Bucket List of an Idiot

by Dom Harvey

  ‘If you’re coming tomorrow, all you need to bring is yourself—it’s Towels-off Tuesday, so you get to run around naked.’

  With no word of a lie, that is what he said—we would get to run around naked. Fortunately for me, Robert is not as fast a runner as I am, so in the unlikely event it came to a naked foot race, the survival of the fittest would ensure the hungry pack would capture Robert before me.

  I texted Robert back and lied, ‘Bring your togs and a towel, mate.’

  I could not tell him the truth. Not yet. The whole ‘Towels-off Tuesday’ gimmick was a detail that he really didn’t need to know about until we got to the sauna reception. By then, it would be the point of no return. Tell him by text right now and I could risk losing my wingman—and this was not a mission that could be done solo. Not by me anyway.

  I picked Robert up from his work at midday and he threw his bag full of redundant gear (towel and togs) in the back of my car. We got a park just over the road and went into the fairly unassuming building. I had walked and driven past this building before and had never really noticed it, let alone wondered what lurked beyond the doors.

  We both nervously walked up the two flights of stairs. The walls were plastered with posters promoting safe sex, with slogans like: ‘My ass, my rules. Always insist on a condom for anal sex.’

  We got to the unattended counter at the top of the stairs, hit the buzzer and waited for service. In the few seconds we were waiting, Robert noticed a blackboard sign: ‘Towels-off Tuesday. Cum and have a good time.’

  In an angry whisper, the sort a dad would use if he was telling his kids off in public, Robert fired out two questions in quick succession: ‘Did you know it was Towels-off Tuesday? Do you think they spelt cum like that intentionally?’

  Before I had the chance to respond with yes and yes, a petite, fully clothed man in his twenties appeared at the counter.

  ‘Heeeey, boooys! How can I heeeellllp you?’ he asked in a voice that left little mystery about his sexual orientation. Each word sounded like he was about to break into a song.

  ‘How much is it to get in?’ I enquired.

  ‘How much is it to get in? Usually two or three drinks for me!’ He broke into hysterical laughter, but I had a sneaking suspicion he may not have been joking.

  The cover charge was $23 each; I handed over my EFTPOS card and paid for both of us. As the transaction was being processed, Robert cleared his throat and anxiously spoke up from behind me. ‘So what does it mean when it’s a Towels-off Tuesday?’

  It seemed like a question that did not need to be asked or answered but Robert went there anyway. The reply did absolutely nothing to put his mind at ease.

  ‘It means no towels and no clothes. COM. PULSE. REE!’ The desk attendant stretched that word out so each syllable sounded like its very own sentence. ‘You boys can run around naked until you can’t take it anymore.’

  Wow, what a sales pitch, I thought to myself.

  He then handed me back my card and receipt. The receipt would suggest we had spent $46 at a place called the Centurian Café. I didn’t notice that cafe thing on the EFTPOS slip until long after we had left and it made me laugh—they do serve tea and coffee here so I guess technically you could call it a cafe. But I can’t say I’ve ever been to a Starbucks that runs a Towels-off Tuesday promotion!

  ‘Have fun in there, booooys!’ the assistant instructed us as he handed us two small white towels, not much bigger than a face cloth, and two locker keys. He then pushed a button under his counter and the door to our right unlocked.

  We walked through and were immediately in a room that looked like a gym changing room. There was a bench seat in the middle surrounded by walls of lockers. Unlike a gym, though, this locker room also had a locked cabinet of sex toys. These things had names like ‘Darrin’s Dick’ and ‘Liam’s Wang’.

  I thought this was a bit odd—this was a place full of penises, so why on earth would anyone feel the need to pay money to buy a pretend one?

  Robert and I both removed our clothes and as we did so a huge naked man walked in. He was bald (on his head), probably in his mid forties, and well built—not fat, muscular. I immediately turned and started up a fake conversation with Robert—the sort of conversation you start up if you’re in the middle of talking about someone and that person happens to walk into the room. I was petrified that anything I said or did could be misread as some sort of an invitation or come-on by other sauna customers.

  Robert and I left the locker area and had a look around. The layout of the place was confusing and complex—there were doors and turns everywhere. The first thing I noticed was the darkness. The lights were so dim it took a little while to adjust—like when you are outside in the summer and then go inside. There was loud thumpy music playing too—dance music by David Guetta. And everywhere you walked the place had a strong smell of men’s deodorant. I’m guessing the staff spray this around on a regular basis to mask other, far less appealing smells.

  Given the day and time—Tuesday lunchtime—the place seemed quite busy. Everywhere we went we seemed to bump into and walk past naked men. All sorts of naked men too—fit, fat, skinny, Asian, Caucasian, hairy, shaven, pierced, tattooed.

  The young man at reception was right. We truly could run around naked until we were unable to take it anymore.

  We walked down a hallway past a whole row of tiny rooms with locks on the doors. At a guess, these rooms were about two and a half metres long and two metres wide. All these rooms had in them were a container full of condoms stuck to the wall and a waist-high wooden platform with a black vinyl mattress on it—a very basic sort of double bed.

  It was in this area of the sauna that we found what is known as ‘the sling room’. It was about the same size as the other little rooms—only this one had a small leather hammock, about the size of a beach towel, suspended in midair at about waist height from chains on each corner.

  We kept walking and stumbled upon the cinema, where a projector played an adult movie against the wall. Robert and I stood at the door and watched for a couple of seconds, just long enough to see what was going on. I’m not sure of the movie title or storyline but one of the lead actors was lying on his back holding his legs up so his knees were touching his chest while the other movie star was licking his bottom. From what I saw it looked like the man lying on his back was having a far more enjoyable time than the guy who was doing the licking.

  We then heard a sound and turned around to see a skinny old man, probably in his late sixties, sitting on the grandstand-style seats playing with himself. He didn’t stop just because he had company. He waved hello with his free left hand. Instinctively, we turned and briskly walked away without exchanging pleasantries. Yes, this was incredibly rude on our part, but in our defence neither of us have ever walked in on anyone doing this to themselves before, so we were unsure what to say or do. What the hell is the protocol in situations like this? Even now, I still don’t know what we could have said.

  ‘Hey, mate . . . you enjoying the movie?’

  ‘Hi there, how’s it hanging?’

  ‘So, do you come here often?’

  ‘Have you been paying attention to the movie or have you lost the plot?’

  Obviously, this behaviour which would be frowned upon and considered inappropriate at any other movie theatre anywhere in the world was perfectly acceptable and even encouraged at a gay sauna.

  We were both by far the fastest walkers out of all the men we saw. We moved briskly from room to room, and every time we encountered a naked man or couple we were off again. We were the only people here not having a great time, though. Everybody else seemed quite relaxed and comfortable on this particular ‘Towels-off Tuesday’.

  ‘Can we go now?’ Robert asked in a tone that suggested he had seen more than enough.

  I did not need my arm twisted.

  Through the confusion of dim lights and booming dance music we eventually made our way back to the locker area. On the way
we passed a well-lit area that looked just like the lounge of someone’s flat. The telly was turned on (much like the man we had just run away from in the theatre room) and it was playing Channel 1—Emmerdale Farm. The La-Z-Boy chairs and sofas were all unused. Either sauna customers are not that interested in Emmerdale Farm or they just don’t feel comfortable hanging out, watching the telly on Towels-off Tuesdays. If they introduced a new themed day like ‘Wear Something Wednesday’, maybe all the seats in this area would be taken.

  Back at the lockers I got dressed very quickly. I had arrived at the sauna well prepared, wearing jeans, T-shirt and jandals—a handy outfit for a fast dress or undress. Robert, on the other hand, had lace-up shoes and socks, a button-up shirt and jeans. I was fully dressed and ready to leave before my poor old mate had even started to do up his shirt.

  Awkwardly, a dripping wet nude man stood behind Robert. His locker was just below Robert’s, so he had to stand and wait patiently for my mate to get dressed before he could get his items out.

  We walked back out through reception.

  ‘Whaaaaat? You boys leaving already?’ asked the man at reception who had served us only a few minutes earlier.

  ‘Yep. Not really our scene,’ we replied.

  ‘Fair enough. Lots of people come and go pretty fast,’ he said, putting particular emphasis on the C-word so the intentional innuendo would not be lost on us. He followed it up with a laugh that suggested, incorrectly, he knew what we had been up to.

  We walked down the stairs and back to the car in silence. As we crossed the road Robert stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Oh no! No! No! No!’ Robert seemed fully gutted about something.

  ‘What is it, mate?’ I asked him.

  ‘I was in such a rush to get dressed I left my hoody up in the locker.’

  Being such a great mate, I offered a solution. ‘I’ll wait in the car. You go and grab it.’

  Robert turned around and started walking back to the sauna as I continued towards the car.

  A couple of seconds after I got in, the front passenger door opened.

  It was Robert: ‘Fuck it. I’m not going to worry about it. It’s only a hoody.’

  BE A LIFE DRAWING MODEL

  So there I was, 6.30 on a Saturday night standing in the lobby of a place called The Art Station wearing nothing but a bathrobe. In front of me was the closed door of an art studio. On the other side of the door were a group of eight fully dressed women, all aged around thirty, who were about to sketch me naked. It is a struggle to put into words just how nervous I felt. I was shit scared. A similar feeling to the time I went skydiving, only with the skydiving there was an actual chance, albeit a tiny one, I could be killed by a parachute malfunction. Today, embarrassment was the only thing that I could possibly die of.

  I think we are all a bit self-conscious about how we look naked. We all have parts that we think are unusual, abnormal or just not quite what they should be.

  I have read enough Cleo magazines over the years to know that girls like a man with a good firm bottom, for some reason I struggle to explain. Experts say it has something to do with how women are wired subconsciously—they reckon a tight muscular bottom means a guy will be a better thruster and therefore more likely to help the women reproduce. This sounds like a bunch of arse to me, pun most definitely intended.

  Unfortunately the sort of bum the ladies like is pretty much the opposite of my white, saggy, dimple-ridden little thing that resembles an inflated white balloon that has been sitting in the corner of a sunny room for a week. Sadly, my gym and weight regimens over the years have generally involved lifting weights that will benefit parts of the body I will get to see in the mirror. Therefore, the backyard has been neglected.

  Being naked in front of another person for the very first time is, I think, quite a nervous occasion for most of us. But this is precisely the cauldron I had decided to throw myself into to earn another tick on my bucket list. I would be a model for a life drawing class.

  My initial plan was to volunteer my body at an art class at a polytech or some sort of a night art class. But before I got round to making the necessary phone calls I came across a flyer for a business called ‘Strike a Pose’.

  The brochure had a picture of the famous statue of David and the following blurb:

  For a hens’ party, birthday or girls’ night out to remember, experience Strike a Pose—New Zealand’s most original life drawing class. Your Strike a Pose experience will include a lesson in life drawing with a nude male model, music, frivolity and games—the ultimate arty party for any occasion.

  I couldn’t decide if this life drawing class would be easier or harder than a serious life drawing class at a polytech. You know, the sort of class where aspiring artists of both sexes with a set of those very expensive-looking pencils that come in one of those posh-looking little tins look closely at every aspect of your body—but not in a pervy way—then draw what they see. They would be sober and no doubt mature and refined enough not to laugh at any oddities they noticed. They would also be so absorbed in their own art piece that they would potentially see my arse-dimples as an artistic challenge instead of a mild deformity.

  A hens’ party put on by the Strike a Pose people would have a completely different vibe to it—all girls, all in a good mood, all under the influence of a Vodka Cruiser or two—and it was unlikely any of them would actually harbour aspirations of being the next Vincent Van Gogh. All of these factors might make it a less awkward and more relaxed experience. But on the flipside, intoxicated girls would probably have no problem pointing out and sniggering at my many flaws.

  I should have gone with the polytech option. I think that would have caused me the least embarrassment.

  Courageously, foolishly, or both, I emailed Strike a Pose and volunteered my body for one of their parties, and by the end of the day, they replied.

  Hi Dom,

  That’s fantastic and yes we would be happy for you to come and model in one of our classes. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll give you a call to discuss? Classic!

  Look forward to hearing from you soon.

  Kind regards

  Amanda

  www.strikeapose.co.nz

  I replied and after emailing back and forth we settled on a date: Saturday 5 November 2011. It was a hens’ party of eight women starting at 6.30 pm.

  I was committed now, but the date was still a couple of months away. I told myself I would hit the gym a couple of times a week and cut out the junk food in order to get myself in good shape. I’d also do lots of squats and butt clenches to try and revive my bum, which looked like it had died from neglect years earlier.

  I had to do all of this. Strike a Pose usually hires their models by putting notices on boards at gyms, so most of the models are either personal trainers or just guys who are in incredible shape. Guys who probably enjoy standing naked on a stage while others admire their well-chiselled physiques.

  Sadly, I failed to follow through with any of my good intentions. Why do the dates for things like this always seem to creep up on you so fast?

  The day before, Amanda called to give me a briefing.

  She told me I had to be at the venue at 6.15 on Saturday evening. There, I would be ushered into a private room well clear of the hens’ party. I would wait here to be brought in and presented to the partially drunk aspiring art students at 6.30. Amanda then described how the whole arrival and ‘unwrapping’ would take place.

  ‘Before you come in we do a brief tutorial, like a still life, so we do some warm-up exercises with apples and a banana. Then we do a tutorial of the human figure. At that point we will have you come in with a robe on, your grand entrance. And we’ll get the girl who’s having her hens’ party to come up and take your robe off and that’s always a bit exciting for the girls.’

  I laughed nervously at the prospect.

  ‘Then we get into the first drawing. And from then on we just get into lots of drawing games—we do musi
cal easels, a blindfold draw, a left-hand draw and stuff like that.’ Amanda paused, waiting for some kind of response, but I had nothing to say. The thought of being totally naked for two hours in this environment had left me speechless.

  ‘Other than the initial shock of being nude it will be easy,’ she said. ‘We had a guy who modelled for the first time last weekend and for the first pose he was pretty nervous but by the second he was already sort of relaxed and stuff, so I’m sure you will be fine.’

  I was not so convinced. I was not a model. I was just an idiot with a bucket list. I am very well aware of my physical flaws so the prospect of standing under bright lights without any clothes was about as exciting as Christmas Day for a Jewish kid.

  I arrived at the Art Station and was met by the Strike a Pose girls. They took me upstairs and gave me a tour of the studio where, in under an hour, I would be the most vulnerable a human being could be.

  If the tour was designed to put me at ease it failed miserably. It only made me more anxious. There were two big bright, warm lights shining down onto a raised stage in the centre of the room. Around the stage eight easels were set up with clean sheets of paper all ready to go.

  I was taken downstairs to a kitchen area where I was instructed to get undressed and put a bathrobe on. Amanda left me alone for a couple of minutes so I could have some privacy to get changed, which I found funny. What was the point of that?

  I very quickly knocked back a couple of fairly substantial glasses of wine which I had hoped would calm my nerves. They didn’t.

  One of my biggest fears was of getting aroused. My genitals are like a disobedient dog and I have almost zero control over what they do. And just like the owner of a disobedient dog, I am the one who looks bad when ‘it’ acts up. It’s so unfair. I’m unsure if other men have this same lack of control but my penis thinks about rude stuff all the time. So even if I’m thinking about something important, such as ‘I hope this prostate check I am getting right now comes back negative’ or ‘How am I going to execute the perfect dive from this diving board into the pool six metres below?’ my renegade rod will show total disregard for the situation and completely let me down.