I went to my first bath house yesterday.

I love love love being surrounded by naked women! I am delighted that we have people in Toronto who take it upon themselves to organize these inclusive, lovely events. I wish they happened more often.

My friend S. and I arrived later than I would have liked, but still with three hours of play time remaining in the evening. When we were buzzed through the heavy metal door,  warm moist air flooded across my exposed legs and midriff. A crowd of women, most of whom were wearing underwear of some sort, were dancing on the rec-room-feel carpet just past the entrance. The DJ stood next to the dancers, her gear spread across a crappy wooden table.

S. walked me through the three story Victorian mansion, the humidity collecting on my face, peering into tiny rooms with white-sheeted mattresses jammed inside, listening to the orgasmic ululations of  unseen women having–for example–their g-spots probed in room 444.

Near the top of the building, we stoppedin the BDSM/kink area long enough to line our butts up to join in a group spanking.

Terrified, I watched the domme pounding S’s upturned butt with both closed fists. But when she got to me, her palms opened, and I got a nice slapping without too much pain.

We walked back downstairs, ran into J, who we had been looking for, and circled chairs around a large sand-filled ashtray near the pool. Friends stopped by to chat. I removed my bra to show off my breasts, which are new for 2009, and are insanely small and cute.

Topless, I wandered. Some nice glances drifted my way here and there, but no one walked up and put her lips on mine, which is what I would have needed to get involved. I was too wrapped up in watching it all.

Perhaps 10% of the people were having full-on sex at any given moment. The sounds of women having sex drifted from all directions all night. Threading my way through underwear-clad bodies, I would stumble across women wrapped fervidly around each other, lying on some flat surface, moaning, near the dance floor, or in the hallway, or near the pool. It makes me hot just thinking about it.

Trans women are explicitly included in this event, but that doesn’t mean that we’re particularly involved. I felt less attractive than I had two weeks earlier at Cheery Bomb. People chatted with me, but no strangers were grabbing handfuls of my butt. I shared some looks with a few women, but they amounted to nothing; we always continued on our separate ways, chasing friends through the sex-stained maze.

Towards the end of the evening, J and I collected S from room 444, where a lovely trans guy had been demonstrating the wonders of her g-spot to her. Exhausted, J headed home, and S and I made for the hot tub.

After a few minutes of sitting, smiling, foam building around me, coupled naked bodies writhing and moaning next to me, the people in my end of the tub shifted, and I found my tongue in someone’s mouth.

“I love your piercings,” I said, face beaded with moisture, between gasps.

“I love your muscles,” she replied. I explained that they were owing to yoga. She didn’t seem to care where they came from. We bent in to touch lips again.

When she left the pool 15 minutes later, my evening had taken on a new tone. That one contact–that carrying through of desire into lips on breasts, bodies bumping against other ones in bubbling water–was all I needed to affirm my desirability.

This morning, I awoke a happy woman. Mmmm mmm mmm.