Since the suburban baths of Pompeii—if not even earlier—bathhouses have been more than a place to soak and steam. In the United States and around the world, the bathhouse was a clandestine (and, eventually, well-known) haven for gay men to meet and, in many cases, hook up. That included Portland: In the gay bathhouse’s heyday, the city was home to at least a half-dozen, places that hosted men’s socials and fundraisers as well as shvitzes and trysts.

As a new generation of Portland social saunas rise in popularity, the gay bathhouse seems to remain on the margins. Sex-possible spaces for men are rarely talked about in so-called “polite” (read: straight) society. But they were, and remain, a crucial place for queer people to commune and relax outside the straight gaze. And while many gay bathhouses have focused on cis men, a broader, more diverse queer community has found solace in the sauna and soaking tub.

“Bathhouses are spaces for queer care, community, intimacy, and body positivity,” says Portland-based filmmaker, poet, and sauna enthusiast Liam Whitworth. He sees bathing as a “divine” way to recenter and connect with himself and the people around him. “In different eras of queer history, they’ve offered safety and connection. I love the leisure and pleasure of a bathhouse.”  

The transformation of eons-old, traditional bathhouses into more male-centric enclaves began in the US in the early twentieth century. They weren’t exactly advertised as gay-friendly spaces, but those who knew knew. They offered a safer space to be intimate, when hotels and apartments with nosy neighbors could be risky or even dangerous.

A few decades later, as the gay liberation movement picked up steam and states began to roll back so-called “sodomy” laws, gay bathhouses appeared in downtown Portland: Olympic Sauna & Bath, the Club Continental Baths, Aero-Vapors Bathhouse, and “the granddaddy” of the city’s gay bathhouse scene, Club Portland. According to queer historic preservationist Cayla McGrail, Club Portland opened as Hotel Alma in 1911 and eventually became the Majestic Hotel and Club Baths in 1971. By the ’80s, it evolved into Club Portland. As more LGBTQ+-friendly spaces—bars, restaurants, and clubs—arrived across the country, bathhouses remained explicitly gay-friendly spaces with decades of context, not to mention fiercely loyal regulars. 

Gay bathhouses thrived until the height of the AIDS crisis in the ’80s, when local and state governments across the country either formally shuttered or surveilled these spaces out of fear and misinformation. While some saunas and steam rooms held on into the ’90s and early 2000s, they were rarities. Club Portland lasted until 2007; in 2009, McMenamins purchased and began renovating the storied building, now home to the Crystal Hotel. 

Today, queer spaces have become less physical and more virtual: Making a connection takes little more effort than looking at a cell phone. Still, with the advent of preventive HIV medicines, and the reality that guys still want to meet 
up with other guys for more than locker-room fun, bathhouses continue to survive—barely.

Portland currently has only two gay-identified bathhouses, the all-gender inclusive Hawks PDX, near Mall 205, and Oregon’s only all-male bathhouse, Steam Portland, which sits between NE Sandy and I-84. Both require identification and a membership.

The issue of ID can be a thorny one. Steam, which offers a hot tub, steam room, sprawling outdoor sun deck, and numerous private spaces, welcomes trans men and nonbinary people—if they legally identify as male or X on their ID. According to Liam Whitworth, a 34-year-old trans man, those sorts of restrictions can create serious challenges for trans or gender-diverse queer people who want to enjoy a bathhouse. “Requiring a male ID, which can take up to a year of paperwork, can be a problem,” Whitworth says. 

Even if a spa is theoretically trans-inclusive, cultural norms around
“acceptable” bodies can be challenging, particularly in spaces where people are wearing little to no clothing. “There’s a perceived requirement around aesthetics, and this is a cultural barrier, not a legal one,” Whitworth says. 

But that doesn’t stop Whitworth from seeking out spaces that are making explicit efforts to be more inclusive (for instance, Hawks hosts monthly trans-friendly nights). “We are cocreating a new reality,” says Whitworth. “At its best, a bathhouse offers enough privacy to discover new self-love, admiration, acceptance from self and others, and appreciation for different types of bodies and abilities.”