MEN BATHING
The ManKind Project Reader
Winter 2001

At first blush-so to speak!-this might seem like an odd topic. It's not one I would ever have thought to find myself writing about. It evokes for me a subtle homoeroticism, like those young nude bathers in paintings by Cezanne, for example, or Thomas Eakins. Which leads me to speculate in passing on the interesting phenomenon that homoerotic pleasures are not restricted to gay men: think of the irresistibly male splendor of Michelangelo's David, and its universal appeal.

But cleanliness, as I've heard, is next to godliness; and what I'm here to write about is not artists and their visions of masculine beauty, but rather the deceptively mundane yet essentially sacred matter of personal hygiene-with maybe a little homoeroticism thrown in. What inspires these thoughts is a recent visit to Japan, where the Buddhist heritage, it seemed to me, was more evident in the simple acts and objects of everyday life than any religious observance or meditative practice. Public bathing, in particular, is something of a ritual for both men and women. Perhaps this has come about in part, over the centuries, as a result of the nation's geographical and geological circumstance: Japan, after all, lies at an intersection of tectonic plates where the earth's crust seethes with still volatile volcanic activity, and where hot, therapeutic sulfuric waters bubble up everywhere to the surface. The Japanese seem to value, even revere, this special gift that Nature has offered them, and every watering hole becomes a spa.

Be that as it may, and whether in private or in public, my observation is that bathing occupies a far more significant place in the life of the Japanese than it does in our lives this side of the Pacific Ocean. I am accustomed to Western habits, hopping into the shower or bath, soaping down and rinsing off in a practical, perfunctory way, and hopping out again. It was a surprise to discover, then, that in the Japan the idea is to get clean before you step into the bath. In a private bathroom, at home, this means a preparatory shower, and the typical bathroom is designed to accommodate the practice: a fully tiled space, where the soapy water from the shower drains off through the floor, and a deep tub which allows full immersion in water heated with absolute precision to your personal taste.

Public bathing is another matter. In public, men and women bathe separately, with a reverence inspired, if nothing else, by tradition. On the way in to the baths, you leave your house shoes at the door (of course, you have already left your street shoes at the front door to the building), and slip your feet into a waiting pair of bathroom shoes. In the ante-room, usually well equipped with mirrors, sinks, and unguents of various kinds for skin and hair, you find a basket for your clothes, along with two baskets of towels, one thin one, not much larger than a pocket handkerchief, and one regular bathroom towel. Here you strip off whatever you might have been wearing (at a ryokan-a Japanese inn-a kimono is normally provided,) take one of the small towels, and step out of your bathroom slippers as you enter the bathing area. Many Japanese men, I noted, particularly the older ones, tend to use their little towel to cover their genitals-more, I suspected, to spare others any possible embarrassment than themselves.

Next, the shower. Depending on the size of the establishment, there will be a number of adjacent shower facilities, each provided with a faucet, a high shower position, and a low one, along with a beautifully-crafted wooden stool, about six inches high, and a small wooden bucket. Ablution requires serious mindfulness here. Squat on your stool, allow water from the faucet to reach the right temperature as it fills your bucket, then turn on the shower in its low position. Then shampoo and wash the body thoroughly. Having had to learn this ritual by watching, I found it amazingly beautiful, moving even, in some way, to see the care with which my fellow bathers treated their bodies. The actions were almost ballet-like, precise and loving, thorough beyond anything I myself had ever practiced. The hair, the head and neck, the underarms, the torso, the genitals… all treated with equal patience and respect, right down to the scrubbing of soles of the feet. Then use your little wooden tub to rinse off, thoroughly again, filling it over and over with clear water from the faucet until your body is glistening clean. Then up, grab your little towel, and into the communal bath.

Here there may be several men, sitting or stretching out, mostly in silence, each creating what privacy he needs around him. The healing water seems to cast its own spell around each bather, so that each becomes, as it were, his own island of quietude. There is little or no exchange, though in one instance I was treated to the special delight of a father sharing the bath with his toddler son, perhaps a year and a half old, and they played together with small, gentle sounds of pleasure. The experience for me was one of utter serenity and, nursed by the water, of complete and rare contentedness with my physical being. Here, more than anywhere, I could feel in harmony with my body-a kind of bliss.

You'll be reluctant to leave the water, but when you're ready, grab your tiny towel and squeeze it out, if it's wet (some men fold them and place them on their heads, I noted, to keep them out of the bath water), and use it to wipe off. Then back to your stool for another cleansing, clear water shower and wipe off again before stepping out into the changing room. Here, now, you take one of the larger towels to dry off and prepare for the day with a shave, a body oil, whatever you see fit, before replacing your kimono, abandoning your bathroom shoes at the door, and stepping back into the house shoes you left here.

Why bother to spend time with what might seem such an ordinary experience? Because for me the experience was anything but ordinary. Brought up in boarding schools where shared bath or shower times brought with them the agony of body humiliation, the dread fear of exposure and comparison-not to mention the torture of being mercilessly flicked with wet towels!-I became far more aware of the potential comfort and acceptance of being in a space with other men's bodies. I was reminded that privacy is not about being hidden between the walls of individual shower stalls, and that personal space can safely be created by an atmosphere of inner assurance and quiet, mutual respect. I was reminded, too, that there is value and beauty in the simple act of cleansing, and that there is ample pleasure in taking more than perfunctory time to perform this task.

To be sure, I had known these things before-or at least had thought to know them. But I have discovered that it takes nothing less than ritual to manifest the sacred in our lives, and I was deeply grateful to be reminded with such gentle, healing eloquence of the true nature of this body I was given to walk around in.