Tracey Parker is a gay cruising fanatic who travels around the world and shares his escapades with Squirt.org members. This time, Tracey takes us to the city that knows a good time and stays up late in the trip, and a well-known bathhouse in Las Vegas: Entourage
The only time I’ve been to Las Vegas was for a brief work conference. Most of my days were consumed by group tours with colleagues and clients we were entertaining. By Tuesday night, knowing we’d be leaving soon, an anxious feeling crept in that I was going to miss experiencing the city on my own terms. I began looking for things to do by myself—specifically a local scene that didn’t feel so touristy and corporate.
Whenever I visit a new city, I look for gay bathhouses first. In Vegas, it turns out there was only one: Entourage. The pictures online looked promising, but even better was that Wednesday was Locals Night, opening at noon. I went to bed thrilled.
The next morning at the hotel restaurant, eating breakfast with my coworkers, I couldn’t hide a mischievous grin—like I’d gotten lucky the night before. I made up my mind to slip away at the first opportunity. The conference was so massive that no one would notice I was gone, and I was certain I wasn’t the only one playing hooky.
On the Uber ride over, we kept passing dispensaries. I asked the driver to pull into one, where I picked up a container of gummies. Since it was far more than I could use during the trip, I offered two to the driver as a thank-you for the extra stop.
He ate one immediately and stashed the other in his bag, while I popped one myself. Though it would be a while before the effects set in, the ice was broken and we struck up a natural conversation. Spotting my destination, he mentioned he’d been to Entourage before.
“The guys there are so fucking hot,” he told me. “Especially on Wednesdays. A lot of them are performers in the shows or just pretty boys who work around Vegas. I wish I could go with you.”
We exchanged numbers as he dropped me off, and I promised to fill him in on everything. I was already feeling a pulse that was entirely absent from the sterile conference halls. I felt connected to the city. I felt like a local.
It was mid-afternoon when I arrived. The front desk asked whether I wanted a locker or a room; I chose a room. Once inside, I swapped my clothes for sandals and a towel and stepped back into the hallway.
Down the corridor, a large group of men was clustered around a single door. I walked up to the edge of the crowd, standing on my tiptoes to see what had drawn them in. Inside the room was a stunning young guy with porcelain skin and a massive cock, stroking himself solo. The men in the hall were stroking themselves, too, a few starting to get handsy with each other. He was an incredible specimen, and I wanted so badly to step in, but the hallway was packed shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines.
I decided to explore the rest of the club. There was a pool—surprisingly large for a bathhouse—where I swam for a bit. Everything I did carried an extra rush of deviance, knowing I was ditching my work obligations. The club was filling up fast, and the driver hadn’t lied: the local crowd was insanely hot, and many of them clearly knew one another. Hallways quickly filled with men pacing back and forth, keeping tabs on potential connections.
Roaming those halls became addictive—the constant anticipation of what was around the next corner. I was practically doing laps, listening to the house music pumping through the speakers, having a blast. Turning a corner, I passed an open doorway. The same guy from earlier was now fucking a petite, tattooed skater dude doggy-style on the mattress. The skater’s legs were spread wide, staring at the adonis in the mirror as he took him hard. Through the reflection, I could see the skater’s face—a mix of intense focus and sheer pleasure deep inside his gut.
This time, I had a front-row view. Sweat was just beginning to bead on their skin. Moments later, another guy walked up beside me, draped his towel over his shoulder, and exposed himself—he was hung like a horse. Both guys inside turned to stare at the monster cock hanging temptingly in the doorway. They waved him in, and I slipped inside right behind him, instinctively pulling the door shut.
They shifted positions so the skater could take both of us into his mouth. He traded off between our cocks until we were both rock hard. Outside, the soft beat of the dance music drifted in, but inside, no one spoke. The skater was so captivated by the new arrival that he repositioned himself on all fours, threw his legs into the air, and waited to be taken. His breaths became deep, heavy moans as he pushed his body to its limit.
Standing alongside the stunning top from earlier, watching the scene unfold, was intensely hot. After a moment, I felt his gaze shift to me. Rather than meeting his eyes, I climbed onto the bed next to the skater, getting on my hands and knees and presenting my hole to him. I felt a slick drop of his spit hit me before he slid right in, picking up the same hard rhythm he’d used on the skater. Soon, the skater and I were moaning in unison—a chorus driven by the two men behind us.
The view in the mirror was hypnotic: four sweaty bodies moving together in a hypnotic rhythm, alternating between slow glides and intense pounding. I wished it could have lasted longer, but looking at the tops, I could tell they were close. The energy in the room was just too intense to hold back. Both of them came almost simultaneously inside us, and we followed right after. The skater finished onto his stomach while I shot onto the floor below.
Afterward, we lay there catching our breath, trying to regain our composure. We fumbled through the identical damp towels scattered on the floor to figure out whose was whose. When I finally opened the door, a rush of cool hallway air flooded the stifling room.
I led the way as the four of us walked over to the open showers. Finding them empty, we hung our towels on the wall, stepped under the showerheads, and let the hot water wash away the sweat and scent of one another. Looking over at the four of us standing there, I tried in vain to hold onto the sheer intensity we’d shared just minutes before.
We exchanged a few subtle glances, winks, and playful slaps on the ass—silent acknowledgments of what we’d just shared, and a fleeting attempt to hold onto the high before stepping back out into the real world.
After showering, I sat on one of the lounge sofas and watched the steady stream of heavily tattooed, attractive locals drift by. I still had a few days left to play the part of a diligent employee at the conference, but that afternoon at Entourage would completely overshadow the rest of the trip. That was how I’d remember Las Vegas.
