The Turkish Baths (When Straight Guys Go Gay) by E.M. Bridger Page A

before his homeland had even been occupied. Traditions that had once thrived, but long since died out, still represented today by buildings that had loving been preserved as part of the country’s undoubted heritage. Even though the sun was beating down fiercely, Steve wallowed in the drama, the history and the sheer sense of perspective that the old town offered.
     
    Eventually opting for some much needed refreshment, he took a left into a narrow, shady street littered with immaculately maintained pot plants and flowerbeds. Attracted by the words ‘Ice Cold Beer’, written in chalk on a blackboard propped against an open door, Steve entered a dark, cool building near the end of the street. He was greeted by an elaborately decorated room, festooned with framed black and white pictures of Hollywood movie stars of yesteryear, interspersed, at intervals, with ornate eastern style lanterns. Four wooden tables more than adequately filled the limited floor space in front of a neatly presented, chest high brick bar in the far right corner, the barely audible rhythm of eastern style drumming the only noise to be heard.
     
    “Merhaba,” Steve said, in a slightly raised voice, hoping to attract the attention of any, so far unseen, other occupants.
     
    “Hello…one moment, please,” came a faint voice, seemingly from underneath him. A few seconds later an immaculately dressed young man emerged, apparently from underneath the bar.
     
    “I am so sorry,” he said apologetically, “I was in cellar changing beer.”
     
    “No worries,” Steve replied cheerfully, mounting one of the raised stools positioned directly in front of the bar.
     
    “What can I get for you?”
     
    “Oh, a cold beer would be very nice, thanks,” Steve replied. He looked the barman up and down as he watched him pour a frothy beer into a large, ice-frosted glass. The fully buttoned white long sleeve shirt, black tie and full length black nylon trousers seemed a little over the top for the current climate, but nevertheless portrayed a welcome air of professionalism. “Thank you,” he responded politely as the barman placed the condensation covered glass on the bar in front of him.
     
    “You’re welcome,” came the equally polite reply.
     
    Steve took several large gulps of the ice cold amber liquid before placing his glass back onto the highly polished surface of the bar, savouring both the thirst quenching and the cooling qualities of the drink.
     
    “Are you here on holiday?” the barman asked, “or are you stationed out here?”
     
    “No, no…just a holiday,” Steve replied, before continuing, “How did you know I was in the services?”
     
    “Your tattoo,” the barman replied, pointing to the regimental crest design on the top of Steve’s right arm.
     
    “Oh yeah, of course,” he laughed. “My name is Steve, by the way.”
     
    “Hello Steve, I am Mehmet,” the barman responded cheerfully, “I hope you are enjoying your stay in Turkey.”
     
    “Oh yes, most definitely,” Steve replied enthusiastically, “It is such a beautiful place, full of history and charm. The ruins are amazing.”
     
    “I am glad you like,” Mehmet responded, smiling broadly. “Are you here alone?”
     
    “No, with my wife, but she’s busy shopping…as usual,” Steve said, laughing.
     
    “Yes, I understand,” Mehmet said, also laughing, “I too am married, I earn money, my wife spend it.”
     
    “Same here,” Steve replied, taking another large gulp of cold beer.
     
    The two chatted together like old friends, the black haired, olive skinned barman regaling Steve with tales of his family, the history of the town and a well-informed overview of Turkish politics as the suntanned, muscular holidaymaker countered with accounts of his numerous military tours of duty; Mehmet’s broken English far and away superior to Steve’s limited Turkish.
     
    It was almost an hour, and several beers, later that Mehmet asked the question that,