A million years ago, in pre-AIDS, pre-Giuliani, pre-Disney New York there existed many bathouses where gay men would go and, well, you know. Kind of like THE RITZ without the floor show.
There was a rather strange unwritten code of behavior at these places, such as no talking in the locker room (this is for those of us who were too poor or too cheap to get a room). For some reason, while getting out of your street clothes and into your towel, silence was the rule.
Anyway, one night after the theatre back in 1980 (right after they invented electricty), I went to the old Club Baths on First and First . Changing his clothes a few lockers down was a big leather-bear daddy type, all scowly and stern looking. I took off my overcoat (I guess it was winter) and, in the process of folding it up, my Playbill fell onto the floor. Immediately, my neighbor turned from Scowling Leather Daddy to Screaming Show Queen, lunging over to pick up the Playbill while squealing 'Ooooh, what did you SEEEEEEE?'
So yes, like mens rooms, we all peek.
'Our whole family shouts. It comes from us livin' so close to the railroad tracks'
