Le King

I cannot imagine that I am the first to review this legendary establishment. Perhaps I got the wording wrong, or this damn foreigner is letting out a secret like a *brit stupide*.
Perhaps the place is only legendary in my mind because of the mystical photo by Pierre et Gilles, King Sauna (Said), 1984.
I found myself under the same trickling waterfall tip-​toeing on the tile whilst trying not to trip over the beautiful euroboys in their trashy striped bikini cut underwear.
One stroked me gently on the chest with a single finger and led me to a room, to the other boys’ dismay. They watched through a horizontal gap in the wall as he serviced me completely.
Now, I believe last I checked, sauna culture was rather anonymous, and one is expected to move on in a friendly manner and never see each other again. But the boy, sliding on his bikini cut once finished, hung his head in despair, and declared, «I am sorree … I cannot be your … how you say … boi-​friend?»
Oh, the earnest and romantic French! The same thing happened to me once in a parking space in Santa Barbara. A hideous, sweaty man was taken aback after our one and only tumble in the hay, that I would not commit to him for life.
«I am sorree … but do not speak. I cannot get over that you would not like to be my … how you say … boi friend?»
Back in the sauna, I collected my own supposed boyfriend and hightailed it out of there. I found him squatting on a movie theatre seat as two men got their jollies watching him pull his long t-​shirt over his … how you say … gigi?