by Charles Troob
“Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive…” William Wordsworth
In 1970, I returned to New York from grad school, a twenty-four-year-old gay man attempting to emerge from the closet. The next year I moved into a shared apartment on Christopher Street in the West Village, where my new life included street cruising and late-night bar pickups. In the Village Voice I read about the Continental Baths, a gay bathhouse that was also an entertainment venue. Cabaret and anonymous sex? How did that work?
It didn’t take long to answer the question. A college roommate and his wife had me over to dinner at their Lincoln Towers apartment, and my hosts went to bed early. At 10pm I was free, only a few blocks from the Ansonia Hotel—the baths were in the hotel basement. I wasn’t out to Greg and Emily, or to any of my college friends, and as I made my way to Broadway and 74th, I felt a little like Dr. Jekyll switching to Mr. Hyde.
I paid the admission fee and descended, excited but edgy: what if someone saw and recognized me? I knew this was silly—everyone here was after the same thing I was—but paranoid secrecy is a hard habit to shake.
I stored my clothing in the assigned locker, then wrapped my towel around my waist and went off to explore. I found myself in a large room, with rows of chairs, a small stage—and, to my surprise and amusement, a tacky pool party. Men in towels were chowing down on Chinese food from a buffet table, while a few others were swimming naked in the next room. So much for erotic adventure. This wasn’t the whole story, of course: beyond the pool, men were entering and exiting an unlit area filled with bunk beds and mattresses.
But it was showtime! The munchers put down their plates and took seats. I joined them.
A door opened. In came an attractive Latina with her band, followed by a half-dozen male-female couples, dressed for a night on the town. The new attendees sat calmly in the front row, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to take in a show among bare-chested men—a stone’s throw from a gay orgy.
There was a fanfare from the band, and then the singer took over. (I think it was Liz Torres, mentioned in the Wikipedia article about the Baths—along with Bette Midler, Barry Manilow and others.) Her patter and songs were directed knowingly at a gay audience—and as innocent as anything you could see in midtown.
The set came to an end. There was enthusiastic applause. The performers and straights departed. And it was now time for me to enter the dark room. There I found welcoming bodies and sexual release.
Only two years after Stonewall, the gay community was setting the pace in New York nightlife. The relaxed air—the festive music—the unfazed straight couples—the easy friendly sex—all these suggested that the promised free love of the Sixties was now a done deal, at least for a few of us. But over the decade, the freedom was to go in an unexpected direction. The city became more dangerous, the mood darkened, and the gay scene turned to disco and drugs, gym bodies and leather. The place to be seen was the notorious Mineshaft, with kinky sex under bright light. The few straights who visited there were jaded sophisticates, not cabaret fans.
The Continental Baths lost its audience and closed in 1974. The openhearted campiness of Bette Midler et al. remained a part of New York gay life, but as a grace note—not the leading edge of the culture.