Introduction: In a frantic bid to make ends meet while interning for a gay TV show in 1983, I was steered to the St Marks Baths by Vito Russo. The noted author, historian and activist was also the host of the TV show. He told me that he worked at the baths while writing his book The Celluloid Closet. So off I went, this naif who had never even seen the inside of a bath house until then. I present here the unexpurgated diary entries from my two months at the baths.
Jay Blotcher
1983, New York City
St Marks Baths diary
2/25
My first night at the Baths as an attendant. Floor 3 – the deadest level. I meet my guest at the foot of the steps, bearing two towels and a cup of Lube, and take him to his personal fuck cubicle. Sometimes a 50-cent tip, more often not. The most unattractive part amid all this glamor is cleaning the rooms. In the Age of AIDS can I really afford to handle cum-and-crap stained sheets and overturned bottles of poppers? Eight lonely hours of this dirt and darkness, and I was finished!
2/26
Snack bar person Robert Redd took a shine to me quickly and took me out to breakfast at 103. Sharp-tongued but sweet, he let me know that my job becomes more hectic and unbearable on busy nights.
3/19
Another start at the Baths – this time out, handling the more humane job of greeting and registering the guys. Tall, closecropped Don taught me the basic administrative moves. I’m basically the desk clerk at the Sex Hotel.
3/20
Another shift in "the cage" with Don. General manager John is a sweetheart – he got me into The Saint after work, rolling two joints to sweeten the evening. The place is nothing less than awesome. Huge, intimidating, seemingly the site for all fantasies to materialize. I wandered about, overwhelmed by the lights and ethereal music, maze of catwalks and dome over the dance floor. Don gave me a cold greeting, and friendlier little John told me the score: my speedy ascent to cashier status has angered those who sweated their way through the ranks. I tried to make amends by sharing my weed, whose potent effect made watching the mediocre "Dracula" with Frank Langella a real task. I finally heeded the call of my libido and headed for the balcony, a dimly-lit open-air "backroom". I blundered into a familiar face – coworker Jim Cormier, a tall scrawny blond hick-type with cowboy regalia and nipplerings. At first I mock-berated him for my selfsame sin. We pitched the pretensions and went for it. A break for some dancing, more smoking, relentless kissing, and back to the balcony for a lusty fuck. My lower half was a mass of pain by now, and I conveniently lost Jim in the crowd. Of course, the prospect of a new conquest quickly healed me, and I was staling again. I was surprised to see politicos A H and A R among the sex zombies. The latter was so stoned on something that he nearly lunged at me when I greeted him. In fact, when I shared a tender jerkoff with cute and furry Harry Gonsalves we had to push A away. Between repeated trips to the bar for cookies, I took a nap in Harry’s arms. Burst into daylight at 7am, ten hours after descending into this hedonistic underworld. And still the passion wasn’t quelled! I walked about St Marks a bit before finally giving up and taking a cubicle for sleep.
3/23
The cast of St Marks coworkers grows. Short cutie Oscar, an easygoing Hispanic who shares weeknight cage chores with me. Big dumb lovable Bob, an attendant,. The softspoken enigmatic Michael, a tall, bigboned, headshaven guy who relieves Oscar. His elusive sexiness is all the more alluring. But he frugally measures his words. Night manager Miles, who worked with Vito way back when he worked the restaurant here, gave me an orientation after work. Highlights and lowlights of the St Marks saga include the stellar appearances of Nuryev [sic] and Peter Allen; the hot tub drowning of an epileptic and the everyday injuries of drugged queens. Feeling rather punchy, Miles let the memories wash over me. Unconsciously drawing battle lines, I confessed that my status sparked bad humor among my colleagues. Miles assured me that my appointment was a group decision, and, by implication, I have the management on my side if coworkers abandon me. Checking out at 4am, after a night of vicariously enjoying myself with every new customer, I’m fired up with an unspent sexual anxiety. I wandered about again in a towel, but heeded the AIDS alarm and bedded down alone.
3/26
While awaiting customers, I have the choice of reading the stroke mags purchased by Michael Kirwan, a manager, or writing letter son the Baths postcards. … The party finally broke up, and at that late hour I headed for refuge at The Baths. Tall shaved Michael said policy forbids weekend freebies for employees, but John Bemus okayed it as I work tomorrow AM. Hugging a towel about my flabby midsection, I stalked the clientele awhile. A surprise run-in with cutie Bill Smith. We tried to moderate mutual embarrassment with casual conversation, and I tried to subtly advance upon him with an offer to visit my cubicle. Maybe too subtle – he never showed, and I hadn’t the nerve to acquire another patron for my early dawn entertainment. So, to sleep.
4/6
A toke with Eric [roomie] and a bit of speed propelled me through a night at the Baths.
4/7
The Baths wake-up system leaves much to be desired. I retired to a cubicle after work with a request to be awakened in the AM. No dice, and I was late.
4/8
A talk with Mom this morning seemed like a cry for help from her end. Nana seems to becoming sicker, and she sits and moans about the past and the "what-might-have-beens". When she asked where I could be reached if necessary, I was frightened, but also in a quandry [sic]. How can I give her the phone number at the Baths. I muttered a fib about working at the St Marks restaurant, number unknown. Mom’s tone made me panic, and I made a hasty decision to go home right away. It means giving up my weekend date with David Rothenberg (a benefit). But also putting my Baths job in jeopardy.
4/13
A nap at [Marci’s] place, dinner at Odessa, and off to the Baths. Highlight of the evening – a New Jersey cop came in looking for an alleged murderer who had been there.
4/19
Baths co-workers Clay St John is a high school buddy of Vivian. That only improved the good rapport we have. I felt closer to this babyface guy with the skijump nose and the ubiquitous baseball cap pulled over his eyes. After work, as I readied to retire, I saw him lying in wait in a darkened cubicle. I would have liked to help him out!
4/20
My three-night-a-week schedule at the Baths is a bit taxing, but if I pull out I screw over John Bemus, who stuck out his neck for me. … A hairy evening at the Baths. Questionable characters paraded throughout my shift, and Michael Kirwan was obliged to rough up one drunken guy who refused to leave. The policy is grounded in bigotry, as management keeps a closer eye trained on black patrons.
4/25
Vito returned to the Baths, where he worked the restaurant, for a massage. We overplayed the pleasantries for laughs, but I wondered if his old whoring spirit (notorious, by his candid admission) had been revived. The tiger-eyed whoreboy who had hit me up for money at the 42nd St peeps showed up at the Baths tonight. Seems he’s a pal or protégé of Michael Kirwan! I was set to freeze Don, but the evening routine made me fatigued and looser. It was easier to be social than nasty. Retired to a cubicle, but the sounds of lust kept me awake for awhile.
4/26
A fairly social night at the Baths, reminiscing with Fern about teen stars. Passed up a cubicle for the office at WNYC where I curled up – painfully – in a chair. The couch hadn’t been brought up.
5/2
[Attended AIDS Candlelight Rally down to Javits Building in Lower Manhattan, where Susan Sarandon addressed the crowd]. Heading for the Baths (the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me) afterwards, I joined David to see Harvey… Felt a tad noble coming to the Baths from the rally, carrying my candle. At evening’s end, after my register had come out even, I told Miles I was leaving [to take job at Fire Island News]. He accepted the news too quietly, and I felt obliged to tell him all to assuage my own guilt. The ultimate reaction by him, Michael and John was admiration, I was pursuing my career. I weakly babbled a promise to return in the fall, but Miles warned me my feelings might change.