Will Harris cruises to failure as he heads to the gym

My friend M’s gym membership costs him £100 a month. Clearly outrageous in this age of austerity, but – if you press him on it – he’ll argue there are two things that make it a sound investment. The first is he needs regular exercise if he is to continue ordering two main courses in restaurants. The second is the gym’s basement spa offers unparalleled opportunities for cruising.

“The other day,” confides M, “I was in the sauna and a man with a six-pack opened his towel at me. It was like… well, imagine an arctic roll staring up at you.”

“That is not cruising,” I say. “That is indecent exposure, and that can carry a sentence of six months or a £5,000 fine.” But I am curious, so M agrees to take me along.

I have not been to a proper gym for a while, so we spend the first hour reintroducing my body to exercise. This involves M clipping various bars and handles on to the machinery and demonstrating an array of effortless movements, then watching in silence as I slide off a giant rubber ball until my face is touching the floor.
Once my embarrassment muscle has been thoroughly exhausted, M indicates it is time to disrobe. In the men’s changing room is a smallish, wood-panelled sauna.

This, he tells me, is Ground Zero for cruising.

“Now,” says M, as we take our places on the benches, “we wait.”

We wait. Moisture runs down my face and pools round my ankles. The hot, dry air feels like it’s scraping the inside of my lungs. Presently the sauna door opens and a sumo wrestler waddles in.

“OK, let’s try the steam room,” says M, bounding to his feet and out the door before it’s even had time to swing shut. As I shuffle after him, I feel the sumo wrestler’s eyes on me and try to shake the feeling I’m about to have a fistful of salt thrown at the back of my head.

“ ’That is not cruising’, I say. ‘That is indecent exposure’”

The steam room is a damp, dark grotto. Shadows lounge around the walls, Amazonian limbs rising from the steam as we pass. M and I park ourselves in a dark corner and wait for our eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“One time I was here,” M whispers, “minding my own business, and I felt this on my leg.”

I gasp as his fingers close around my thigh. And because I gasp, I also inhale two great lungfuls of mentholated air, heated to a balmy 85° Fahrenheit.

“Breathe!” hisses M, slapping my back as my eyes bulge from my head. “For God’s sake, breathe!”

It’s no use. This cruising lark is far too much effort. So while M continues to prowl the changing rooms for the arctic roll of his dreams, I sulk in the Jacuzzi.