Gay russian baths nyc
To play, press and hold the come in key. To interrupt , release the infiltrate key.
THE RUSSIAN & TURKISH BATHS IS OPEN.
WE DO NOT TAKE RESERVATIONS TO USE THE FACILITY
OR
GET MASSAGES
OR
TREATMENTS
WE ONLY TAKE WALK-IN CLIENTS
Thank you.
-MGMT
268 EAST 10TH ST
BET 1ST AVE & AVE A
NEW YORK,NY 10009
(212) 674-9250
RUSSIANTURKISHBATHS@GMAIL.COM
The Russian & Turkish Baths
is Featured In The New Film
"Little Ukraine".
The Russian & Turkish Baths (and the Queer History Behind These Institutions)
11.15.24
A muscled man, his blonde hair cropped short, stands shirtless as the video starts. “I just visited the Russian Turkish Baths,” he says robotically, reaching up to adjust his hair, and allowing for a glimpse of his armpit hair. “It was great.” The video ends. The Reel has more than forty thousand views, and the caption reads simply, “draft".
These lo-fi videos of hot guys have proven successful for the East Village bathhouse—videos of hot shirtless guys nearly always outperform testimonials from other clothed patrons. The videos seem innocent enough, but they’re clearly designed as thirst traps to engage a specific type of customer. “Am I the only one who feels favor this is a secret sex club,” reads a comment on another video of a shirtless testimonial. As anyone who’s been—or anyone who’s checked the Sniffies map—can tell you, there may be some truth to the comment.
Although it’s being introduced to a new generation, bathhouse customs goes back decades. Chris went to his first bathhouse in the early 90s. He saw an
HOURS AND ADMISSION FEES
Open 365 Days A Year
Monday 12PM - 10PM - Coed
Tuesday 12PM - 10PM - Coed
Wednesday 12PM - 10PM - Coed
Thursday 12PM - 5PM - Men Only
5PM - 10PM - Coed
Friday 12PM - 10PM - Coed
Satu
The American Man: A Sunday Morning at the Bath House
Sunday mornings are for men only at the Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village, and I’m cute sure that you know what that means. So I’m nervous in my red swim trunks on this warm August morning because I’m used to passing but, unlike the eyes-averse gym locker rooms I’ve grown accustomed to, I’m also relatively certain that for most dudes who go to a guys-only bathhouse on a Sunday morning, dicks are caring of the whole point.
I’m here because, for me, a straight, bearded, tattooed trans bloke with a diverse sort of anatomy, a bathhouse feels thrilling, dangerous even. Everything about me is self-made, hard-won: this hairy stomach, these chest muscles, this carefully trimmed beard—all of it a mosaic that makes my reflection strange but not dissonant, all of it my ticket into this grimy, foul-smelling, sexed-up space.
It’s one thing to risk my body with needles and scalpels and the threat of cancer. It’s quite another to be exposed to a mob of dudes in a dank, dungeon-like basement of steam rooms and a sad-looking pool to really evaluate the way my old life overlays a reality in which the very fact of my body is a crud