The best men hang out in saunas.
IMO.
I’m starting to believe that the best men hang out in saunas.
It’s not necessarily where you’d expect to find them but having spent some hours in my local public sauna of late, often just me squished in with seven or eight men, I’m now in a position to share what I’ve learnt about men in saunas.
This study actually began at Glastonbury Festival about 10 years ago, when I’d wake each morning - hungover; somewhat sleep deprived - and head to the naked sauna to sweat out the toxins.
I’d strip off all my clothes (and floral headpiece) and walk into the sauna yurt.
People would shift up on the bench to make space for me - and anyone else who came in - avert their eyes from my private areas and exhibit the most polite, accommodating behaviours.
They’d ask before dropping essential oils onto the coals; open and close the door quickly on entering and exiting to keep the heat locked inside and speak in hushed tones, so as not to ruin the peace.
Not once, in 10 years, did a man stare at my naked body while I sat in the sauna or went outdoors for an open-air shower (no cubicles; no curtains; on full display) in front of a queue of people.
And yet a few weeks ago - when I moved to London, decided to go for a sauna at the local swimming pool and opened the door to find seven men sat inside it - I thought: is this safe?
I decided to be brave. I reasoned that they couldn’t all jump me without repercussions. Surely there was CCTV. And they’d signed in etc.
When I got inside, one man said good morning without looking at me.
The others mumbled their welcomes.
I found a small spot in the corner and sat with my legs and arms crossed, keeping myself as protected as possible.
And I listened, as they started asking each other how long they tend to stay in for, and then discussed their weekends plans. One asked another how his daughter, who’d been in an accident, was getting on.
The conversations were polite, funny, deep, light. The whole shebang.
They didn’t look at me but I did glance at them. They were ranging in age from their 20s to their 70s or perhaps 80s. Thin, fat, muscular, saggy, different skin colours. An array of men.
Eventually, a woman came in.
She squeezed in amongst the men on the top bench - the hot one, where you go for a proper blast of heat - and started talking about how cold water swimming is like doing the best line of your life.
I laughed. She did, too.
Someone left the sauna. Her husband joined us. She was posh; he had a Cockney accent. I was feeling nosy, I wanted to know how they met, how long they’d been together, whether they came to the sauna every day.
But I stayed quiet.
The next morning, I went again.
This time, two men were discussing all the funerals they’d been to recently. One said there had been eight deaths in seven days and he couldn’t make all the funerals. Weirdly, it wasn’t a morbid conversation, more a comment on this aspect of ageing.
The only slightly annoying comment I’ve had was from one woman who, when I shifted up to make space for her, said do you not want to sit next to your husband - referring to a very old man who was definitely not my husband.
She didn’t mean it rudely but she did make me feel like I must look about 70 years old in a swimsuit because why else would she think we were married? I wasn’t even talking to him. We definitely weren’t touching.
But none of the men have said anything rude, annoying, suggestive or inappropriate.
Perhaps that’s because they think I’m a 70-year-old pensioner.
Or maybe it’s because men who hang out in saunas are more interested in community, connection and wellbeing, and respect others who are too, regardless of gender.
Annie x
Ps. On Tuesday, I’ll be publishing an article about what it’s like being a ghostwriter (and how I became one), and Friday’s email will be about why mothers shouldn’t run. Controversial.
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