Seth Michael Donsky

It's friday night, and I’m headed to the East Side Club, one of the last two remaining gay bathhouses in New York City.

Ostensibly a relaxation and social club for gay and bisexual men, it’s located on two floors of a non-descript office building on East 58th Street. I take an elevator to the sixth floor and wait behind a thick, Plexiglas window in a dark cell of a foyer, reminiscent of a vintage, blue movie theater box office. Posters for events such as the International Mr. Leather Contest, prominently featuring half-naked men, line the walls.

After a few moments, the manager buzzes me in through a small door. I am immediately overcome by a smell of chlorine, industrial-strength disinfectant, locker-room funk and poppers.

A labyrinth of interconnecting dark hallways is lined on either side with innumerable clapboard rooms. Each room contains a twin-sized cot, a hook for hanging your clothes and a table with a couple of condoms and a packet of lube. But whether anyone will be using the provided protection is anyone’s guess.

The lights in each room are on a dimmer but, as none of the rooms have ceilings, ambient light and noise easily spill over from the hallway. It’s here in the hallway that I meet Rubin.