Here’s a transcript of the video:I want to talk to you today about my experience in the bathhouses of San Francisco. To do that, I need to back up a little and talk about the way they first started in San Francisco. The biggest, most famous one was the Sutro bathhouse, which was out at the beach. It was a huge temple, really. It was built in 1896 and burned down in 1966.
It was a notorious spot for men to meet each other. It was that simple. Whatever terms they wanted to meet on, they could meet there. It was open to everyone, but apparently there were private changing rooms which were frequented by gay men.
There are several letters from that time where a straight man was hosting a gay man who was visiting town and wanted to entertain him, and he was told to go to the Sutro Baths.
The ruins of the Sutro Baths are still a popular tourist spot in San Francisco. About the time they burned down in 1966—when I was graduating from college—I suppose that’s when the other bathhouses began to open
The one I remember is Dave’s Baths, which was there when I was a young man in San Francisco. The first time I ever went down to it, I’d caught a cab. I was too embarrassed to tell the driver where I wanted to go, so I said, “Just Montgomery Street.”
And he said, “The whole street?” And I said, “No, you know.” And he said, “Where do you want to go?” And I finally said, “Dave’s Baths.”
And he said, “Oh, why didn’t you tell me so? I take a lot of people there.”
He took me there, and I checked in at the desk. You had to sign your name in those days to say who you were. So, with a perverse sense of humor, I suppose, I signed mine Elloughby Branch. My great-great-grandfather was a Confederate general whose name was L.O.B. Branch, and I turned that into Elloughby like a first name, and signed that at the desk.
I was given my towel, and I went off basically in search of cock—and found one. I can’t remember which one, appropriately enough, but it was a delightful thing to be able to do what I wanted in that regard, and to be in a place where I felt safe.
I hadn’t been out of the closet that long—or even properly out. I can’t officially say I was out at that point, because I was still operating under cover, as it were. It was an amazing thing to be in this place where I knew it was other gay men. It was safe. It was freedom like I’d never experienced before.
Dave’s Baths was a wonderland. I never found out who Dave was—never met him—but I have to thank him for creating the environment where my world changed.
There was every race in there, all sorts of experiences that I’d never had before—mostly ones that involved being human with fellow human beings. It was extraordinary, really. I might look at it today and not think that at all, I suppose, but it was at the time. I was captivated by the freedom of the place.
It drove me on to look for other horizons when I discovered there was a place called the Ritch Street Baths on the other side of town that was even more elaborate. I suppose I imagined it would be people I didn’t know, simply because it was across town.
Ritch Street featured what they called a Minoan temple. I still don’t know what that was, but it was a pool at one end of the place with a slightly Grecian motif going on. And at the Ritch Street Baths, you could get a nine-grain sandwich with turkey only steps away from the Minoan Temple, so you could sit there and munch on your sandwich while you were waiting to get your cock sucked.
I was in love with that place, and it opened up such wonders to me that I talked about it with several people that I knew, including my woman friend Jan Fox.
She was captivated by the fact that I had such a place. She said, “Oh God, I wish I had something like that that girls could go to.”
I tried going home once or twice with guys from there, but I learned that that didn’t work out. It was meant as a temporary pleasure, and I couldn’t go marry someone that I had met at the baths. I became resigned to that.
Later, I discovered the Glory Holes on 6th Street, which was very basic. It was just a room with cubicles that had holes in them where dicks would come through… to my great astonishment and pleasure. That became my regular habit.
I was working at the Chronicle by then, which conveniently was only two or three blocks away. So I would go over there on my lunch hour, while I was writing Tales of the City, and have fun.
It was referred to publicly as the Good Health Club—GH, it said outside—so the joke was that stood for good health. I would go there and then go back and report to work as soon as I was done.
One day, the editor of the Chronicle, this very distinguished elderly man named Charlie Thieriot, asked me to come up to his office.
I don’t remember what he wanted to talk about, but as I was sitting there talking to him, I looked down and realized there was a big wad of bubble gum stuck to my knee. So I had to subtly move my hand over it so it could not be seen. I’m not sure he ever registered it, but it sure did with me. I was in a panic.
I was able to mine my experience of the gay baths in Tales of the City. It’s referred to repeatedly—people saying so-and-so went to the baths. I didn’t get graphic about it. I couldn’t. But I acknowledged that they were a thing.
There was also a place called the Sutro Baths—not the original ocean one, but a small place on Valencia Street—that was co-ed, if you can imagine such a thing.
For a while they invited men and women to come there. It was mostly gay men, but some women. I don’t know how this worked, because I would run in terror from any woman who came into the place—it wasn’t what I was familiar with. They must have been brave souls. I have to give them credit for that. Or knew where to find the fun—I don’t know.
Of course, I knew about the bathhouses in New York, which had their own reputation. It was not exactly like that of San Francisco, which was more raw sex. Bette Midler sang at the Continental Baths to a bunch of men in towels, accompanied by Barry Manilow. I’ll never figure out why people were shocked to discover that he was gay many years later after he had been working in that environment.
It was where Bette got her start. For a long time she didn’t like to talk about that, but I think she’s over that now. It’s part of her history really. It’s part of what makes her special to us today.
In San Francisco, once the AIDS crisis hit, the city decided to close down the bathhouses. Interestingly, they didn’t close down the sex clubs. I never quite understood the reasoning behind that.
I always felt that was wrongheaded, because they could have used those spaces to educate people about AIDS—to have posters up, to inform people. The places that were left open had no communication at all. People wanted to do what was right and didn’t quite know how, as usual.
That didn’t stop me from going completely, but what eventually stopped me was that I became too well-known. I didn’t have the joy of anonymity anymore. That came to me in full force when one day I was at the glory holes and some guy came up behind me, put his arms around me, and said, “I really love your work.” Talk about a boner killer. That sent me screaming out of the room. I had to stop and be polite, but it was more than I could handle.
I suppose it was time. Sooner or later you have to realize that you’re not that person anymore. That didn’t come to me rapidly, but it came eventually. Your body tells you that, and a certain vanity comes into play because you don’t want to be seen as a ridiculous old man. There was some element of that for me.
And I learned to have sex with the person I love. It came late in my life, and I was glad when it did.
There’s so much shame attached to sex in our world, especially around gay sex. I realized that I needed to get rid of that, and the baths helped me do that—to eliminate my shame and become matter-of-fact about sex.
I’m so glad that I had that experience, and that it occurred at a time before there was a dangerous epidemic to make people stop.
It was worth it to me—more than worth it. It’s a fond memory. And while I don’t remember many of the people who were in those dark rooms with me, I do remember what it felt like—the communion you felt with your brothers.
It gives me a warm glow even today. I’ll always be grateful for having had that youthful bacchanalia. It made every difference to me. It opened me up creatively, among other things, and made me accept who I am once and for all.
I credit that to my time at the bathhouses. I really do.
And I wish the same thing for you—not necessarily a bathhouse, but a chance to feel yourself once and for all.
So thank you for coming along today and listening to me say lewd things. It was fun, and I hope I’ll see you soon.
Correction: Armistead realized after shooting the episode that Dave’s Baths were on Broadway (not Montgomery Street).
The wonderful music in this episode is by Michael Hearst.https://www.michaelhearst.com/
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