Despair turns to fear as I realise that my deliberately secure double-layer of swimming trunks and even tighter boxers have been rendered redundant in an instant. But no-one β at least for Kentishtowner β has yet written about their first-ever visit. In a sign of things to come, Issy gets in for free on account of the fact she has more than one X chromosome.
We part our separate ways to enter the changing rooms β which should probably be called undressing rooms here. We hang up our towels and reluctantly ease ourselves into an entirely silent hot-tub.
The water acts as camouflage for our nudity and we relax into pleasant conversation: for a few minutes, it is easy to forget the bizarre nature of our surroundings. This bliss is short lived as a pack of men enter the jacuzzi.
Sitting by the stairs, I seem to have secured the best seat in the house β at least if the stage is watching male genitalia flap around in front of your face. The whole experience seems fairly innocuous, albeit fairly jarring, until another mixed couple join in and start to partake in activity that they probably could have done at home. He tells me that he has had multiple sexual experiences here.
Is that the main reason he visits? One man then shifts over and asks whether either myself or Issy would like a massage, his unnerving words serving to shatter what was previously an eerie silence. I have so many questions to ask in the name of journalistic endeavour what sort of massage, is this massage free? My questions are somewhat answered when the man steps out of the water, revealing undoubtedly the largest instrument I have ever seen.
