This summer I took a trip to see friends on the East Coast and my folks in Cleveland. I timed my final stop to hit the big Market Days street festival in Chicago’s Boystown, where I was to meet up with friends from Minneapolis and Wisconsin.

When both friends canceled, I was suddenly on my own. I decided to stay in Chicago for just Saturday, stay late at the bars, and take a 6 a.m. flight to Denver to see my sister on the way back to California. In Chicago it didn’t make sense to spend money on a hotel, so I went online to find a gym where I could store my travel bag. I didn’t find any 24-hour gyms, but found an upscale-looking bathhouse called “Steamworks” that had a gym and even wireless Internet. I couldn’t picture guys at a bathhouse surfing the Web, unless they were exceptionally good at multi-tasking.

I’d never been to a bathhouse. Whenever I’d thought about going, I chickened out – fearing I’d catch crabs, scabs, rabies, or something worse. But I’ve grown more adventurous with age, and now I’ll try anything once, as long as it’s safe enough.

Steamworks was next to the festival, but the street was closed for paid admission. “I’m just going to Steamworks,” I mumbled to the gate lady, hoping nobody else would hear. “Oh, the BATHHOUSE right?” she seemed to say loudly. “Ok, have fun.” I hurried past, not sure if the seven bucks I’d saved was worth my humiliation.

Inside, Steamworks was dim, and techno music played loudly. The guy at the front desk told me I could rent a locker or a room for eight hours. This gave me until 2:30 a.m. – plenty of time to get to the airport. I chose a room, and the guy put my ID in a safe box and handed me a key. “All rooms are on the second floor,” he said, “and the gym is on the third floor. Enjoy your stay.”

The first floor looked nice: there were pool tables, vending machines, a Jacuzzi area, and videos playing hardcore porn. But upstairs was a maze of narrow halls, where guys in towels wandered around under dim red lights. Suddenly my bathhouse anxiety kicked in, and I rushed to my room, hoping nobody would follow. I scanned my tiny room, hoping to find a complimentary Taser to fend off aggressive trolls. But I saw nothing, save for a suspicious-looking bed stain.

To relax I decided to work out, and thankfully the gym was well lit. Of the only three guys working out, two were twinks-in-towels and one was an older naked guy. What if he dropped a dumbbell on his balls? I tried not to look, and avoided the machines he was using.

After my workout I felt comfortable enough to use the Jacuzzi. There were only a few guys in it; most guys were just standing around watching. Nobody looked very appealing, but then I can be a picky bitch. Then a tall, dark-haired guy got in and cruised me. He looked cute enough, but it was too dim to tell. I moved closer, but neither of us made another move, so he left to shower in the adjacent room. I wanted to follow him, but I chickened out. I tried to just enjoy the Jacuzzi, but suddenly I didn’t feel like cruising anymore.

After I dressed, I returned to the front desk to get my ID so I could hit the festival and bars. “That’s not possible,” the guy said flatly. “Once you leave, you can’t come back.” I was livid. “What!?” I growled. “How am I supposed to know that? You guys didn’t tell me, there are no signs, and it’s not on your Web site.” “Sorry,” he said. “That’s our policy.” But he didn’t sound sorry. Instead, I was the sorry one – stuck in a dark, windowless sex club.

After calling some friends to vent, I got my bag and left. Maybe a bar would take my bag at coat check. It was now 11 p.m., the street festival was finished, and there were lots of cute guys still walking around. But with my travel bag, I didn’t feel so cute. Even worse, there were 100 guys in line outside the bar I wanted to go to, and I was damned if I had to wait for two hours. I felt like crying, but I went to get some pizza and headed to the airport, where I tried not to fall asleep.

Although my Chicago plans fell through, I tried to console myself. At least I finally tried a bathhouse, and would probably never go again. If I want to find sex with strangers in dark places, I’ll just turn out the lights at home and go online. At least my sheets are clean.