The best way to get to know a strange city is to be tracking down something odd. An actor who tours with British Council shows told me the first thing he does in a foreign country is visit the law courts; you can tell so much from the way they treat their criminals. Artisan craftmen, legendary restaurants, churches and temples; these things are fine if they are dying out or very hard to find. More appealing are the travels of a Vanity Fair writer who went all over Asia in search of a colonial era opium den. My modest interest in men's bath houses has taken me down some very queer streets, always starting, if I am anywhere east of the 120th parallel, with a visit to Utopia. (www.utopia-asia.com)
The first thing Utopia tells you about any Chinese city is its population, then, using a rule of averages, 'that means about 200,000 Utopians,' in the case of Nanjing - a wonderfully encouraging statistic given that, at first glance, it's very hard to see where they are. After an hour stumbling under Ming walls I found Red Bar ( Beijing East Rd) where the students call themselves comrades, not because they share any values with the elderly Party bosses who are the only other Chinese still using the word . This new definition orginated in Hong Kong, in 1989, when gay students appropriated the word comrade to signal a new solidarity.
Apart from some desultory dancing, the scene is much like any bar – groups of males drinking at tables until the entire surface is covered by a wasteful forest of green glass, so low is the alcohol content of each bottle. Across town, near the Confucian temple, I was confronted by a hangar-sized roller door covering the entrance to a bar called Zhongtian Yu Le Gong ( Piang Jiang Fu Rd). A hatch opened in the rippled iron, revealing a warm glow; I stepped through and made my way down a concrete ramp. After a few minutes of staring, a drinker from one of the tables came over to mine. 'Gay ma?' he asked. I nodded, we reached a linguistic impasse, he walked away.
Nearby Shengzhou Road is a wide avenue of arching planes planted by the French after the city's defeat in the Second Opium War. Here I found what I was looking for – a motorcycle repair shop. 'Go through it,' Utopia advised, 'the entrance is behind the bikes.' A flophouse worthy of Old New Orleans, wailing saxes and Tennessee Williams sighs. A bored masseur with slapping slippers collected me from the shower and locked us in a room where, over half an hour, he found out more about me than my mother learned in forty years. We exchanged hardly a word , but afterwards he described the whole thing in detail to the other masseurs - at least that's what I assumed from the gales of laughter in the locker room. (This place has vanished from the Utopia listings. Bibochi,135 Shengzhou Road, is better.)
Work-weary Beijingers are pampered in the early evenings at luxurious spas (Batiya, nr Chongwenmen Station) There is cleanliness and elegance and attentive staff who charge like wounded geishas. Only I could manage to upset the decorum; a moon-faced masseur felt obliged to make a scene when he found me dressing without taking a final shower – either he risked banishment for failing to raise a sweat or he was genuinely outraged by my grubbiness. I tapped my watch and tried to explain that enjoying time with him had made me late for dinner with some relatives who thought I was sightseeing at the Drum Tower.
In Shanghai, there is so much English and so many British people that if you are reading this you probably know someone who can give you a first hand account. Its small gay quarter grows like a buried seed in the heart of the old French quarter. Studio 2006 (1639 Hua Shan Rd) is a friendly sauna in a quiet residential compound. Utopia advises visitors to 'look for the big green sign on the bomb shelter and please be very discreet.'
Suzhou is dangerously close to the spreading grey tumour of the metropolis. The 'Venice of the East,' has lost many canals. but the gardens that inspired willow pattern plates are protected by UNESCO. Down an alley opposite the Bank of Communications is Hai Xing sauna (499 Zhu Hui Road). I arrived at ten and was one of the last admitted. The format of these places is always the same: a few dozen men spend the night in a big dim room with long rows of mattresses; they lounge around chatting and watching sport or action movies on a giant screen then snuggle up to sleep and get up early to go to work.
In the locker room I met a junior sales executive from a company that exports car parts. From the whiteness of his teeth and rich colour of his skin, he looked more Burmese than Chinese – but everything he said in his careful English expressed the world view of the Han. I persuaded him to forgo his sociable night and leave with me.
Walking into the hotel, I was reminded of the wisdom that the communists could never quite undo. Same sex relations, though much diminished, were not outlawed, merely regarded as childish and irresponsible. Current policy remains The Three No's: No approval, no disapproval, no promotion. The receptionist, like a tolerant teacher, busied himself with his register as we passed. (Gusu Hotel,133 Xiangwang Road) The hours in my room above the water were interrupted only by texts from the salesman's girlfriend. 'Soon I will marry her,' he told me.
'And still go to the bath house? ' I asked.
'Of course. I will never stop going.'
''Does she know that you go? Have you told her you are bisexual?'
He laughed and shook his head. 'There is no girl in China who could understand that.'
Before we parted I presented him with a pirate DVD about the martyr of the early gay movement Harvey Milk, hoping he could see past the terrible clothes to the message that seventies San Francisco is still sending out. Lately he has been emailing that he wants to come to the UK but won't come unless he has a job, so if you are an importer looking for qualified Chinese personnel, please get in touch. His name, most winningly, is Mao.
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