A burly middle-aged man, still dressed in a riot of sequins and tassels, stands in front of the three bathhouse doors: Aqunid, Chrono, Female. He has the zoned-out look of a guy doing a complex math equation in his head.

Look, he's moved on from obsessing over sexuality, the doors murmur aloud. Now he's obsessing over gender.

"Fuck you, I'm not a tentacle," he mutters at the door. Then nods to himself slowly as though working through a private conversation in his head. Without further warning, he turns to a passerby and asks: "Hey, tentacles are pretty phallic, right? Dick-shaped? Masculine energy?"