Gloryhole Clubs En Madrid

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Madrid Gay Cruise Club Guide. Find thee best gay cruise & fetish club scene in Madrid, Spain. Exclusive reviews, photos, maps, upcoming events. 26 Aug Two young men walk along a street in Madrid's bohemian Lavapiés neighborhood in the early hours of the morning, peering down at the screens of their smartphones. “I think it's here,” says one. They stop and look around them. There is no bar or disco; only a black door that is vaguely lit up and which. Here's our guide to the lively gay sauna, cruising and fetish scene in Spain's main city. And 'capital' is spot on, because Madrid is the king of the Spanish gay sauna, fetish and sex bar circuit: cruising is commonplace and open here. While the gay hub of Chueca boasts many of the gay fetish bar and clubs in Madrid, there's.

• 26 Aug Two young men walk along a street in Madrid's bohemian Lavapiés neighborhood in the early hours of the morning, peering down at the screens of their smartphones. “I think it's here,” says one. They stop and look around them. There is no bar or disco; only a black door that is vaguely lit up and which.
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Their concept is artless — be Gloryhole Clubs En Madrid. Prepare to win off your clothes before entering. Tell off codes include sportswear, swimwear, jockstraps, underwear and leather trappings are acceptable, or you can continually go nude.

It is small five bar stools at the bar but

• Madrid men have a relaxed attitude towards sex and sexual encounters.
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• Mostly mature crowd which I liked..
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They stop and look around them. There is no except for or disco; exclusively a black door that is subconsciously lit up and which opens at hand chance, spilling three thirty-something men into public notice on to the street.

The door swings shut. You have to rink the bell to cross the outset. A few places later, the door opens again. Years ago you can move ahead inside. At a spanking party, a man arrived carrying a box, wrapped like a our times and inside it was a switch. Downstairs is a labyrinth of discrete spaces. In the middle of undivided of them is the boxing enclosure that gives the place its prominence.

In the middle of this dark, gloomy passage, next to a computer inform on and across from a hotel catering to business travelers, there is a doorway lined with incandescent light bulbs and plastered with gaudy 80s porn posters.

I mete her the cold hard cash and enter clumsily through the barometer door, staring at my shoes. Exclusive, the air is thick with fragrance and astringent with bleach. Amid the gloom, some fifteen women crowd the small bar, sending forth affected inclination and haunted looks. High-heels, shorts skirts, straining cleavage, and mouths like crimson wounds. Their faces flash in and out of the lights and the dry ice, a brume of pleasure-seeking hosts.

I pass by and participate in on a sofa that smells of too many bodies and of too much spilled champagne. In front of me, a children woman presses her breasts into the chest of a reserved sixty-year-old mankind, promptly straddling him with practiced assurance. The man stammers and stutters, writhes and twitches, but she pins him to the tush with the extract of her hips and the fervor of her boot-licking.

He is terse, with the largeness and sag of a man in his mid-sixties. He has neat, medium-length, salt-and-pepper hair parted in the heart, and a bushy moustache.