IT'S A MANZ WORLD

A NIGHT AT THE CLUB BATHS - Note: Most of my Manz World stories are fictionalized accounts of how the painting shown here came to be. However, some of the stories are rooted in truth.

For a number of years I worked in a hospital in the western suburbs of Chicago. I loved my work as a therapist, partly because of the variety of patients who came in to be rehabilitated. Old, young, fit and not fit, all were a challenge simply due to the injuries they had sustained, ones that placed them on my schedule in the physical therapy department.

I had been trained to be ‘emotionally professional’ when working with patients, meaning not to get too personally involved with a patient. Yet there were some people that just naturally ‘took’ to me. And I to them. I remember well one of my teachers saying, “These are patients, people in need of your help. But they are not your friends.” I remember him saying, “If you are in such need of friends that you look to your patients to get them, then you’re in the wrong profession.” I took that to heart initially, trying to keep an emotional distance from any and all patients in my care. However, as the years went by, I loosened that rule.

It wasn’t that I was trying to latch on to any patient because I needed a friend. I had plenty of friendships outside of my workplace. However, there were a few—both male and female—who just clicked with me. I remember one young lady, only a few years younger than me, inviting me to her birthday party, one that was held only a month after she was discharged from the hospital. Along with her family and friends, Susan was happy just to be alive to celebrate that birthday. That’s because she had been in a very serious auto accident three months before and had been so badly injured the doctors thought she wouldn’t live when they first saw her in the E.R. That was the initial prognosis. Later, however, Susan’s doctor gave the family good news; she was going to live. But he then questioned whether she would ever walk again. But she did.

I was one of the major therapists on Susan’s rehab team. I saw her every weekday for anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour for all those months, so I got to know her well. I also got to know her family well, since one member, usually her mother or sister and a few times her younger brother, would come to therapy with her. Those visits were, in part, to encourage her during the early days of therapy. They were especially helpful at times when Susan wasn’t doing well. They were always ready to encourage her to do more. One more leg lift. One more step. One more walk down the hall. Almost aways, one of them, usually her mother, was there to give her support.

On the day of her discharge from the hospital, Susan made a special trip down to my therapy room to say goodbye. I remember seeing her wheeled in the door by her mother. She was beaming with a wide smile on her face. Along with her mother, Susan thanked me. Not just in words, but by giving me a long, warm hug. She then handed me an envelope just before being wheeled out to the hallway. After she left, I opened the envelope and saw it was an invitation to her birthday party. Along with it was a short note of thanks. At the end, after her signature, she wrote, “See you at the party. And you’d better be there!” Obviously, that party was a joyous event for all attendees, including me. It was particularly special for me since, when she came over to greet me, she was walking with only a cane to help stabilize her.

And then there was the guy who I would have never thought of as being friendly toward me. He was a tough-minded—as well as a tough bodied—man who had been in a horrible motorcycle accident. The accident that brought Denny to the hospital was not one that he had caused. It was the typical ‘car-runs-red-light’ accident. Unfortunately, when you’re riding a motorcycle and get hit by a car, the most significant damage is usually to the rider, not the car or even the motorcycle. And that’s what happened to Denny. He was more than banged up, he was broken. Eventually, I found out he didn’t just have broken bones, he had a broken spirit.

When I first saw him, Denny was wheelchair bound. That’s because he had a crushed pelvis and several broken bones in his right leg, including a significant break in his femur, which affected the greater trochanter, the head of the femur, which is very important in the movement of the upper leg. He also had a broken collarbone. Fortunately, damage to his right arm and hand affected muscle and not bone. There were a few cracked ribs, but nothing that would not heal on their own given time. Given what I found out about the accident, Denny was a very lucky man. That thought came to me as he showed me photos of his flattened motorcycle. I shook my head as I wondered how the man even survived.

Denny was a man of very few words when he first came to me. Because of that it took some time to get to know him. However, after a few visits, he opened up to me and, eventually, confided in me that he needed to get well ASAP. He said, “I’ve got to get back to work ‘cause I’ve got bills to pay and not a hell of a lot of savings.” I already knew he worked construction, mostly labor. Given what I knew about his broken body, I recognized it was going to be a long while before he would clock in at a worksite again.

What helped Denny in his recovery was not just that he was determined to get better—always a great help in recovery—but that he was well muscled. He told me he was a ‘gym rat,’ one of those guys who went to the gym religiously. He told me he was usually in the gym every day. Sometimes even twice a day. While I had not seen him unclothed, I could easily tell that those workouts had helped him build a body that most guys would envy. My guess was that those visits to the gym were for building muscle so that he could do his work well. Bigger, stronger muscles can more easily lift the heavy lumber and the buckets of hod that he was expected to carry from place to place.

It was after several weeks of seeing Denny on a daily basis that he told me about another job he had. It was one that did not require lifting anything heavy, but did depend on his having a muscled body that could easily move about. That information was revealed just before Denny left the therapy room late one afternoon. He was my last patient of the day and with all other patients gone and only one other therapist in the area—she was in the office writing reports—Denny lowered his voice and said, “I’m a dancer. At a… a bar.”

I’m sure my eyebrows lifted a bit when I heard that. Looking at this muscled guy, I would have never thought of him being a dancer. My response to that information was a simple, “Okay.”

Denny leaned closer to me and almost whispered, “It’s not really a bar. I mean, there is a bar there but…” For a moment he went silent, then continued with, “It’s a club. A night club.”

Again, my reply was, “Okay.”

Denny continued to explain. “I dance on a stage. I’m kinda like the center of attention when I’m on that stage.” He seemed almost embarrassed in saying that. He even blushed a bit as he said, “I’m like their star dancer.”

Then, shaking his head, Denny said, “At least I used to be their star.” With pleading eyes, he continued. “You’ve got to get me back in shape. I’ve got to get back on that stage. It’s really, really important for me to be there.”

Even though his voice was low, I could hear Denny’s stressing of the importance of his getting movement back that would allow him to dance again.

So I listened with care, taking into consideration his goal. It’s important for me to hear a patient’s goal. It’s not that I do anything more than what I would normally do in a therapy session. But hearing the needs of a patient—their goal—helps me in helping them. In fact, one of the first things I try to do with a new patient is to find out what goal they have, one that will help me help them do their best in therapy. It may be, “I want to walk my daughter down the aisle at her wedding,” or "I want to get back home to my baby,” or, “I need to get back to work in order to support my family.” For Denny, it was, I need to dance again. Yes, he wanted to get back to his construction job, but the most important goal for him was the ability to dance again.

To ease Denny’s stress level, I said, “I’m going to do everything I can to get you back to where you were. To enable you to work again. And, hopefully, to dance again.” However, as with any patient, I did not promise him anything. I never promise. I can suggest. I can join in their hope. I can do everything possible within my scope of treatment. But I never promise.

Over the next several weeks, Denny worked hard in therapy. For Denny, that hard work wasn’t just during our therapy sessions. Several times I walked by his hospital room and saw him next to his bed, trying to stand on one leg to strengthen it. And the nurses reported that he was walking the halls several times a day, first with a walker, eventually with a cane.

The day finally came when Denny was discharged from the hospital. But the healing wasn’t yet complete. Because he needed more therapy he was transferred to our outpatient program. Since I had been working with him as an inpatient, I asked that he be put on my outpatient schedule, which allowed him to continue with the therapies I had been planning for him. That transfer was granted, enabling me to see Denny for an hour-long session, three times a week.

I was honestly surprised at how well—and how fast—Denny progressed over the following weeks. Unlike any patient I’d ever worked with, I noticed how diligent he was in doing all I requested of him. He was especially determined to do all the exercises I had written down for his home program. Eventually, he told me he was back at his gym every day that he wasn’t seeing me. After I cautioned him about being too aggressive in those workouts, he told me, “I’m starting with the lighter weights but I’ll be working up to the heavier ones.”

By the end of his hospital stay, it was quite evident that Denny had lost muscle mass. Over time, muscle tissue atrophies due to lack of use, a normal thing for people who have been as damaged as he was. But once Denny was back into his fitness routine, it didn’t take long for those muscles to start pumping up. Week after week, not only could I could see his muscles building in size, but he was definitely getting stronger. And, due to his regular regime of stretching, his flexibility continued to increase to the point that his movements became quite fluid.

After four weeks of attending the outpatient program, Denny was discharged. The last time I saw him, he thanked me, gave me a hardy handshake and, with a slight limp, walked out the door.

It was about eight months later that I saw Denny at a supermarket. Because I was walking behind him, I didn’t recognize the well-built man in front of me was the guy who, only months ago, couldn’t walk without help. This man was moving down the aisle with haste and did that moving with fluidity. Finally, when the man stopped to peruse products on a shelf, I saw that it was Denny. From a little distance, I called out a friendly, “Hey, mister, whatcha looking for?”

Instantly, Denny turned his face toward me. Since I was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and not in my usual P.T. garb, I could tell he didn’t know who I was at first. But once he recognized me, a smile quickly came to his face. Next was a fast approach and a surprise. He hugged me. Hugged me! I couldn’t believe it. So why the hug?

That hug was explained when Denny said, “Oh, man. I’ve been wanting to call you, to tell you all that has happened since I saw you last.”

With excitement in his voice, he told me how his life had changed. “First of all, I’m not working construction anymore. That’s because I got hired as a bodyguard for…” He stopped short of telling me who he was working for, but explained it was a ‘rich dude’ who needed someone like Denny to protect him. Denny didn’t explain more about the ‘rich dude’ or why the guy needed protection, but went on to tell me more of his good news.

“And, guess what? I’m dancing again! It’s at the same place where I used to dance.” With a wide grin, he said, “And I’m the star again.”

Curious, I asked where the place was where he was dancing.

There was silence for a few seconds, then he said, “Well, it’s probably not a place you would go.”

In hearing that, my curiosity heightened. “Why would you say that? I’ve been to nightclubs where dancing has taken place.”

“Well, it’s at a…” The big, muscled guy turned shy as he lowered his voice, as well as his eyes, and said, “It’s a gay club.”

My response was silence. Then a grin. Nothing more.

My silence provoked a more vigorous response from Denny. In a stronger voice, and with his hands moving upward, Denny said, “Hey, man. It pays the bills! I mean, what do I say to a nice paycheck?”

“Yeah. Okay. I understand. Nothing wrong with that.”

In an effort to tone down any emotion or any further embarrassment, I changed the subject by asking Denny how he was doing physically.

Puffing out his chest a bit, Denny replied with, “Doin’ well, dude. Doin’ really well.”

I needed to get going, so I told Denny it was good to see him and that I was glad things were going well for him. His response was a smile and ‘thanks.’ But before I continued my shopping, Denny whipped out a business card and handed it to me. The card was black with gold print spelling out the name of the club where he worked.

“If you’d ever want to see me dance, this is the place.”

I took the card, thanked Denny, and walked on down the aisle.

It was one Friday night, several weeks after seeing Denny, that I had planned to meet a friend for dinner. Unfortunately, my friend had to cancel due to illness. Not wanting to stay home for the evening, I called another friend, Hank, asking him if he was available for dinner.

Hank’s reply was, “That would be nice but I’m going out with Jerry tonight. You wanna to go with us?”

He then told me he and Jerry were going to one of my favorite restaurants, Giorgio’s, and then, “We’re headed out for some fun. Going clubin’. You can come along if you want.”

Having nothing else to do, I quickly agreed to meet them. It was then that Hank said, “You live on the way so I can pick you up.” Seeing that would save me time and gas, I quickly agreed to that proposal as well.

It was around 7:30 that evening that Hank picked me up at my apartment and, along with Jerry, drove to Giorgio’s. As we ate some fabulous Italian food and drank some wonderful wine, we got caught up on each other’s lives. Hank was a nurse, working at the same hospital as me. But he was on the evening shift, the one that goes from 3:00 to 11:00 p.m. So we hardly ever saw each other. Jerry was a physician’s assistant, working with a doctor’s group employed at our hospital. But the office he worked in was in another building on the hospital grounds. We had gotten to know each other through another common friend, April, also a hospital employee, who had, from time to time, invited me to ‘party’ with the trio. She was a fun gal, always up for a good time. In fact, April was well known around the hospital as ‘the party girl.’

What I knew about Jerry was that he was gay. And, after I got to know Hank, he admitted that he was, as he put it, “half and half.” I knew he really liked April and, at times, they came off like a couple. But I also knew he liked to play around. With a wink and a smile, he had told me, “I like to play on both sides of the street.”

That news didn’t put me off. You see, I am a very liberal guy, so I have made friends with people of many different backgrounds and lifestyles. Actually, I loved being with this group at times, although the gay jokes, mostly coming from Jerry, got to be a bit extreme at at times.

After our meal at Giorgio’s, we got into Hank’s car and headed out to a club. When I asked the name of the club, Jerry said, “It’s called The Den.” From his location in the passenger’s seat, Jerry turned his head toward me and said, “It’s a gay club. Hope you don’t mind.”

Immediately, I knew the name. It was the club where Denny danced. While I’d not frequented many gay clubs—I’d actually been to a couple of drag shows with Hank—I was okay with going to The Den. Mostly because it would allow me to see Denny dance on stage.

As we rode along, Jerry said he’s actually never been to The Den but had heard of it from another friend. “Just letting you know it’s actually a gay bath, but the dance club is not right in the bath itself. It’s connected but separate. That’s so women and straight dudes can go there as well. Actually, I hear it’s rather popular with the straight crowd.”

He then smiled and said, “So, you won’t be seeing any naked men in the pool.”

It was Hank who flashed his eyes upward and looked at me in the rearview mirror. Smiling, he said, “I bet that’s a big disappointment.” He followed that with a laugh.

As we pulled up to the club, I saw that the building was well lit. Easily seen were large posters along the front wall announcing upcoming events. Included in those posters were photos of some of the people involved, including dancers that were performing presently. One of those photos—it was quite large—was of Denny. However, the name under his photo was “Dick Flick.”

Since the club provided free valet service, Hank pulled up to the gate and stopped. Once Hank handed his keys to the valet, the three of us headed toward the entry door to the club. I later found out that the entry to the baths was around the corner. It was at the front door that we were met by a doorman who asked if we were members. When we told him we were not, he pointed us to a desk where we could purchase a ‘temporary membership,’ good for the night. The cost: $35.00. I found out later that the annual club membership was $300.00.

While not terribly anxious to pay such a high price for entry, I was curious enough to see Denny dance that I was willing to part with that amount of money. Fortunately, both Hank and Jerry were, too.

After getting our hands stamped, we entered the main area through some swinging doors. Even though the room was low lit, it was easy to see the stage at one end. Close by the entry doors was a semi-circular bar, one that extended for many feet along the inner wall, where I saw a number of patrons already seated. Beyond was a dance floor surrounded by a number of cocktail tables topped with red tablecloths and lighted candles. Many were already occupied. After Hank scanned the room, he quickly led us to a table with four chairs located about twenty feet from the stage.

We were hardly seated when a young man, dressed in only the briefest of briefs, came to our table and asked for our drink order. Hank and I quickly responded, ordering our favorite cocktails. But Jerry took a bit of time to speak up. That’s because, as he told us later, “That waiter, with his perky pecs and pumped up package, nearly took my breath away.” Hank’s response to that was a shaking head and, “Jerry can be such a queen at times!”

After our drinks were served, we slowly sipped them as we talked and, quite frankly, gawked, perusing the room, looking at the variety of people in attendance. And there was a variety: straight couples, several tables of women only, tables where the talk—and flamboyant mannerisms—suggested groups of gay men, even a few throughout the room that looked like guys in drag. At least, cross-dressers.

Within a few minutes, we were served our drinks by the same waiter that caught Jerry’s attention—and his breath. Shortly after that, a DJ took to his station and revved up the music. As that happened, he said, “Okay, folks. It’s time to get off your butts and put ‘em to use on the dance floor. After that the beat changed from the quieter, more ambient music we’d been listening to and moved it to a more upbeat disco style. The first song was one of my favorites: Leo Sayer’s “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing,” an oldie but a goodie.

Eventually, some of the crowd took Sayer’s words to heart and began to move to the dance floor to boogie down. What we saw were a mix of couples, both straight and gay, all moving their bodies with the beat of the music.

It was about twenty minutes later that the music stopped and an announcer came out on stage. He welcomed everyone and introduced the list of people who would be entertaining us over the next hour-and-a-half. One of those names was Dick Flick.

For over an hour, we watched a series of musicians, singers, dancers and a couple of comedians perform. Some were really very good. Some less so. However, all were definitely entertaining.

As time passed, it seemed like the level of, what my mother would call ‘decency,’ lowered. Not only did the language get more vulgar—to the point that the F-word was just spewing out of one of the comedians mouth—but the clothing got more sparse until there were both male and female dancers dancing in only the briefest of costumes as they moved around the stage in synch with the music. They definitely put on a show, a fantastic display of gorgeous bodies as well as talent.

Finally, it came time for Denny’s performance. He was announced as, “The darling and daring Dick Flick! And,” said the announcer with an emphasized wink, “I’m sure many of you know what he can flick.”

Upon hearing that, the audience roared with both laughter and applause. It was evident that many viewing the stage knew who this guy was and what he could do. As I was told later, many of the audience were there because of Dick Flick. He was one of the major draws to the club. In fact, he had a fan club with some members attending his performances with regularity.

At first, the stage lights darkened. Then, with some dramatic music in the background, a spotlight came on, focusing on the right corner of the stage. As the music built in both volume and mood, I saw a naked leg extend from the corner curtain. Easily seen was a black leather motorcycle boot. Then, slowly, a body moved into view until I saw the backside of a near-naked man. Easily seen were the long, well developed legs, the V-shaped back and the sleeve tattoo of a guy who was definitely muscled. As he slithered further on stage, moving his body in an erotic manner, I saw that he had on a leather jockstrap. That was noted by the leather waistband and the two leather straps that framed two well-rounded butt cheeks. Moving in time with the slow beat of the music, the man’s body began gyrating, making movements much like a belly dancer would. As he did so, I could almost hear the audience holding their breath, waiting for something more to happen.

Suddenly, as the man came to a standstill at the center of the stage, the lights brightened and the music changed, blasting out a different, louder, more rapid beat. As that took place, ‘Dick’ turned to face his audience. As he did so he lifted his head—one topped by a leather biker cap—pushed out his pelvis and threw his arms outward, as if he was saying ‘Here I am, people!’ The audience went wild. Seeing this muscular man with his huge biceps, impressive pecs and six-pack abs dressed only in a leather cap, jockstrap, and boots, was the start of a thrill for the audience, especially his fans.

I looked over at Jerry and saw that he was especially enthralled. With his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened, he brought his hands to a position that looked like he was ready to clap in response to what would be happening next.

What happened next was Denny, a.k.a. Dick Flick, beginning to dance in time with the now more upbeat music. As his body moved in time with the music, his body twisted and gyrated in ways that I was surprised by, especially knowing what he had been only a few months prior. I was even more surprised by the increase in those movements as time passed.

I must say, Denny was a real showman. As he danced around, he began to toy with his leather cap, turning it around, covering his face at times and peeking out from behind it, even covering his bulging leather pouch with it, doing all this as his lower extremities moved seductively to the beat of the music.

After a few minutes of his ‘hat trick,’ Denny put the cap back on his buzzed head, then lowered his hands and placed his thumbs on the waistband of his jockstrap. He the began tugging at it, pulling the waistband away from his body, allowing the leather pouch covering his penis to move about a bit. Then he turned away from the audience and, once again, pulled on the waistband, but this time it was a downward movement, a move that looked like he was going to take the jockstrap off. As he did that, he pushed out his butt and did a bit of a twerk, which made his butt cheeks shake and, at times, wiggle alternatively. It was easy to know that the crowd loved this because of the loud clapping and cheering.

Turning around to face the audience, Denny once again pulled on the jockstrap waistband. But this time he lowered it further than before, exposing some of his trimmed pubic hair and a bit of his penis. Again, the crowd cheered. As he did this teasing, someone yelled out, “Take it off!” That started a wave of yells, all saying, “Take it off! Take it off!”

A rather mischievous smile came onto Denny’s face as he continued to toy with the jockstrap waistband, pulling it down even further. This time, his penis was exposed. That brought about even more cheers from the viewing audience. After several times of doing that tease, his penis popped out. Denny’s next action was to begin moving his hips so that his male member, one that had some length, was flopping around. True to his stage name, Dick was definitely able to flick.

Finally, with practiced skill, Denny turned away from the audience once again, bent over and, with his well developed butt mooning the audience, he dropped the jockstrap to the floor. He then picked it up and waved it around his body as he continued to dance. That part of his routine ended only after he tossed the jockstrap into the crowd, an action that brought the audience near the stage to their feet, evoking even more cheering and whistling. Who it was that grabbed the jockstrap, I do not know since so many people were standing up in front of me.

Over the next many minutes, Denny continued to dance, totally naked, making movements that became more and more suggestive. During those minutes Denny moved his naked body all over the stage, even coming forward to the edge and teasing those in the front with a wiggle and a flick here and a wiggle and a flick there. Those wiggles and flicks were a crowd pleaser, noted by the shrill whistles and loud cheers from many in the room.

What I was witnessing was unbelievable on several levels. First, having the guts to get out on a stage and dance naked before a crowd of people is an unbelievable thing for me to think of. Secondly, seeing Denny doing such a dance, with all the movements involved, was also nearly unbelievable. With my thoughts of him when I first saw him in therapy going through my mind, never did I think he could do all that I was seeing him do this night. My thought was, “Good for you, guy!”

Denny’s dance routine, one being a good twenty minutes in length—maybe more—began to wind down when the music slowly lowered in volume. When the music finally stopped, Denny stood center stage and bowed as he heard the applause from the viewers. Suddenly, the stage lights went out and Denny disappeared.

Not that night, nor ever, did I tell Hank or Jerry that I knew the naked dancer on the stage, that he was a former patient. My professionalism prevented me from saying anything like that. In addition, I never told Denny that I had been in the audience viewing his, shall I say, sensational performance. But seeing Denny on that stage doing his routine was something I’ll never forget. To see him go from being wheelchair-bound to dancing in such a fluid, seductive manner was an real treat for me to see, a testimony of what determination can do.

Memories of that night were not easily erased from my mind. What Denny did on that stage impacted me so much that, eventually, I did a painting of what I remember of that night. I call it, “A Night at the Club Baths.”