ABSTRACT

One of the first things to come out of Jerry's bag, after the door closed, was a can of Crisco. Talk about icons! Oh, it had been over a decade since the last time I seriously handballed anyone; Crisco has been seriously out of fashion as a sexual lubricant since condoms and gloves became de rigueur. But I've never lost my response to it. The unique reek that pervades a room where Crisco's been used for years-there's nothing like it. Some people like poppers; I'll take that pheromone-drenched greasy-kitchen smell any day. What followed the Crisco was a veritable parade of symbols: towels, dildos, a couple of red hankies (just in case symbolism needed to be taken to its most extreme), and poppers. I wondered: did they really expect to come to the baths and meet people as uninhibited as they were? I asked, because I need to be open about my doubts and fantasies, lest they overwhelm my erectile capability. Greg replied, confidently, "Oh, we're infamous around this place. We always run into another positive or two who's eager to dick us. And if we don't fmd any other fisters, we can always do that to each other."