The Locker Room

Tuesday evening, 7:00 am. I pull into the YMCA in Hollywood. My objective: 25 to 30 minutes of cardiovascular exercise. Within, it's a mixed bag of gym attendees of all sexes, races, ages, and socio-economic backgrounds. I admit that I find the diversity of the Hollywood YMCA sort of refreshing. At 33, I'm not compelled to surround myself with people exactly like me, and I, in fact, take pride in chalking up "new experiences". Still, it's a weeknight and I'm pretty tired. All I really want to do is locate an unattended Stairmaster and read a back issue of The Economist. Fate would have it that I consumed quite a bit of iced tea that afternoon however, and upon entering the YMCA, a quick bathroom visit is warranted. I enter the door with a placard designating "Men's Locker Room". All I'm logically thinking is find a urinal, piss, workout, and get the fuck home. The door swings open, and there are dudes in various stages of undress everywhere. Two steps into the locker room and I'm looking through a see-through glass door, right into the steam room. My surprise that the Hollywood YMCA actually has a steam room is abruptly forgotten as I find myself looking straight up some guy's hairy dark asshole. Right down the pipe. The guy looks relaxed enough to be lounging on his own white sand beach. He's on his back, one arm gently nestled behind his head, reading a thick paperback novel, not within ten yards of a towel, legs spread wide enough for a proctologist to be embarrassed. How the guy decided on assuming that angle, providing the view it did, is absolutely mind boggling. I walk on . . . . five more steps and I look up. The good news: I see the urinals. The bad news: first I have to pass by the sink. At the sink, standing confidently with his bowed legs spread aggressively wide, knees locked, is an unabashedly naked, rotund, bald man, approximately 50 years of age. His pock-marked back is covered with flowing red hair. Sweat droplets cling, terrified, to his stocky "side of beef" thighs. Fat lards hang from his chunky upper-arms, gently lapping against his ruddy puckered breasts. He's fucking shaving. Why in the fuck is this smug, late middle-aged obese man shaving, with a disposable Bic, at a crowded public YMCA? He clearly hasn't worked out a day in his life. What can I do but advance towards my goal. Relief is 8 feet away. I'm pissing, and hear low groans, accompanied by a muffled grunt. It's coming from the handicapped stall. Jabba the Hut shaves away in contented bliss. I stupidly glance towards the stall. Two pairs of meaty bare feet, one behind the other, rock in unison on the greasy tile floor. A couple of quickly discarded moist towels hug the base of the toilet. There's heavy panting, man sounds, the stall reverberates, slightly at first, then with more vigor. My shocked mind rat fucks me and involuntarily conjures a crystal clear visual of the rough anonymous sex act going on two feet away. Holy shit, I;m in a godamn bathhouse! It's 1982 again, and AIDS is just a party joke. At that point, if a cyclops midget had moonwalked up to me, dropped his lieder hosen, spread his butt cheeks, and sprayed magenta diarrhea all over my Stan Smiths, I would not have been more uncomfortable.