The photograph above is of the old Reginald Street building in Derby - the Derby Turkish Baths. Image found on https://www.riverwyre.com/derbycity The Derby Turkish Baths
Belper Friend Bill Smith and I go back a long way. In fact, all the way back to the Ilkeston College of Further Education where we studied (amongst other subjects) drama in the 1960s. Our paths diverged. Aided by his vibrant entertaining personality, Bill became an actor and executive producer of Westwood Films 2003. Because of his demanding work, visits to the Belper Friends group are rare, but valuable and enjoyable. My activism and writing have always benefited from strong and loyal support from Bill’s enthusiasm and his constant encouragement. In a recent email, he asked me to consider writing about Reginald Street Turkish Baths in Derby together with the repressed queer men who visited in those dark homophobic 1960s. ‘You have the knowledge which will be lost if not recorded.’ Bathhouse activities have been documented in some detail in Scruffy Chicken and in my other novels. However, Bill has inspired me to revisit this subject. On my 1965 six-month holiday in the UK, I intended to seek out a place where kindred spirits of my own kind might dwell. The Turkish Baths on Reginald Street in Derby made a promising start. Gay meeting places (when you can find them) for teenage boys have always been in short supply – much more so 64 years ago. I was further encumbered by an aversion to crowded places and pubs. It was not a matter of principle; I just hated the taste and smell of alcohol. The 1960s was a golden age for cottaging, but police entrapment and yob thuggery were powerful deterrents. The Turkish Bath had several advantages. Having lived in America since 1963, I was accustomed to a higher level of cleanliness from a culture of the daily shower. It would be some decades before the Derbyshire colliery classes abandoned the Friday night tin bath in front of the fireplace. Sex is healthier, safer and much nicer when partners begin with a soapy, slippery start. In addition, steam offered more than just a chance to get wet, warm and clean - it was more comfortable than a cold smelly cottage. Following my early imprinting from the 1957 Heanor days of Guzzly Granddad, the exotic halls of Reginald Street offered older, well-spoken, flabby professionals and those who were older still. The soft, the shapeless and the retired provided a delicious eroticism, born of naked freedom in this tropical, special, secret world just yards from the gloom and rain of Derby outside. Behind the Edwardian green tiled frontage to the old baths (now long demolished) was a self-contained Turkish bath suite. On my first visit, I entered the musty, comfortable-smelling foyer and paid the expensive five shillings entrance fee to the kiosk lady of the Turkish Baths. This price kept out many scruffy youths of my ilk. Through an ancient and expensively crafted oaken door, the carpet became thicker and so did the atmosphere. Here was the silence and restfulness consistent with a gentleman's club in London. It was a scene of deep maroon. Lush curtained cubicles, gently decaying, had seen better days earlier in the century. At the end of this plush hall sat two elderly shabby attendants, lazily sipping tea. The cantankerous, ever-complaining Charlie was bald and plump. Fred, whose mission in life was to do as little work as possible, was tall and gaunt. Since I was assessed as a 'too young to tip' bather, my ticket was received with little interest. I was vaguely directed to strip in one of the individual curtained cubicles. Taking in the air, warm and scented with damp towels and cleanly scrubbed white flesh, I became aware of pale shapes silently moving around, with interested eyes measuring my progress. Like most young first-time visitors, I was a touch shy, carefully covering nether regions with a towel. Leaving the dry hall of curtains and beds, I went through a Turkish arched door and into a 'Cecil B DeMille' set. Suddenly, all was wet and warm, an area of hissing steam, fountains and echoing running water. It was like an ancient Eastern temple dedicated to the god of pleasure and sensuality. In sharp contrast to the cool wet public street, with its fully dressed conventions of just minutes before. A sudden great splash echoed around the tiled central area. It announced a large gentleman who had taken the 'cold plunge', a small pool barely large enough to allow for a very short swim. He emerged from the depths, dripping from his bald head, smiling encouragement to a newcomer in the hope that he might discard the towel and follow the example. But a warmer experience beckoned. I decided to investigate the bijou, cosy steam room. An angry, gurgling, hissing seemed to emanate from the deep subterranean depths of Derby as I walked into an opaque blinding fog of hot steam. Through the grey haze, just for a moment, my eye caught a quick movement. Fleshy parts appeared to quickly disentangle somewhere just beyond the dim, limited visibility in the light of a dull, amber, low-powered bulb. A few moments after groping for a spare seat, my eyes gradually became accustomed to the nebulous atmosphere. Peering into the vapours, I could hazily discern the vague outline of these naked lords of lard who, in British tradition, exchanged no words at all. Ostensibly they were indifferent to my presence and each other, but an instinct told me that the arrival of an unknown teenage face had been noted - and noted well. Part Two to follow... Comments are closed.
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