Tracey Parker is a gay cruising fanatic who travels around the world, always sharing stories of hot hookups and anonymous sex. Tracey takes us to another gay cruising spot; this time in Peru. Sauna H2O is a horny, intimate sauna where guys of all types come to play.
The flyers I’d discovered online claimed Sauna H2O was open daily from 3 PM to 10 PM. It was my third day in Huanchaco, a seaside escape forty minutes by bus from Trujillo—a mid-sized Peruvian city whose colonial splendor felt like a fading memory held up against its current hardships.
Google insisted that several gay saunas in Peru were still active, with reviews as fresh as a few weeks old. I chose the one with the most recent activity, sent a message via WhatsApp, and received a prompt, welcoming reply.
I arrived in a neighborhood that felt frayed at the edges. Outside the historical center, much of Trujillo shares this grit: people living on the margins, stray dogs patrolling the dusty streets. A nondescript row house on the corner matched the address. I rang the bell and waited. After a few minutes, a man appeared to draw me inside.
The transition was jarring. He welcomed me into a clean, professional lobby, informing me the cover was S/30, payable upon departure. On the second floor, I found a bar and locker room. In the bar, four older men sat fully clothed, lost in the rhythmic hum of local gossip. In the locker room, however, I encountered a handsome young man just beginning to change. He possessed a striking, refined beauty that felt out of place in these surroundings.
When I asked about the dress code—noting the clothed men nearby—he encouraged me to strip down. “The sauna is upstairs,” he said with a smile. “Change into your towel.”
The third floor was a revelation. It became clear that this was a private residence transformed into a commercial space, yet it retained the intimate, “best friend’s living room” vibe.
The bar downstairs was actually the owner’s kitchen; the lounge was a mix of plush sofas and tables. The dry and wet saunas were immaculate and inviting, and a jacuzzi sat ready to be heated on demand. Two showers, shielded by half-walls, offered a clever balance of privacy and performance.
The crowd was a study in contrasts: average-looking older men mingling with drop-dead gorgeous, model-esque youths. Agewise, I was the bridge between them.
On the top floor, the atmosphere shifted. It was a simple hallway with four doors. Two were locked; a third was a doorway without a door, revealing two twin beds with plastic-padded mattresses. At 6 PM on a Sunday, it felt hauntingly empty. My mind drifted to Mexico City, where at this exact hour, twenty such rooms would be overflowing, the air thick with the climax of a Sunday afternoon orgy.
As I turned back toward the stairs, a rhythmic pounding and a low moan drifted from behind a locked door. I instinctively tried the knob. Click.
“Hey!” a voice barked—sharp and aggressive—from within. I retreated instantly, clutching my towel to my waist as I hurried back down the stairs.
Seeking a change of pace, I found the TV room. It was a cozy space with a massive sofa and a television playing a dubbed Hollywood movie. It was empty save for a man in his early twenties. He lay back with his hands behind his head, legs draped over an ottoman. His blue sheet—identical to mine—had been rolled back with deliberate care. There, framed by a forest of thick black hair, lay his member: heavy, veined, and impossible to ignore.
I stood in the doorway, pretending to watch the movie. My gaze was a pendulum, swinging from the screen to the display beside me. With every pass, my eyes lingered longer. He remained motionless, his arms up in an inviting “V,” his eyes fixed on the film. I waited for a signal—a smirk, a glance—but he was playing a different game.
Eventually, I saw him swell, though he remained nestled in a soft cushion of skin. I decided to be direct.
“Do you mind if I touch it?”
He gave a silent, affirmative nod. I sat on the ottoman and let my fingertips glide over him. When I leaned down to catch his scent, he hardened instantly, rising with a sudden, heavy authority. But as I began to taste him, he abruptly covered himself. Someone was passing in the hallway.
“Is this not allowed in public?” I whispered.
He paused, searching for the words. “I am an escort,” he explained softly. “I work here.”
The transaction was simple. “Cobro cien soles,” he said. One hundred soles. He promised a room with music and a “great time.”
“Will you fuck me?” I asked. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he replied. “Vamos.”
He was the archetypal “dream Latino”—Venezuelan, like so many of the sex workers currently in Peru. He told me to wait upstairs while he retrieved the key from the owner. He returned with a bottle of lotion and a single condom.
The encounter was a blur of heat and intensity. He began by eating my ass with a devotion that left me moaning, my body humming with anticipation for what came next. We rolled across the bed in a fever of kissing and salt-slicked skin. He pinned me down, his focus absolute, driving into me for what felt like a beautiful eternity. We would melt together like marshmallows, lost in a long, deep kiss, before he would pin me down to start again.
He noticed how much I loved the sensation of him pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in. He turned it into a rhythm, a slow-motion impalement. On my back, I looked up at him. His face was calm, almost bored, but I chose to see it as focus. He was a craftsman, intent on doing this perfectly.
When he finished inside me, we lay there, tangled and catching our breath.
Afterward, we re-emerged into the social flow of the house. I wandered the floors, occasionally hearing the echoes of other encounters behind closed doors. But not everyone was there for that. Some were just there for the steam, the flirting, and the simple joy of being gay in a safe space.
The owner eventually took a break from his kitchen to talk to me. It turned out he was the one I had messaged. When I mentioned I was from Washington, D.C., his eyes lit up; he had lived there in the nineties. We spent an hour reminiscing about the old-school circuit: Badlands in Dupont Circle, Secrets, Velvet Nation, and the legendary scene at the Navy Yard.
“Next time, the cover is on me,” he promised. “Just pay for your drinks and your company.”
I returned several times. I grew to love that clubhouse atmosphere. It felt like a distorted, adult version of my childhood in D.C.—going to a friend’s house on a Sunday afternoon. But instead of that old, terrifying desire for other boys that used to scare me, I was now among friends who shared it.
We watched Hollywood movies dubbed in Spanish. We shared a joint between sessions in the steam room. We touched and flirted, but often, we just existed together. The vibe was truly intergenerational—young and old, escorts and locals, all woven together. For the first time in a long time, everyone seemed to feel they belonged. And for many of us, I suspect that was a feeling we were experiencing for the very first time.
