Pleasure Without Permission
A Journey Through Istanbul's Streets, Hamams, and My Own Pleasure
The very first thing I noticed when I arrived in Istanbul was the smoke. I navigated the unfamiliar Turkish airport signage and eventually found my way to the exit. As I emerged from the airport, I was absorbed into a group of at least a hundred people standing directly in front of the exit. Every single person seemed to be sucking on a long cigarette and a plume of grey smoke rose above the crowd.
I elbowed my way through the mass of people, muttering “excuse me,” only to realize no one could understand me. The unfamiliar sound of the Turkish language came at me from every direction. Even as someone who smoked for many years, the billow of noxious smoke around me was sickening. I covered my face, and continued winding my way through the group.
Finally, I found myself in a relatively smoke-free area—which is to say I had found a small section of sidewalk where there were only three people smoking nearby. I saw a line of taxi cabs, but debated whether I was prepared to navigate the language barrier. It was just past eight o’clock at night. I’d eaten some cardboard-like panini at the airport back in London, and at least three protein bars throughout the day. I hadn’t had nearly enough water, and could feel the early signs of a cold beginning to tickle in the back of my throat.
Knowing that I was still at least forty-five minutes from my Airbnb–located in central Istanbul–I decided that Uber was likely my best bet. A few minutes, and sixteen dollars, later, my driver pulled up in a yellow taxi cab. This is often how it works in other countries–taxi drivers double as Uber drivers.
He was around my age, and he greeted me in Turkish. This was the moment that I realized, with an unexpected anxiety, that I might be mistaken as Turkish a few times on this trip. I like to think it’s because I so perfectly pronounced the greeting, “Merhaba,” to this driver, but it was likely my overgrown brown roots and fading summer tan.
When we got in the car, he was listening to Scorpions, the German hard rock band. The crunching sound of electric guitar filled the cab, and I pulled out a piece of chocolate from my purse. I need real food so badly, I thought to myself, biting into the chocolate biscuit.
“You like chocolate?”, the driver asked, and then began rustling in the side pocket of the car.
He handed me a large chocolate bar. Or at least, that’s what I surmised as I surveyed the packaging that I could not read. It looked like some kind of white chocolate with bits of airy wafer inside. I was already feeling a bit sick from the chocolate I’d just eaten, so I thanked him and quietly set it down on the seat beside me.
As we continued speeding down the highway, “Linger” by The Cranberries came on the stereo, and I found myself singing along.
“You like Cranberries?” he asked, and turned up the volume.
Once the song came to a close, he turned and passed me his phone.
“Your turn,” he said, and in that moment, I felt an instant kinship with this stranger. We were speaking a universal language—no shared mother tongue required to bask in the bliss of driving at night, listening to the perfect soundtrack.
I put on “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. I’d been listening to this on repeat, and it felt like a very natural follow up to The Cranberries. He told me that he;d never heard of the band. A small thrill ran through my body as I realized I was sharing the mystical magic of Stevie Nicks with someone for the first time.
I sang the lyrics loudly, and opened the window. He turned the volume up very loud. “This is good,” he said and beat his hand on the wheel to the beat. The air blowing in the window smelled like the sea, and I felt myself immediately click into the present moment.
I think it's easy to imagine people who travel, especially those who travel alone, to be utterly confident and comfortable wherever they go. However, this has not always been my experience. Often, I plan solo trips, and then I arrive in some foreign country and find myself wondering what on earth I am doing there alone. Why did I come to Paris alone? Why do I feel lonely when I dreamed about this for ages? What am I supposed to do all by myself? Everything feels stilted and unfamiliar.
Often, it takes a day or two to click in—to arrive and remember why I do this in the first place. But other times, that click happens almost instantaneously. It happens as I leave the Istanbul airport, and realize I can’t read any of the signs, I can’t understand anything anyone is saying, I get in a taxi with a guy who is hearing Fleetwood Mac for the first time, and offering my chocolate, and I do not feel wholly confident and comfortable–I am simply filled with wonder.
Where on earth am I? Who let me do this? How could life be so random and holy?
What I realized, as we drove down the winding alleyways of Istanbul late on that first night, was that wonder is the prerequisite to presence.
My first morning in Istanbul, I woke to the cry of seagulls floating in through the open windows. Down below, the streets hummed with the soft clink of spoons against coffee cups and the rhythm of conversations in a language I couldn’t understand. I stretched lazily, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and stretched slowly in bed. There is a quiet magic in waking up a world away from everything familiar, yet feeling completely at home in oneself.
I dressed quickly, grabbed a flat white across the street, and made my way to the Hagia Sophia.
I arrived at Sultanahmet Square, the large plaza that surrounds both Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, and walked towards the imposing Byzantine structure. The ancient and peeling facade was the color of blushing cheeks, and time seemed to have etched wrinkles into the stonework. I walked quietly inside, and was struck by its enormity. Built in the 6th century as a Christian Church, in subsequent centuries the Hagia Sophia became a mosque, then a museum, and then a mosque again. It is a living monument to changes and transfiguration—to the triumphs and failures of entire civilizations.
I wander through the space, marveling at the ancient mosaics of Jesus and the Virgin Mary—so intricate and lifelike that a soft blush seemed to warm his pale complexion. One one parapet, my fingers brushed over the carved runes of a Viking, a quiet mark of existence left behind. Tilting my head back, I let my gaze climb to the vast expanse of the dome above. I can understand why some might dream up conspiracies about such structures, crediting their creation to aliens or some other otherworldly forces, I thought to myself.
As I watched people moving silently through the timeless hall, I was struck by the cycles of rising and falling, beginning and ending—the inevitably rhythms we all follow on the path to our own small metamorphoses. In the enormity of that place, I felt like a small speck of dust, insignificant and fleeting. Yet, all the while, more alive than ever.
Later that day, with caffeine coursing through my veins, I wandered through the labyrinthine grand bazaar and spice market. Bright lights glinted off radiant gold jewelry nearly blinding me. The bazaar, a space that felt both indoors and outdoors at once, was steeped in the mingling scents of cigarette smoke, saffron, and sugar. Knockoff purses lined every other stall, tempting passersby with their uncanny imitations. I nearly gave in, reaching for a fake Chanel bag that was identical to one I’d owned years ago. I’d sold that bag to fund my move to East Africa—a reminder that I always seem to choose experiences over possessions.
Everywhere in Istanbul, it seemed, people walked around with taped-up noses and bruised eyes–evidence of fresh nose jobs–or sweatbands perched on their foreheads, tiny black dots scattered across their scalps from recent hair transplants. I watched a couple stroll past: her nose neatly wrapped, his head dotted like a canvas, both clutching designer bags. Imitation nation, I thought, amused, as I set the fake Chanel back down and made my way toward the exit.
I stepped out into the slate-gray afternoon, weaving through the bustling crowd of shoppers. Clutching my purse close, I stayed alert—these were the kind of streets where pickpockets thrived. After navigating the throng, I finally arrived at Dönerci Şahin Usta and joined the line, waiting about twenty minutes before reaching the tiny service window. Inside the postage-stamp-sized space, four Turkish men moved in a synchronized dance. I placed my order for a döner kebab and watched as one of them expertly shaved slices of meat from a vertical rotisserie, tucking them into warm, freshly baked pita bread.
I didn’t even know what kind of meat I was about to eat, and strangely, I loved that. After years of micromanaging my diet—whether under the guise of vegetarianism, health, or some other justification—it felt like a quiet miracle to simply say yes to mystery meat on the streets of Istanbul.
The man handling the cash pointed to a gurgling container of some milky liquid, “You want?”, he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, and then nodded. Mystery meat, mystery milk–why the hell not?
Next door, a narrow space bustled with Turkish men gathered around slim counters, eating kebabs and sipping a thick, milky drink from glass cups. I slid into an empty spot, unwrapped my kebab, and took my first bite. A burst of savory, smoky, and spiced flavors filled my mouth—cumin, paprika, garlic—all balanced by the bright tang of tomatoes and onions. The mystery of the meat no longer mattered. I reached for the milky drink and took a cautious sip, recognizing its tart, creamy taste as something akin to yogurt—perhaps kefir.
A few feet away stood a striking man in a suit and a pair of Prada loafers, which I instinctively pegged as knockoffs. He’d been ahead of me in line, casually smoking a thin cigar with a sweet, inviting scent that lingered in the air. Now, he leaned against the counter, catching my eye between bites of his kebab. I mirrored him, taking a sip of the milky drink. He nodded approvingly.
“It is called ayran,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “It mellows the spice.”
I laughed, a mix of kebab and ayran still in my mouth. There was something unexpectedly delightful about being noticed, admired even, while fully immersed in the simple pleasure of feeding myself.
On Saturday morning, after a bit more sightseeing, I began the walk from Sultanahmet back toward where I was staying, determined to find a traditional Turkish breakfast. I’d narrowed it down to three spots and decided on one that looked especially inviting. As I climbed the steep cobblestone street toward the restaurant, music pumped through my headphones.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man across the street gesturing in my direction. Curious, I paused and slid out one earphone.
“Am I looking for you?” he called out.
“Sorry, are you looking for me?” I asked, confused by the phrasing.
“Yes, I am,” he said with a broad smile.
His weathered face creased warmly as he grinned, his kind eyes glinting in the morning sun. Straddling a moped, he motioned for me to come closer.
I did what women are often conditioned to do—I smiled politely, feigned misunderstanding, and kept moving. Sliding my earphone back in, I continued up the hill. The interaction slipped to the back of my mind as I rounded a corner, the restaurant now in sight—only to feel the man reappear behind me, catching me off guard once again.
I turned quickly, laughing reflexively. Why do we always laugh? Is it a way to defuse tension, to signal that we aren’t afraid? The truth was, I wasn’t scared. He seemed friendly enough, and there was something intriguing about his persistence. Still, I hated how easily laughter came when I wanted to keep men comfortable.
“Hello, I am sorry,” he began, his breath uneven as though he’d hurried to catch up. “I just wanted to introduce myself.”
“You followed me,” I said, half-smiling.
“No, I…” He hesitated, catching his breath. “Well, yes. I did. But only because I wanted to say hello. I’m a normal man, I promise.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Normal men don’t usually feel the need to say they’re normal,” I teased.
It’s always a delicate, loaded moment—trying to discern whether a man’s intentions might lead to harm, heartache, or just a claim on your time and attention. He stepped back, eager now to prove himself. He gestured at the hotel we stood in front of and handed me his business card. “I own this hotel,” he explained, “and several coffee shops in Istanbul. See? Here are the addresses.” His finger traced a line on the card.
“I lived in San Francisco for many years,” he added quickly. “I worked for Blue Bottle Coffee. Do you know it?”
I nodded, surprised by how his casual mention of something American eased my guard. Was it really that simple?
He asked where I was headed, and I told him I was in search of authentic Turkish breakfast at a nearby restaurant. He leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “That place isn’t any good. Do you trust me?”
“Trust you? I just met you,” I said dryly, though I already felt a small, inexplicable sense of trust—at least enough to consider his breakfast recommendation.
“Well,” he said with a grin, “I think today is fated. Maybe I can take you to my favorite spot for breakfast?” He motioned to his moped.
And just like that, five minutes after meeting Oktay, I found myself on the back of his moped, cruising up the steep hills of Karaköy toward Cihangir—a neighborhood that felt like the beating heart of Istanbul. Bohemian and timeless, its ivy-draped buildings, narrow cobblestone streets, and eclectic mix of cafes and boutiques blurred past as we sped through its winding alleys.
At breakfast, he pulled a crumpled receipt from his pocket and began sketching a map on the back, retracing his morning steps to show how every decision led to the moment we crossed paths. Taking my hand across the table, he asked, “Do you believe in fate?”
“I believe the universe has a mysterious way of unfolding,” I said, hedging my answer with a smile.
For the next hour, we exchanged stories about life, God, and destiny. We debated whether it’s truly possible to fall in love more than once, and where love goes when a relationship ends. When the bill came, Oktay leaned back and asked, “So, how were you planning to spend your last day in Istanbul?”
“Shopping,” I admitted shamelessly. After years as a budget traveler, I’d come to accept that I absolutely, hopelessly, love to shop when I travel.
“Well then, make a list,” he said, rising from his chair. “I know someone who can take you anywhere you need to go. In fact, I believe he’s right around the corner.”
Puzzled, I watched as he stepped outside, glancing in both directions. A moment later, he returned, extending his hand with a playful smile. “I’m Oktay, and I would love to be your guide.”
This time, when I laughed, it wasn’t forced.
After hours weaving through Istanbul’s streets and navigating the intricate maze of the bazaar, I’d checked off every last item on my shopping list—and all at local prices. Oktay pulled the moped up to my Airbnb, and I hopped off, juggling my bags.
An hour earlier, on a quiet corner, he had kissed me. It wasn’t hurried or tentative, but the kind of kiss you might give someone you’ve kissed a thousand times before—unbothered, assured, like you knew there were a thousand more to come.
I hadn’t been entirely sure where the day would lead. He’d mentioned needing to run an errand to pay for some furniture he’d had made, but as we stood there, locked in an easy silence, I decided to invite him upstairs.
“Shall I come up?” he asked, adding, “No pressure.”
It's always fascinating when men say, "no pressure," as if positioning themselves as a man who would never impose on a woman—it masquerades as benevolence. Yet, the very act of saying "no pressure" seems to create a quiet, implicit pressure, as though not yielding to the heat of the moment might somehow be unexpected or out of place.
“Yes, I think so,” I replied, turning toward the door.
Inside, I set my bags down, and he came up behind me, kissing the back of my neck. A sudden surge of desire coursed through me. Yes, this had been a great idea, I thought, turning to kiss him back.
We tumbled onto the bed, and he quickly unbuckled my belt. His hand slid between my legs, and for a moment, I let myself lean into the sensation. But then I noticed his touch—hurried, impatient. His fingers moved with the kind of thoughtless urgency that prioritizes action over connection, speed over depth.
“You can cum,” he said, as though giving permission.
And just like that, my desire evaporated. Why do some men think a woman’s pleasure is a button they can press or a box they can tick in seconds? The moment felt heavier than just him. It carried the weight of all the times my body had been treated as an obstacle to be conquered rather than a landscape to be explored. I thought of the men who bristled at the unhurried pace of my pleasure, as though it were a personal affront. Then I remembered the man, just weeks earlier, who had whispered, “Take all the time you need. We can stay here for hours.” That had unlocked something in me—a freedom and a sense of being fully centered in the experience.
I sat up, pulling my shirt back into place.
“I just need to get to the furniture shop before they close,” he said, sensing the shift. “We can go quickly now and take it slow later.”
“I have no interest in rushing—or being rushed,” I replied, fastening my belt. “Why don’t you run your errand and call me later?”
As I stood and smoothed my hair, I noticed the surprise on his face. He seemed stunned that I would simply stop. I was surprised, too—by the clarity and conviction I felt. But I’d already gathered enough to know that whatever sex we might have had would not have been satisfying for me.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that my pleasure deserves to be at the center of any sexual encounter. It has taken me fifteen years, countless missteps, and a year of sobriety to stand firm in moments like this, to say without hesitation, I don’t like this, and I think you should go. I can give myself an orgasm anytime I want, so if I’m going to share my time and energy with a man, I want something extraordinary.
As Oktay gathered his things, I could see the embarrassment etched on his face. I knew he wouldn’t call later—embarrassed men rarely do. Embarrassed men can be a fearsome thing, and I thought about how some men might lash out in a moment like this—their wounded pride turning dangerous. I thought about how I might have forced myself to go along with it if I’d been drinking, too afraid of making him uncomfortable. But he wasn’t dangerous, just self-conscious and taken aback. He seemed smaller as he walked out the door and down the spiral staircase.
The moment I was alone, pride and relief washed over me. I stretched out on the bed and gave myself an orgasm. It was the kind of pleasure that made hot tears well in my eyes—Yes, I thought, I can give myself so very much. Then, I checked the window to confirm he’d driven off on his moped, grabbed my journal, and headed to a nearby rooftop bar to catch the sunset.
As I sipped my drink and watched the city dissolve into twilight, I wrote hurriedly, capturing the electric mix of emotions. Joan Didion once described this time of day as “the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter,” evoking the magic of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, and rivers slipping through shadows. It’s a moment suspended between day and night, when time seems to pause, holding its breath.
As the sun disappeared below the horizon, I scrawled in my journal:
My pleasure is not a destination. I will not be rushed to arrive. My pleasure is a palace, built slowly, brick by brick.
In the morning, I visited Kılıç Ali Paşa Hamam, a traditional Turkish bath house built in the late 16th century. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but it quickly became clear I’d have a guide to lead me through the experience. A portly woman named Sarup approached with a kind smile.
“You come with me, lady,” she said, gently taking my hand and guiding me toward the back room.
Sarup wrapped a peştamal—a soft cotton hamam wrap—around my waist, her movements practiced and sure. She gestured for me to sit on the cool marble bench, then ladled warm water over me. The sensation was immediate and transportive, as though I had stepped out of time altogether.
From there, she led me into the sıcaklık, the hamam’s main room, humid and cocooned in warmth.
“Lay down, lady,” Sarup instructed, pointing to the heated marble platform at the center of the room.
I stretched out on the smooth stone, and the sound of her footsteps faded as she left. For a few moments, I was utterly alone, enveloped in silence. Above me, the white dome soared, its star- and moon-shaped cutouts letting in slivers of light. The occasional drip of water from a nearby basin echoed softly, punctuated by the gentle plunk of condensation falling from the ceiling onto the heated marble.
I glanced down at my body—the soft curve of my ribcage, the way my breasts settled naturally to the sides. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: Am I doing this right? But as I took a deep, grounding breath, I reminded myself: There is nothing to do but enjoy. How much of our lives, I wondered, do we spend believing we must earn pleasure, as though it’s something to be achieved rather than simply received?
The heat seeped into my skin, loosening tension I hadn’t realized I carried. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the rare, uncomplicated joy of simply being here in this body and this moment.
Fifteen or twenty minutes later, Sarup returned and touched my toes. “Stand, lady,” she said with a smile.
What followed was one of the most unusual and pleasurable experiences of my life. Sarup began a ritualistic cleansing of my entire body, scrubbing, exfoliating, washing, and rinsing me with the care of an artisan restoring a delicate masterpiece. She poured warm water over my skin in gentle waves, guiding my limbs with quiet instructions. Her touch was meticulous yet tender, every movement imbued with purpose.
I felt, at once, like a queen and a child. It is a small tragedy that the window in our lives when we are bathed by the loving hands of our mothers is so short. What’s worse, perhaps, is that the fleeting years when our mothers do bathe us, fastidiously cleaning the sticky creases of our fingers and toes, are the years of our lives we are most likely to forget.
As Sarup worked, I felt not only cleansed but cared for, as though the act of being bathed was a reclamation of something lost—a reminder of the intimate, unspoken connection between touch, care, and love.
In Istanbul, I found myself moving through layers of experience—each moment a reminder that pleasure doesn’t always need to be earned, nor wonder explained. This, I realized, is the real gift of travel. From the taste of mystery meat to the cleansing touch of Sarup’s hands, and even the newfound ability to center my own pleasure and boundaries, I learned that pleasure is not about arriving somewhere or proving something.
Pleasure is about being present enough to notice even the smallest of delights: the glimmer of gold in the bazaar, laughter with a stranger whose language you do not know, the heat of marble beneath your skin. My pleasure is a palace, yes, but it is also continuous—a quiet and endless unfolding.
Hello I’m also Tyler Donahue but with an A. You have a good name.