It’s a hole-in-the-wall off 10th Avenue, a blacked-out storefront with a neon sign that flickers like a dying pulse. Inside, it’s all steam and shadow, a labyrinth of tiled rooms where men slink around like feral cats. I started coming here three months ago after a closing dinner at Le Bernardin -- too much Montrachet, too many paralegals eyeing my cufflinks. I was bored. I wanted something dirtier than a $3,000 escort or a West Village Tinder-slut with a Peloton body. Steamworks is perfect: anonymous, primal, no NDAs required.

I strip down in the locker room, wrap a towel around my waist, and head into the haze. The air smells like bleach, sweat and cum, a cheap cologne of desperation. First guy I see is a pudgy paralegal type: mid-40s, hairy back like a matted rug, his dick half-hard and pathetic. He’s got the posture of someone who's rarely away from his computer. I let him suck me off in a corner stall, his mouth sloppy and eager, like he’s trying to impress me. I don’t look at him. I stare at the cracked tile, thinking about a new Chink associate we just hired and imagining how tight her pussy must be. When I cum, it’s clinical: quick, efficient, like checking box. He mumbles something grateful. I walk away.

Next room’s a sauna, and there’s this beaner twink -- maybe 25, wiry, with a face like a knocked-off Jeff Koons sculpture: shiny, vacant, overpriced. He’s sprawled on a bench, legs spread, jerking himself slow like he’s auditioning for a porn shoot. I don’t ask. I don’t care. I push him face-down, rip the towel off his hips, and fuck him hard against the cedar slats. His ass is tight, slick with sweat, and he moans like a first-year associate begging for a bonus. I grip his neck, feel his pulse jackrabbit under my fingers, and thrust deeper, imagining he’s that Skadden prick who tried to poach my client last month. The kid’s whining now, a high-pitched yelp, and I laugh under my breath. I finish inside him, pull out, and leave him twitching on the floor like the fish he is.

Later, in the steam room, I spot a guy who looks like he's out of a Brooks Brother's catalogue: mid-30s, lean, with a smug jawline and a dick that curves up just the right amount. I avoid looking at it too much, scared it might be slightly bigger than mine. He’s got that Ivy League sheen, probably Cornell, definitely not Yale. I let him bend me over a bench, and he’s rough, grunting -- somehow elegantly. His thrusts are erratic: too much bravado, not enough rhythm. I smirk into the fog because he’s fucking me like he thinks he’s winning. He isn’t. I clench around him, just to mess with his pace, and when he comes, it’s a weak sputter. I stand up, wipe the sweat off my chest and cum off my ass, and don’t bother saying thanks. Fuck him.

I’m back in the locker room by 2 a.m., slipping into my Zegna trousers, my Patek Philippe glinting under the fluorescents. I put on a leftover mask from COVID so no one can see my face with the bright lights. The guys here are wreckage: spent, shambling, their eyes hollowed out like over-leveraged SPACs. I feel nothing for them. Tomorrow, I’ve got a breakfast at Per Se with a GC who’ll kiss my ass over a $50 million M&A deal, and I’ll smile like I didn’t just fuck three strangers in a basement.

Steamworks isn’t a secret I keep; it’s a footnote I don’t bother citing. I step into the night, the city humming around me, and light a cigarette. Another billable hour burned.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5700806&forum_id=2).#48788912)