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United States News Title: Review of Obama & Rahm Emanuel's Queer Butt Boy Chicago Fudgepack Club [It has been stated that both Barack Obama and Rahm Emanuel are members of Man's Country.] Chicago, IL 3/16/2008 Oh lord, am I really writing a review of Man's Country. Have I really fallen so far? In a word: yes. To start, Man's Country is a gay bathhouse. Men go there to have sex. End of story. There's no Better Midler to-be entertaining men in towels. Oh, there are strip shows on weekends, but those are merely entertainments that precede or follow men having sex. Or sometimes happen simultaneously. I live around the corner from Man's Country, but have not been there since I've lived here. Which doesn't mean I've never been there. I was never a regular, but I have my (lifetime) membership. But I hadn't been there for eons. Until recently. A few months ago, after a long night of drinking, I found myself outside Man's Country. I had just bundled my friend into a taxi after closing The Eagle, which is next door. And I wasn't done making poor decisions for the night. You enter Man's Country through an airlock designed to separate the tawdriness within from the naive world without. Or vice versa. Behind the (bulletproof?) glass are orange jumpsuited attendants who check you in. Is the similarity to prison coincidental? You be the judge. Man's Country is a private club, which I guess provides protection from a slew of indecency laws, so you need to be a member to enter. Membership is 10 bucks, and has been since I first "joined" about 20 years ago. Membership lasts a lifetime, which, if you visit regularly, may be perilously brief. The entrance fee varies, depending on whether you're renting a locker, a small room, a large room, or a "fantasy" room. This ain't The Sybaris -- "fantasy" relates to a variety of S&M accoutrements. You receive a key (to your room or locker) on an elastic strap, a well-worn towel, and if you have rented a room, shreds of cotton that pass for a sheet and pillowcase. Are you in the mood yet? You are also offered the opportunity to check your valuables. Check your valuables. I am not saying that "Man's Country" is a synonym for "Den of Thieves." But check your valuables. Then you go to your room or locker, strip down, stow your stuff, wrap the towel around your waist and elastic band around your wrist, and you're off to the races. There are three levels to Man's Country. That's right -- this is a superstore. The main level has the locker room, some private rooms, and a video room. Upstairs is a maze of more private rooms, another small video room, and the large showroom, where the strippers live. When there is not a show, the TV screens show porn (as they do in the video rooms, of course), and men have sex. On the floor, on the stage, on the seating area. The private rooms are fitted with lights on dimmers, so the occupant can show you as much or little as they like. Don't expect the lights to be up -- these guys aren't beauty queens. The men are generally lying on their backs or stomachs, depending on what they expect you to do to them. You do the math. What struck me on my recent visit was the number of guys wandering around mostly or fully dressed. This says one of two things to me: 1) hustler, or 2) thief. Because after I steal your stuff, I don't want to take time to get dressed before I book. The other thing was what a horrible state of disrepair everything was in. There's nothing wrong with Man's Country that a good fire couldn't solve. Short of that, they need to hose the place down from top to bottom, soak it in bleach, and maybe bring in an exorcist or two. Man's Country is open 364 days a year, and it shows. The lower level is the "wet" area, featuring a steam room and tub. I expect there are bacteria in the tub big enough to knock you down and take your wallet. As for the steam room... Old men + dirty men + sexual activity + steam = ? You fill in the blank. My last time at Man's Country was probably my last time at Man's Country. There's nothing there for me, unless you count gonorrhea.
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#2. To: Happy Quanzaa, Fred Mertz (#0)
Is that true, fudgepacker Freddie?
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