entered with my hard cock swinging underneath the towel. Then I sat on the marble slab, removed my towel—revealing my fat dick—and men flew over like moths to the flame. A slender Turkish man with a rug on his chest staddled up next to me on the bench and began sucking. Another scruffy man straddled up to my other side and began sucking my nipples before grabbing my face with his hand and smushing his mouth on mine. There was so much tongue, but I was loving the wetness. He grabbed my hand and put it on his cock. Like him, it was long, slender, and hairy. I began stroking with one hand and with my other, pushed the cocksucker down deeper, causing him to gag. He came up for air, with drool dripping down his face, but only for a second before he went back to my cock. This time with more determination.
The man I was kissing stopped and stood on the marble bench, his cock just inches from my face. I turned towards it and opened my mouth. He slid to the back of my throat. I sucked while getting sucked. Periodically, both of us, the two cock suckers, would come for air. But only briefly. We’d return to work, knowing that time was of the essence. This was the only room in the hammam that was actually hot—an American-style sauna. As anyone who cruises the gym can tell you, if you don’t cum before overheating, you’re not going to cum.
Suddenly, the door opened, and we all stopped to look at who had entered. A beefy man, who’d I later learn was from the Philippines, walked in like he owned the joint. It was clear that he was the dick drainer—the Supreme of all cocks.
He walked in straight towards me and got on his knees; the man who was sucking me backed off, deferring to his highness. While looking me in the eyes, he gently massaged my balls until he opened his mouth and swallowed me whole. It was as close to vore as I will ever get in real life.
His juicy lips weren’t around my cock long before I was ready to blow. “I’m going to cum,” I shouted. The man standing next to me had been jerking himself off, still inches from my face, looking at the man sucking beneath me.
“Yes,” the stander said, and as I shot into the Supreme’s mouth—that sweet, sweet release I craved for the past two hours—the slender Turkish man shot all over my face and body. Once he finished, he lightly slapped my face. He then rubbed his cum into my sweaty chest hair and left without a word.
I thanked the man who swallowed my load, and he replied in kind. We briefly shared where we were from until I excused myself. I was too hot. I left, rinsed off in the shower (i.e., a pipe sticking out from the wall), and returned, expecting Luke to ask, “Where have you been?” But he was, somehow, still getting his massage. So I didn’t have to explain my whereabouts. Lucky me.
Turkey may not be the most gay-friendly country in the world, but clearly, there are queers there, just as there are queers everywhere—no matter what people like the former President of Iran may have you believe. And if you know where to look, which closed doors to open, you can find them. The best part is? These faggots are horny as all hell.
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